“Still convinced you’re not overstretching yourself on Casey’s behalf?” Gerard forked off another bite.
Not that she’d ever admit, especially to him. “I can handle it.”
“Clearly.”
She wiped crumbs from the corner of her lips. “I just need to torte the cake that didn’t burn and spread the filling.”
“Uh-huh. And remake this last batch.”
“Right.”
“And finish sweeping outside. Oh, and ice all the petit fours.”
She nodded, stomach clenching. “Right.”
He speared another bite of cake, calmly, as if this pending wedding wasn’t a pending disaster. “And set up all those chairs and tables.”
“Okay, I see your point. Hand it over.” She reached for the plate.
“Now you’re talking.” He nudged the crumbly graveyard closer to her.
“I feel like we just reversed roles. Wasn’t I the one talking you into desserts just a week ago?”
He rolled his eyes. “My sweatpants and I thank you, my jeans do not.”
Like he’d gained an ounce of fat. He was all muscle.
Not that she’d noticed.
She leaned her head back fully against the island, eyes closed. This might be her last break or still moment until after the wedding on Sunday evening. Maybe she could clear her head completely. Ignore the acrid tang of smoke hanging in the air and the rush of her adrenaline-shocked heartbeat and actually relax for just a—
“What was wrong this morning?”
The cake dried in her mouth.
She shook her head.
“Not ready to talk about it?”
She shrugged.
“Well, I’m not going to guess.”
“I wasn’t going to ask you to.”
He shrugged.
She rolled in her lower lip. She wanted to blurt out the entire situation, all of her fears—wanted reassurance from someone not as close to her as Mabel and Agnes to tell her she was overreacting, that it was all going to be okay. That nothing would change. That her history and family legacy would remain intact and nothing was tarnished.
But she couldn’t force any of it out between her dry lips.
“You don’t have to talk about it.” Gerard set his fork on the plate. “But whatever it is, don’t let it consume you.”
She swallowed. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Is that why you jumped at the chance to become a one-woman wedding act? To distract yourself?”
Probably. She couldn’t bring herself to agree out loud, but it was true. She was running, had been ever since she found that smudge.
It didn’t matter whether she voiced her agreement. He had her figured out anyway. “I get it.” He nudged her side with his elbow. “You’re just trying to keep moving. I seem to remember the other day you called me out for doing the same.”
She stared at the burned remains on the plate. “I used to always hope my mom would burn my birthday cake because I wanted her macarons instead.” A slight smile tugged at her lips, and she permitted it with relief. Positive memories were better than the fear of this terrifying unknown. “But she never did, of course. She was too good a baker.”
“Would you believe I’ve actually never had a birthday cake?”
Bri shot him a glance. “No way.”
“Nope.”
She tilted her head toward him. “Not ever?”
“Maybe when I was really little. And my mom made a pie a few times, I think. But nah, we usually just grilled burgers or something. She wasn’t much of a baker, remember?”
That was sad. Every kid deserved birthday cakes. It was a rite of passage. The shaded guard in his eyes made Bri wonder if he thought it was sad too. Maybe Gerard had a softer center than she realized. Sort of like the ruined petits—just had to get past the crusty exterior.
She pressed her lips together. “Well, whenever your birthday rolls around, you should treat yourself. Get one of those grocery-store cakes with the thick icing that turns your teeth blue for hours.”
He forked another piece of cake from the pan. “My birthday is actually next week. On Monday.” Regret instantly filled his eyes. “But don’t tell anyone. Last year my coworkers tricked me into going to lunch, and the waiter made me wear a sombrero.”
The image of him standing by a pile of chips and salsa, grouchy-faced under a rainbow-patterned sombrero while waiters clapped around him, made Bri laugh—hard. “Oh no. I’m taking out an ad in the paper. Or better yet”—Bri snapped her fingers and grinned—“I’ll call Sandra.”
“Now I know you’re joking.” Gerard shuddered. “That woman is terrifying.”
“You don’t understand the half of it. You should read her old gossip column articles.”
“I’m glad that’s not a thing anymore—gossip columns.” Gerard shook his head. “What a waste of newsprint.”
She couldn’t stop the erupting giggle building in her chest. It felt so good to not feel emotionally bogged down, she couldn’t rein it in. “Your secret is safe . . . old man.”
“Very funny.”
“Hey, if you can’t dish it out, then—”
Gerard smashed a piece of cake in her face. “Eat it?”
She blinked as petit four crumbs dusted her cheeks. Flakes clung to her chin and lips and fluttered in her eyelashes. “That’s not what I was going to say.”
“I’m the writer, remember? Let me stick to the happy endings.”
“Sure.” She grabbed the remaining hunk of cake from the pan. “But I prefer plot twists.”
He blocked her desperate dive with his forearm, and the momentum pushed him backward, half-reclining against the wall.
She collapsed against his sturdy chest, laughing, maneuvering her fistful of cake toward his face, to no avail. She tried to push herself up in defeat, but her cake-crusted fingers skidded on the slick tile floor and she landed hard against him.
Their faces were inches apart.
Gerard’s gaze caught hers and held. Her breath hitched. He smelled like evergreen and petit-four batter and something deeper and muskier. Something uniquely him. His hands supported her waist, keeping her weight from bearing fully on him. His fingers, coated with cake and calluses, barely grazed under the hem of her sweatshirt
