Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
But the universe unleashes Ronnie on me. The host’s steely blue gaze locks onto the illustrated llamas on my apron, twined together in a heart-shaped hug, and he pounces. “It’s you! The kissing llama ex!”
“Nah,” I say breezily. “You must have me confused with someone else.” I dismiss the comment with a careless wave.
Too careless. The last butterfly slips in my fingers, knocked loose from the chocolate stick, and it flutters away into the October breeze.
Frantic, I lunge for the breakaway butterfly. Stretching across my station, I balance on one sneakered foot. I grasp for the wing and…I catch it. Yes! My lucky streak starts now.
Then, I wobble—once, twice, three times—and kersplat. I plant my arm in the middle of all those pink hearts.
“Oof.” My elbow sinks through cake, filling and fondant, all the way to the ceramic cake stand. The strands of hair that have wriggled free from my lucky lilac hair clip are covered in goop now too.
The audience gasps. Ronnie clucks his tongue. Phones lift. In seconds, everyone’s recording me.
Well, if this frosting fiasco doesn’t tie into the hot mess narrative Dax just wove about me, I don’t know what does. I’m up to my elbow in demolished dessert, and I kiss the prize money and publicity goodbye. I catalogue the crowd’s wide eyes and unhinged jaws. They feel sorry for me.
Decision time.
I could slink off, saying nothing, and disappear down the shame spiral staircase.
Or, I could try to make this cake still rise.
Yanking my elbow from the once-beautiful creation, I slap on a smile. “Surprise! It’s the birth of a new cake era. May I present the I Meant to Do That smashed heart cake.” I commit to the improvisation one hundred and ten percent. I spread my arms, ta-da style, toward the pile of crumbs and frosting. “Smash cakes aren’t just for a baby’s first birthday. Nope, adults can have fun with their cake, too, and it still tastes delicious!”
I lick a big dollop off my finger to make my point.
There’s nervous laughter and curious looks. Mostly curious looks. And one what-the-hell-are-you-up-to host shooting a dagger stare at me. Then his gaze drops to his shoes, where a chunk of pink frosting has dripped off my arm and onto his motorcycle boots, which scream cool chef. They look awfully expensive too.
Oh shit.
I wince. He simmers a moment longer, then sighs heavily before he turns to the crowd. “Smash cakes. What a fascinating idea. A sobering reminder that anything can go wrong in the kitchen. Like this”—he points to the ruined cake—“disaster.”
His grin carries sympathy but a clear message: I’ll handle the audience, thank you very much.
He lowers the mic and shoos me away from the station. “I’ll see if my assistant can grab you a towel,” he whispers, guiding me from the dais and toward the edge of the noisy tent. “You can clean up before the photo shoot with the winner and the runners-up then be on your way.”
A chill whooshes down my spine, and I swallow uncomfortably. Be on your way is quite the dismissal. I’m about to utter a quiet and embarrassed thanks when someone cuts in.
“A towel? Is that the best you can do?” The voice is rough, commanding, stern.
Ronnie whips his gaze to the stranger. Who’s…not a stranger at all.
That vaguely familiar face earlier? All becomes clear when I get a proper look at the man who’d been at the edge of the crowd. Clean-shaven, chiseled jaw? Check. Clever, gold-flecked green eyes? Check. Soft lips and a take-charge vibe that makes you want to listen to him? Checkmate.
Because of course Corbin Knight, the guy I crushed so hard on when I met him seven years ago, would show up today when I’m a mess and a half.
And the unfair universe makes my brother’s best friend hotter and more together every time I see him.
Every time I’m not.
Corbin stands in front of me in charcoal gray slacks that hug his thighs, a crisp white shirt that shows off his strong chest, and a matching jacket slung over his arm. He looks like a guy who doesn’t ever break a sweat, though, of course, he does. He plays a pro sport for a living.
Judging from the suit, it must be a game day. But how did he happen to pop in here just now?
Ronnie gives him a tight nod and then turns to me. “Look, I don’t appreciate the song and dance, but I concede it was a valiant effort.” He spins around and points to the tiniest trailer I’ve ever seen. It’s maybe ten feet outside of the tent. “That’s mine. You can freshen up in there. I don’t want to see any cake on you in the photo. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” I say.
“I’ll have her back for the photo shoot,” Corbin confirms.