Saving the Cake(7)

He still had his arms crossed. “Leftovers?”

“Leftovers.”

“I love leftovers. Maybe I could eat with you.”

I couldn’t look him in the eye, but avoiding his gaze left my eyes skittering over that broad chest, with diversions down his muscled arms and across his toned waist. I gulped and pulled my eyes back up to his face and said, a little breathlessly, “I don’t think I have enough to offer you.”

The words hung in the air.

“I mean, the leftovers,” I said.

“I know what you meant.” His voice was soft and yet very firm. “And I don’t agree with you.” He took a deep breath and then let it out with a tiny sigh. “But okay.”

I showed him out. When I closed the front door, I leaned my back against it and closed my eyes, then began to bang my head lightly against the wood.





Chapter 7


I sat there the next morning waiting for Donovan to arrive. I mean, not waiting for him to arrive. I wasn’t sitting there like a love-sick puppy, watching the clock, pricking up my ears at every tiny sound in the hope that it’d be him.


Okay. Maybe a little bit. I only changed my sweater twice and my skirt once, before settling on deep red for the top and black for the bottom. And I’d put my hair up three different ways before finally just letting it hang loose in soft waves.

The day before, I’d been paralyzed by fear—the fear of making the wrong choice. Now, I was frozen again…but this time, it wasn’t just the cake that had me knotted up. I didn’t do one night stands. I wasn’t that kind of woman.

I bit my lip. What if he really was interested and not just being polite? What if I did have a chance with a guy like him, however small? Wasn’t it worth just a little bit of risk…just once?

At that moment, I heard his knock at the door upstairs. I charged up there and then stood for a couple of seconds by the door, getting my breath back and composing myself. I didn’t want to look…keen.

“Oh. Hello.” As if I’d only just remembered that he was coming over.

He just smiled at me, with a smile that said he saw straight through me. I felt my stomach do a backflip, but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling.

Downstairs, I told him the problem. It didn’t feel weird, now, sharing things with him. Every time I talked to him, I was reminded of how much I’d missed having someone around. I stared at the two designs I’d pinned to the wall. “The problem is: should it be ultra-modern, because she’s a hairdresser and that means this wedding’s very different? Or should it be ultra-traditional, to try to neutralize the fact she’s a hairdresser. I mean, I think the queen probably wants to forget that part as much as possible. Pretend that this is a normal royal wedding and she’s got…you know. Breeding and things.”

“Do you think that matters? What the queen wants?”

I looked at him, horrified. “She’s the queen!”

“But it’s their wedding.”

“But she’s the queen!”

“But the cake’s not for her. It’s for them.”

“But she’s the—“ I sighed. “This is useless. You’re American--you wouldn’t understand. I’ll call you when I’m baking for the president.”

“Why don’t you just combine the two?”

“What?” And then, because I couldn’t think of any other response, “What?”

“Combine the two. Modern and fancy.”

“Modern and traditional.”

“Whatever.”

“That’s insane,” I told him. “That would never work.”

“Isn’t that pretty much what the queen’s probably thinking about the couple?” he asked. “Isn’t he all fancy—“

“Traditional,”

“…and she’s modern?”

I wanted to dismiss it. It was a ridiculous idea. But, now that he said it, there was something to it. A traditional design was much too stuffy for a hairdresser. A modern design was much too clean and simple for a prince. But put them together….

I took a deep breath and blew it out. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll give it a try.”

I looked up into his eyes, and he was smiling at me.



“Why did you get into trouble, anyway?” I asked, when we stopped to grab a sandwich for lunch.

He shook his head ruefully. He was back in a shirt, today, and had politely declined my offer of an apron. “The head of the network was making a speech at some awards dinner and I was meant to introduce him,” he said. “I made a joke about him instead. Went down well with the audience…not so well with him.”

“Why? You must have known you’d get into trouble for it.”

He sighed. “I know. I’m an *. And also….”

I waited.

“The week before, the network had let one of our female news anchors go. Sweet lady, been with us for years. She wasn’t happy about it and the press caught on that it was down to her age—they wanted someone younger. ‘Course, she couldn’t badmouth the network to the press or she’d never work again. But I knew that decision went all the way up to the network head, and it damn well was because of her age. He’s an *, like that. So when I had to announce him….” He shrugged. “I don’t know. It wasn’t going to get her her job back. I guess I love a hopeless cause. It was stupid.”