Saving the Cake
by Victoria Wessex
Prologue
Los Angeles
Donovan
“Me?” I blinked at the news director. “I stay here in the studio. That’s why they call it news anchor. Get Rachel to do it.”
“Rachel? Where have you been? Rachel quit! She’s living with that billionaire Scotsman.”
I frowned. It had been a while since I’d seen Rachel around the office. “What about Shelly?”
“She’s covering the wedding itself.”
“She gets the royal wedding and you want me to go and interview some woman baking the wedding cake?”
The news director leaned forward imposingly. “Shelly didn’t get drunk at the awards dinner and make that joke about the president of the network.”
Oh. That. A whole month ago, and I was still paying for it. I rubbed the back of my neck. “England? Really?”
The news director sighed. “It’s not like it is in the movies, Don. They don’t all drive Minis and live in thatched cottages. It’s just like here.”
“Didn’t Rachel say it rained all the time?”
“That was Scotland. And it’s summer. I’m sure it’s lovely in England this time of year. Look, just fly over there, film the baker and the cake and come back. No drama. No surprises. This is your last chance.”
Chapter 1
Berkshire, England
Jessica
“Me?” I asked mournfully. “Why does it have to be me?”
No one answered, because I was down in my basement kitchen, alone. Staring at the elaborate calligraphy on the Royal Request for Services for the seven-hundredth time.
Baking—and decorating—the cake for the royal wedding. Pretty much the assignment of a lifetime for any chef, especially one who specialized in desserts. But I could feel the weight of hundreds of years of expectations bearing down on me, grinding me into the tiled floor. What if it was too dry? Too moist? Too sweet? What if the icing cracked? What if—
What if? Pretty much the story of my life. No guy in my life since the divorce, because what if he’s the wrong one? No TV deal, because what if my curves just look ginormous on screen? I would have happily turned down the whole thing except that, (a) it would be career suicide and (b) the queen might behead me.
I put my hands on the counter and took a deep breath. Okay. It’s just a cake. I’ll keep it simple and elegant. Tasteful. I can do this.
Except, when I went to write the ingredient list, my hand froze. Flour…but what sort of flour? Did I want it heavy and dense, to soak up all the champagne they’d be getting through, or did I want it lighter and crumblier, modern rather than classic?
The doorbell rang.
I stalked up the stairs to my house and then through it to the door. It’s a long walk from the kitchen and, by the time I reached the door, I was ready to give the salesman or whoever it was a frosty reception. I swung the door wide and hissed, “Yes?”
Except I didn’t. The word didn’t form and the air just sort of caught in my lungs instead.
He was just a little taller than me. Then I remembered I was in my heels and mentally revised that upward. Then I had to revise it upward again, because I saw he’d taken a step back from the door and was standing down on the sidewalk, an umbrella over his head to shield him from the rain. He was gazing away from me, looking around at the sleepy little village street as if he’d never seen a thatched cottage before. He had on a smart suit under his raincoat, but no tie, which should have looked scruffy…but somehow, it didn’t, on him. It looked sort of…I couldn’t think of the word.
His hair was glossy black with just a dusting of gray. I put him at about ten years older than me—early forties, perhaps. His eyes were the color of darkest slate, his jaw square and solid. He was clean-shaven, which gave him a kind of old-fashioned look. He was, undoubtedly, the most gorgeous man who’d ever stood on my doorstep. Or possibly any doorstep in Berkshire. He looked as if he didn’t belong, as if someone had cut him out of a golden-era Hollywood movie with scissors and dropped him there.
Roguish. That was the word I’d been looking for. But roguish men don’t exist these days…do they?
When he finally turned to the door and saw me, his face lit up with a big, honest smile. “Hey! I thought you were out. I was just about to go.”
I blinked. “You’re American,” I said stupidly.
“And you’re British. Jessica Lords. Cake maker extraordinaire.” He said it with a teasing gleam in his eye that both irritated me and made me want to smile. And that irritated me even more.
“Can I help you?” I was trying to be calm, but my mind was still downstairs, ticking the time away like a kitchen timer. I hadn’t even planned the thing yet, let alone bought the ingredients.
He glanced around the street again, frowning at the rain. Did they not have rain, where he came from? “I’m Don.” I looked at him blankly. “Donovan. Donovan Maroney? With Now News Weekly?” He grinned. “I’m here to interview you about the cake. We did talk to your agent.”
I nodded slowly, making a mental note to kill my agent. I knew exactly why he hadn’t told me about it: he’d known I’d say no.