All’s Fair In Love and Cupcakes Page 3

  Their usual.

  All while a diatribe of unspoken truths paraded through Lucas’s head with every half-smile she’d shot his way.

  Lucas popped a bubble in his gum. “Crunches next!” He ignored the resounding groans as the boys obediently rolled onto their backs on the grassy field and began their stomach work. He’d stop them at seventy-five. The last time he pushed to one hundred, three had thrown up.

  All things in moderation.

  Maybe he should apply that theory to Kat. He’d been spending more and more time with her lately, but instead of her getting the hint about his changed feelings, all he’d managed to accomplish was torturing himself. She seemed perfectly content to keep their friendship exactly where it was. Maybe he should be the one to take the hint.

  But he really didn’t like losing.

  He clamped his jaw. “Bear crawls!”

  To their credit, the boys didn’t complain, just arched over and began bear crawling toward the fifty-yard line. Last time he’d talked about that particular exercise with Kat, she’d thought he’d said bear claws, and well, the most confusing of conversations ensued.

  Man. She was everywhere.

  As his good friend, Darren Phillips, would say—he had it bad. But his fire department chaplain buddy liked to say a lot of things, such as “you know, God created Eve for a reason,” or “it’s not good for man to be alone.” Darren had been trying to marry off Lucas for a while, even since before he learned of his buddy’s change of heart toward Kat, but all his blind date efforts fell short.

  None of them were Kat.

  On the field, the boys grunted as they finished their laps, and Lucas called them in. Maybe they all needed a water break. Lucas could certainly use a cold splash right in the face. Something had to give, for his sanity’s sake if nothing else, and soon. Thankfully, as all coaches should, he’d discovered a master offensive play.

  Now to see if it worked—before Kat could pull a defensive move of her own.

  His boys crowded around the watercooler faster than Coach Kent could pass out cups, and Lucas noted Tyler didn’t argue as Ben pushed ahead of him in line. Apparently defense wasn’t on Tyler’s mind either. The kid looked downright defeated.

  Which probably meant one thing.

  He nudged his way through the thirsty, sweaty throng to Coach Kent’s side and lowered his voice. “Dismiss them ’til Friday’s pregame warm-up. I’m keeping Dupree after.” He headed toward Tyler as Coach Kent nodded and blew his whistle.

  Tuning out the barked dismissal behind him, Lucas landed one hand on Tyler’s padded shoulder and ushered the boy down the sidelines. “What gives?”

  “What do you mean?” Tyler swiped a grimy hand under his nose then planted his hands on his hips, but he didn’t look Lucas in the eye. The kid was too good at heart to lie to his face, so he usually went for the denial method.

  Lucas tended to do the same.

  He braced one foot on the sideline bench and rested his forearms on his lifted knee, hoping to appear casual, approachable. Tyler needed someone to confide in, and if Lucas had three guesses what was on the kid’s mind, the first two wouldn’t count and the third would involve Mr. Dupree and his favorite long-necked bottles.

  “Your head’s not in the game. It’s pretty obvious, man.” Lucas gestured for Tyler to sit, and he grudgingly obeyed, balancing his helmet in his lap. Lucas lowered to the bench beside him, not wanting to tower over him. This wasn’t coach-mode. This was buddy-mode.

  He waited, but Tyler didn’t offer any more details.

  “Your old man?”

  Tyler shot him a sharp glance, but the truth was in his glassy eyes. He blinked and finally conceded. “How’d you know?”

  “Hazards of a small town.” Lucas leaned forward and plucked a long strand of grass from the ground, ran it through his fingers. That, and personally knowing the chief of police.

  Tyler stared across the vacant field as the rest of his team laughed and shoved their way to the locker room some yards behind them. “He was drunk last night.”

  “How’s your mom?” Mrs. Dupree had dealt with more than her fair share of drunken husband, and he hoped Tyler’s dad hadn’t gotten physical again. The last thing that family needed was another jail sentence, not when Tyler’s reputation at school had barely survived the first one. But if they were in trouble . . .

  Tyler shook his head quickly. “She’s fine. It wasn’t like that.” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “He passed out. But he had some not-so-nice things to say first.”

  “About your grades?” Tyler wasn’t exactly a straight-A student. More like a scrape-by-to-stay-on-the-team student. Between the Saturday tutor Lucas had found him and his recent diagnosis of dyslexia, however, things had been improving. But nothing was ever quite good enough for Mr. Dupree.

  “Grades. My room. Friends.” Tyler kicked at the grass with his cleats. “Football.”

  Ah. There it was. Well, Lucas might not know a lot about deadbeat dads, but he knew plenty about absent ones. All too similar, except Tyler had to absorb the spray of barbs while Lucas had gotten to miss them entirely.

  He chose his next words carefully. “Pretty hard to tell you anything about a sport he doesn’t understand, though, huh?” Meaning, don’t listen to him. Don’t take him seriously. But he couldn’t actually say that flat out.

  Not that the old man didn’t have it coming, trying to psych out his own kid.

  “He knows more than I thought.” Tyler shrugged like he didn’t care, but Lucas knew better. “He asks around. Knows all the mistakes I made last game.”

  “Well, he obviously didn’t hear about that awesome pass you made during the Panthers game two weeks ago.” Lucas nudged Tyler with his knee. “Or how you had three completed passes.”

  Tyler turned to look at Lucas, and noticeably brightened. Good, maybe his words were sinking in. It was so important to speak truth to these guys—

  “Ms. Varland!” Tyler grinned as he stared past Lucas.

  Lucas jerked his head around and spied Kat strolling toward them, a giant bakery box hugged against one hip like a woman carrying a toddler, the setting sun providing a streaked backdrop of crimson and orange fire. So it wasn’t his pep talk that helped, after all.

  Well, Kat tended to have that same effect on him too.

  He stood, and Tyler jumped to his feet, dropping his helmet. The teen brushed his hands against his uniform pants and suddenly resembled a freckled, eight-year-old boy who’d just picked his mom a handful of flowers and was eagerly awaiting approval.

  He could relate.

  Lucas smiled and greeted Kat with a one-arm side hug. “What’s the meaning of this, bringing cupcakes to the field?” He purposefully used his gruff coach voice and winked at Tyler over her head. “This is a no-baking zone.”

  Kat held the white cardboard box up under their noses and waved it side to side, as if to tempt them with the aroma. “Vanilla leftovers. Aunt Maggie said to give them away. So naturally, I went where the hungriest people would be.”

  “Wow. That’s really nice.” Tyler beamed, a flush working its way up his neck, and Lucas felt the sudden urge to cuff some sense into the back of the boy’s head. Though to be honest, he felt the urge to babble and blush and act like he was starring in a 1950s sitcom too. He better be careful, or one of them might actually say swell.

  “Thanks, Kat. I know some guys in the locker room who will be happy to see these.” Lucas took the box, and at the gleam in Tyler’s eye, flipped open the lid. The kid eagerly plucked one out and took a bite, icing smearing across his cheek. “Take these to the rest of the guys, okay?”

  “Sure. Thanks, Ms. Varland.” He didn’t even bother to wipe his mouth. He just grinned at Kat.

  Her eyes softened. “Anytime.”

  “Man, I hope so.” Tyler snorted.

  Lucas stepped in before the guy could completely embarrass himself. “If you want to talk later, man, you have my number. Just shoot a text my way, a
ll right?”

  Tyler met Lucas’s gaze head on. “Thanks, Coach.” Then with another goofy grin at Kat, he hurried toward the locker room.

  “Well, that wasn’t awkward.” Lucas shook his head with a laugh as he turned back to Kat. Flour dotted the hem of her long-sleeved red top and smeared across the hip of her jeans. She must have forgotten her apron again, or maybe took it off when it got too dirty to wear.

  “Nah.” Kat tucked her hair behind her ears, and he noticed flour there too. “He’s a good kid. Looks up to you.”

  “He’s had it pretty rough. He’s a fighter, though.” He crossed his arms over his chest, wishing he could tuck his arm around Kat’s waist. Not yet. Not until he knew if his offensive move had been a success. When would he hear back from Cupcake Combat?

  On second thought, since he’d signed up with all of Kat’s information, she’d be the one receiving the acceptance letter—or email. However they did it. The idea had been genius. Foolproof, really. If they didn’t select her to be a contestant, she would never know the difference and he could protect her from the rejection. But if they did . . . well, then she’d know how much he believed in her. How much he wanted the best for her. Wanted her to grow.

  How much he loved her.

  “All your guys are great. And I wonder why.” The admiring spark in Kat’s eye as she playfully slapped his arm accelerated his heartbeat. She was good for him. But why didn’t she have that same strong confidence in her own ability? Hopefully Cupcake Combat would call soon, with positive results. Kat needed proof of how great she really was.

  Both in and out of the kitchen.

  At least Tyler seemed sincere about her cupcakes. But he was a football player and a teenage boy—didn’t they eat anything?

  Kat slowly followed Lucas to his office inside the school, where he left his keys and jacket during practice. Her father’s words sounded in the back of her mind, as they often did when the familiar doubts assaulted. Don’t waste your talents, Kat. Use them for the glory of God.

  Hard to do when God didn’t eat cupcakes.

  Her dad preached. Her mom gave of her time, energy, and money to the entire community, while her college-aged sister sang like one of heaven’s angels offering free earthly concerts. Easy for them to say.

  Lucas’s athletic shoes squeaked on the linoleum floor as they made their way through the dim halls she’d traveled a hundred times in his wake. Baking was all she had. All she knew. All she was good at it.

  But what if she wasn’t as good as she thought? What if she was just pacified because of her last name? Or worse—out of the community’s obligation to beloved Aunt Maggie?

  She forced the thoughts away as she stopped in the door frame of his office. “Looks like you won’t get a cupcake again today if the team has anything to say about it.” Maybe Maggie did have a point—she couldn’t see the team devouring any recipes she concocted at home with hazelnut or ginger.

  “There’s always Saturday.” He shot her the half-smile that always twisted her stomach as he grabbed his keys from the top desk drawer. She turned away from the feeling and hid her face, eyes sweeping the room.

  It looked the exact same as it did when he started this job almost five years ago. Photos of former graduating classes hanging crookedly on the planked wall. The rickety desk with one leg propped up by a dusty math textbook. The computer that looked way too new compared to the rolling chair and dirt-streaked window behind it.

  The room smelled faintly of Lucas’s spicy cologne and leather, and a photo of her and Lucas nestled in a frame near his desktop inspirational calendar. The fluorescent lighting reflected off the glass box his team had mounted their championship football inside as a surprise gift. Besides the football field, this was one of Lucas’s favorite places. He belonged here.

  Like she belonged in the kitchen.

  Right?

  “Want to grab some sushi?” Lucas shrugged into his jacket, pausing to adjust the flipped collar.

  They hadn’t eaten together since their impromptu stir-fry last week, the likes of which her wok had never seen, nor was it the same. She hesitated. Sushi sounded good, but she felt . . . off balance. A little mellow. Maybe she just needed to go home and get her head straight. Bake alone, and reassure herself she wasn’t wasting her life.

  Or her talents. Whatever they were.

  “I don’t know if—” Her phone dinged then, alerting her to a new email. She scanned it as they walked back down the hall, using the excuse to delay her answer. She clicked on her in-box. Food Studios? It was probably just another coupon-related advertisement because she subscribed to the TV network’s newsletter. She almost hit delete, but then she realized from the subject title that it wasn’t a mass mail-out.

  CONGRATULATIONS, BAKER!

  She punched Open.

  And couldn’t breathe.

  “Lucas.” She stopped walking, reached for his arm for support. He half-turned as he pushed the hallway door open for her, supporting it with his back.

  “What? What’s wrong?” The evening shadows sent sharp planes across his face, which pinched as he frowned.

  “I’ve been selected to be on Cupcake Combat.” She stared at the message, then at Lucas, then back at her phone. She blinked, but the words didn’t rearrange into an order that made sense. She held her phone in Lucas’s face for proof she wasn’t crazy. “See. How? I didn’t—”

  “I knew they’d choose you!” With a whoop, Lucas grabbed her around the waist and spun her in the hallway. The door clanged behind him as he turned quick circles and hollered. Now she was confused and dizzy, and her smartphone went skittering across the floor.

  He lowered her to the floor, almost in slow motion, and she scrambled to grab her phone as Lucas backed out of her way. The message was still on the thankfully uncracked screen. Good thing she’d bought that protective cover—though this circumstance would have been impossible to predict. She shot him a narrow-eyed look. “You knew about this?”

  “I did this. I signed you up.” Lucas beamed as if he’d just been awarded another championship. “I saw the commercial, and the deadline for applications was coming up, so I thought I’d surprise you. That way if you didn’t make it, you wouldn’t . . .”

  She could only imagine what her face looked like as his voice trailed off. If even a portion of the shock, confusion, and well, to be honest, fear, was registering, it couldn’t have been pretty. She shook her head and scrolled through the message. “I’m going to LA. In two weeks.”

  Two weeks. Two weeks, and her entire life could be different. What if she won?

  What if she didn’t?

  “Walk with me.” Lucas helped her up and ushered her outside, and the evening chill nipped at her cheeks, grounded her back to reality. This couldn’t happen. She wasn’t a big-city girl, worthy of national television. The closest she got to winning contests was watching Lucas’s football games. As much as she hated the label, she was small-town. Destined for small things.

  Everyone knew it.

  And told her regularly.

  “I can’t go.” That was the bottom line, really. She raised the phone again in trembling hands and sucked in a sharp breath. “It says they loved the video. What video?”

  Lucas let out a cough, which might have been a laugh. Or a muffled grunt of fear. “Um, remember last summer when we were horsing around with my team’s new video equipment?”

  He didn’t.

  She squinted up at Lucas, at the blowing tufts of hair curling beneath his hat, at the heated flush at his throat and the glimmer of victory and guilt in his eyes, and yeah. He had.

  She wanted to toss her phone right back on the ground.

  “Don’t be upset, Kat. I wasn’t trying to embarrass you. It was good footage—fun stuff. They obviously loved it!” Lucas leaned against her driver’s side car door in the parking lot, blocking her escape. And any attempt to run him over.

  “I danced in a chef’s hat.” She closed her eyes, desperately tr
ying to remember what else was on that video, and desperately hoping to forget. “I sang into a wooden spoon.”

  “ ‘Do You Know the Muffin Man?’ I believe it was.” She opened her eyes to Lucas’s broad grin.

  “You’re loving this.” She couldn’t tell if she was offended or flattered. Lucas signed her up for Cupcake Combat. He believed in her. The thought sank in deep.

  Lucas might be convinced of her ability. But now she had to convince a panel of professional judges. On national television.

  In two weeks.

  She needed her Sinatra CD.

  She groaned, wishing the paved parking lot would swallow her up. She’d never been on TV before. Not even in high school when they made DVD bonuses for the yearbook. She’d purposefully skipped out that afternoon, despite being president of the cooking club. That time she fooled around with the football team’s video equipment with Lucas was the only time she’d ever purposefully put herself on camera.

  And that was while believing that tape would be erased immediately after.

  “This is your chance, Kat.” Lucas’s voice warmed, melting through the fissures of self-doubt as he gently cupped her shoulders with both hands. His touch heated through the sleeves of her sweater, sending a spark of awareness down her spine. She dared a glance into his eyes. “You’ve always said how stifled you are here in Bayou Bend. This is your chance to break out.”

  She did say that. But it was a lot easier to complain from inside one’s comfort zone. Besides, breaking out always meant starting her own shop one day—outside Bayou Bend. Playing by her own rules for once.

  Not signing up for more rules and public judgment—and potential humiliation.

  She nibbled on her lower lip as leaves skittered around the parking lot at their feet. Her stomach growled, and she remembered she hadn’t eaten since she’d had a granola bar that morning. Back ten hours ago when life was still normal. Safe.