All’s Fair In Love and Cupcakes Page 4

  But wasn’t that what she’d been wanting? An opportunity to shine? Here was her handwritten invitation to glow amidst the stars . . .

  And all she could think about was falling.

  “You’re so much more than vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate.” His voice dropped an octave as he leaned toward her. “Isn’t it time to show someone besides me?”

  Yes. No. She edged away as his hands slipped from her shoulders. The crestfallen expression on his face only made her feel worse. He’d done this big thing for her, believing in her, supporting her—as always—and she couldn’t even get excited about it.

  “Lucas, I’m sorry. I really appreciate the gesture. I’m just not sure I can do this.” Not sure she had what it took. The only thing worse than being ignored was being made a fool.

  Only thing worse than wondering if she had any talent was being handed proof that she didn’t.

  She glanced down at her phone, scanning the email one more time, almost hoping there was some fine print that made her ineligible. That could make this whole thing go away. That could fix the gap she suddenly felt between her and Lucas.

  Contestants are responsible for providing their own baking assistant. No recipe cards, books, or other personalized notes or tips of any sort are allowed at the kitchen site.

  Lucas tugged his hat off his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s my fault.”

  Contestants receive two complimentary rooms at the Hotel Francesca in downtown Los Angeles, approximately five miles from the studio. Cab fare will be reimbursed on site.

  “I should have asked first. I just thought you’d be happy.”

  Grand prize winner to receive a one-year, paid internship baking for New York City’s famous bakery, Bloom.

  Kat jerked her head up. There it was. Her ticket out of Bayou Bend. All she had to do was suffer through the competition, win, and never look back. Leave Bayou Bend and vanilla cupcakes behind for good. Leave her assigned identity and create one of her own. Outside of her sister’s shadow, her mother’s capability, her father’s requirements.

  Outside of her doubts.

  Hope sprang in her heart like spring’s first flower shooting through winter’s frost, and she sucked in a deep breath.

  “I’ll do it.”

  four

  Kat stared at the batter dripping off the electric beaters into the stainless steel bowl, each tiny release of the dense pink liquid conjuring a new worry.

  Drip.

  What was she thinking?

  Drip.

  She had nothing to wear to LA.

  Drip.

  What if the judges laughed her off the kitchen floor?

  Drip.

  She still had to find an assistant.

  “Kat?”

  She jerked away from her hypnosis to the bowl and blinked at the voice suddenly ringing through her quiet sanctuary of a kitchen.

  “We need to order napkins again.” Amy, Aunt Maggie’s part-time employee, sagged against the door frame of the kitchen, iPod earbuds dangling from her ears. “We’re down to one pack.”

  “We’re supposed to order when we’re down to three.” Some days, Kat swore people took seventeen napkins per cupcake. She’d suggested cutting back a dozen times, or keeping them behind the counter and providing a napkin with each cupcake transaction so people didn’t waste handfuls at the tables, but to no avail. Aunt Maggie, and her God-given ability to believe the best in people, handed out napkins like some churches handed out tracts. Money-saving tips—and baking recipes—were not Kat’s domain. Not at Sweetie Pies.

  Not ever.

  “I know. Sorry.” The teen’s apology sounded sincere enough, but she’d been here six months or longer. She knew the routine. There really wasn’t an excuse.

  Maybe she wasn’t the only one getting bored at Sweetie Pies.

  “Stick a Post-it on the register for me. I’ll handle it.” Kat lowered the beaters back into the mixing bowl, needing to blend the clumps the drips had made before allowing the batter into the cups. She didn’t have time to worry about napkins, anyway. At least if they ran out, they’d quit losing money on them. She needed to focus on the fact that she was—supposedly—going to LA in less than two weeks. On the fact that she had less than two weeks to find an assistant willing to suddenly traipse across the country to—

  She raised the beaters again, peering at Amy through narrowed eyes.

  The teen straightened and tugged the earbuds from her ears, the wires tangling in her long blonde hair. “Um, yes?”

  Maybe not. Amy wasn’t exactly the brightest candle on the cake. And she had school. Still, what parent wouldn’t give permission for an opportunity for their daughter to be on national TV? They could share the same hotel room, since Amy was a minor, and . . .

  “I mean, yes, ma’am?”

  Kat softened her analysis at the uncertain twinge in Amy’s voice. She wasn’t so far from her own minimum-wage days that she couldn’t sympathize with the girl’s sudden fear of being lectured. Or let go.

  She sighed. “Amy. I’m twenty-six. Don’t call me ma’am.” Or remind her of her age. And the fact that she still, at closer to thirty than anything else, had yet to accomplish a single, satisfying, long-term thing in her life. Her résumé attested to as much.

  So did her left ring finger.

  “Oh, okay. Sorry. Again.” The younger girl’s shoulders slumped slightly in relief, her fingers hovering the earbuds near her ears as if she hated to miss the next song and was totally over the conversation, but couldn’t tell if she was out of the “you’re fired” woods yet.

  She couldn’t resist. “Does Aunt Maggie know you wear those at the counter?”

  Amy stared blankly. “Yes. She steals them when my shuffle comes around to the Spice Girls.”

  Nope. Definitely not going to happen. Kat lowered the mixers again. “Don’t forget the sticky note.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The door swung shut behind Amy, leaving a nearly tangible wake of relief and the faint strains of something Bieber-related.

  As the pinky-red batter swirled together into beautiful rivers of burgundy and rose, she pondered all the ways she would make Lucas pay for his interference in her life. He just thought he’d interfered last week when he’d been helping her bake at home—

  Helping her bake.

  Her finger slipped as the germinating idea took root, jerking the mixing speed to high. Batter splattered the sides of the bowl and speckled her apron with edible polka dots. But she couldn’t contain her grin.

  Or her plot for the perfect revenge.

  Lucas stared at the spreadsheet of player stats on his computer monitor, one foot tapping an unsteady rhythm he couldn’t contain as he scanned Tyler’s latest performance. Practice had ended almost an hour ago, yet here he was, still stuck on whatever was paralyzing Tyler on the field.

  And trying not to feel paralyzed himself over Kat’s lack of response so far to his Big Gesture. She’d been upset yesterday—and in hindsight, maybe rightfully so—when she received that winning email notification. He probably should have thought twice about the video, but then again, her charm with the wooden spoon was probably what had won her acceptance. Like he told his boys, sometimes you had to put yourself out there and take a risk to win.

  Just like he’d done with Kat.

  Talk about a backfire.

  The numbers in the spreadsheet before him blurred as he narrowed his eyes. His best move yet, and her only reaction had been anger. Shakespeare had it wrong. Hell might know no fury like a woman scorned, but it really didn’t know any fury like a woman manipulated.

  Too bad he hadn’t read those CliffsNotes in high school.

  He punched a few keys on the keyboard just to relieve frustration. Here he was, supposed to be figuring out Tyler’s problem, and all he could think of was how he’d seemingly just made his own problem bigger.

  He deleted his impulsive addition to the spreadsheet. And what was with the sudden way Kat blur
ted out that she’d do it? Zero to eighty in two seconds flat. Then she’d shoved him aside and got into her car before he could figure out how many hormones equaled a hissy fit, and they hadn’t talked again since. Was she still mad? Should he call, or just wait and pretend like his Big Gesture hadn’t blown up in his face?

  He kneaded his temples in an attempt to rid the headache that had crept up during practice. Man, he was out of his league. There was no playbook for this.

  “Here. Try this on.” Kat materialized in his doorway, and he jerked, banging one knee under his desk as he automatically reached up to catch whatever object she’d just lobbed at him.

  An apron.

  “For the show?” That had to be a good sign, right? That she was going, at least. And that she was looking forward to it, hopefully. He held up the baby blue fabric to see the words screen-printed across the front in a flowing black script: Not Your Mama’s Cupcakes. Ha. Or her aunt’s, for that matter. Nice.

  He threw it back at her. “You’ll look cute.” Understatement of the year.

  “Don’t be silly.” She tossed it back, all business, the ties of the apron upsetting his state championship mug that held all his pencils. They scattered across his desk and rolled onto the floor. “That one’s yours. This is mine.”

  She held up a matching apron, this time in pale pink, and the grin she finally released read even sassier than the printed words.

  He snorted, then stared as she held his gaze and quirked that eyebrow. Oh no. She wasn’t joking. He really had an apron.

  Someone had just thrown a flag on his master play.

  “I can’t cook, Kat.” Not anything beyond freezer meals and stir-fry anyway. Though, on second thought, he could create a pretty mean grilled cheese. He forced another sip of his too-bitter coffee, unable to help comparing it to the way Kat made it, and set the paper cup on the rickety table between them.

  Behind him at the front counter, the bean grinder churned, temporarily overshadowing the muffled chats of the conversations from corner booths. From the looks of it, those people were actually enjoying their conversations. Of course, he doubted they had to explain why they wouldn’t don an apron on national television.

  “Oh, come on. Give the idea a chance.” Kat still held her mocha, which she’d ordered with too many adjectives to count and dolloped with whipped cream. Dessert in a sleeve, just the way she liked it.

  Did she know he knew exactly how she liked it? Or was he the only one who paid attention to the details between them? If her buttons were still stuck on Best Friends mode, maybe that stuff didn’t matter even if she knew. He couldn’t tell anymore, and he figured he probably shouldn’t care this much. It wasn’t masculine. Football—that was masculine. Finally putting an offer on the land he’d been eyeing forever—that was masculine. Mowing his own acreage. Drinking bitter coffee.

  Not debating relationship what-ifs as if he were thirteen and wearing a training bra to a slumber party.

  Yet something about Kat made him feel more like a man than he ever did on the field.

  “Besides, it’s not cooking. It’s baking.” She had whipped cream on her lip, and he wasn’t going to tell her.

  He shrugged. “Fine, then. I don’t bake.”

  “You could. And you have before, every time you’ve helped me at home.” She pointed behind him, in the general direction of her house, despite the fact it sat at least three miles from the coffee shop.

  “That’s not baking. That’s advising. Taste testing. Occasionally stirring.” He crossed his arms, unwilling to down another swallow of that brew the owners deemed coffee.

  And just as unwilling to fly to LA to tape a reality show in a faux kitchen. No way could he take off work for that long, leave his players, and leave Tyler in the midst of family drama and low self-esteem to trek across the country to mix batter. That was Kat’s thing. He’d done his part.

  And it hadn’t really helped.

  “Exactly. You’d be the perfect partner.” She narrowed her eyes, and he hated what he knew was coming next. “It’s your fault I’m doing this, anyway.”

  The bustling of the shop around them faded as those words sank in. Fault. Not credit, but blame. He inhaled stiffly. “You still think this is a bad thing to do.” Had he really been that off in his play?

  If that was any indication of his instincts these days, Tyler and the guys wouldn’t stand a chance.

  “No.” She sighed, pushing her coffee away, then pulled it back for a swig that doubled the whipped cream on her lip. This time she must have felt it, because she scrubbed it off with her sleeve that was already slightly smeared with flour. “I mean, I’m going to do it anyway.”

  “It’s not the guillotine.” It might be for him, at this point, but not for her.

  “I know that.” She ran her finger around the lid of her cup. “But I’ve always wanted to see the world—not fail in front of everyone in the world.”

  “Understandable.” He threw her emphasis back at her. “But what if you succeed in front of everyone in the world?”

  Her eyes brightened slightly at the suggestion, and he at once hated and loved how easy it was to lift her spirits. Loved that she received it from him—but hated she had nothing to give to herself. “Maybe.”

  “Never know until you try. Besides, what do you have to lose?” Besides his heart, anyway, and she didn’t even know she had that. But maybe if he went . . . maybe if he was there, every step of the way, not holding her hand but giving her strength and confidence—maybe she’d see.

  Maybe she needed him more than his players did right now. Maybe this was the comeback after halftime.

  The game definitely wasn’t over yet.

  She hesitated. “So in that same vein, what do you have to lose?”

  Plenty. But she wasn’t ready to hear that, and he wasn’t ready to say it. So he took another sip and grimaced. “My dignity.”

  “The apron’s blue.”

  Oh yeah, that definitely fixed it. He wished he could do her eyebrow trick at her about now. He settled for rolling his eyes. “I can see that.”

  “So what do you say?” Her eyes sparked with hope, and something a lot like guilt pressed upon his shoulders. He really didn’t like the thought of Kat in LA for days, uncertain and alone. And she had to have someone assist her as part of the show’s rules, and it definitely didn’t need to be that nice, yet mostly clueless kid that helped at Sweetie Pies. Besides, Kat had said she wanted him, not Amy.

  His stomach clenched. He better not regret this. “I say . . . pass the apron.” Sigh. Darren would never let him live it down. Ever.

  Kat’s squeal and impromptu hug across the table was almost worth it. Bittersweet.

  Sort of like a man’s last meal before the guillotine.

  five

  LA? Really, Kat?” The disapproval practically dripped in tangible lumps from her mother’s perfected Southern accent. Kat considered making a face at her cell phone, but the display of immaturity would only prove her mother right.

  That she wasn’t ready to go off on her own.

  She settled for taking her aggression out on her suitcase zipper. Zzzzip. “It’s a great opportunity. Once in a lifetime, even.” Zzzzip. Funny how she now defended the same idea she’d initially been against herself.

  Her mother sighed, the sound bringing back memory after memory of disappointment. The look on her mom’s face when Kat didn’t make the honor roll in elementary school. Her expression when Kat didn’t make the dance-line team at Bayou Bend High. Her under-the-breath mutterings about getting out of the kitchen and doing something like Stella did. Yet she barely noticed or commented when Kat won the fifth-grade dessert bake-off or when she delivered food on a mission trip to Mexico with the church. Things Kat had been interested in didn’t fall into her mother’s perfectly laid out plan. Stella was the one who had somehow managed to follow the plan.

  Kat just wanted to puree the plan into something edible.

  “I know you’ve alw
ays wanted to travel, but your lifestyle just doesn’t allow for that. Besides, once in a lifetime doesn’t automatically make something a good idea, Katherine.”

  Katherine. Her stomach knotted. She shouldn’t have even called. Should have just let her mom find out through the Bayou Bend grapevine. Or better yet, once the show aired. She grasped at straws, hating that she had never outgrown that method of interaction with her mom. “Well, Lucas believes in me.”

  “Lucas wears blinders, sweetie.”

  Zzzzzzzzzip.

  The zipper tore away from the fabric. Great, now she’d have to take her biggest case. At least she hadn’t filled it yet. She traded them out in her closet and hefted the larger suitcase onto her bed. The wheels made indentions on the sage-green comforter, and she smoothed the wrinkles as her mom prattled on. Claire Varland was nothing if not persistent. Probably why she was able to convince half the town to donate money they didn’t have to causes they didn’t necessarily care about.

  “Honestly, that boy would eat anything put in front of him, especially if you made it.”

  That boy was a man, and one of the most respectable ones in the entire town. But to her mom, Lucas was still the college kid who took her to prom and jabbed them all with the corsage pin before relinquishing the honor. “What are you trying to say, Mom?”

  But she knew. She’d always known. Her parents didn’t believe in outside-the-box any more than poor Aunt Maggie did. Which meant they didn’t believe in her ability. They went from pushing her into attempting something bigger and more “meaningful” with her life to finally believing she was doing all she could baking mundane recipes at Sweetie Pies.

  She didn’t know which was worse.

  “Now, don’t get defensive, dear.”

  How else was she supposed to feel? She unzipped her suitcase, carefully this time, and stared at the contents of her closet.