Love Takes the Cake
ZONDERVAN
Love Takes the Cake
Copyright © 2015 by Betsy St. Amant
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ePub Edition © July 2015: ISBN 978-0-310-39599-7
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Publisher's Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Interior design: James Phinney
To Jason and Tara Hardinâfor living out a real life example of love. I love your story and your hearts!
Contents
Much gratitude to my editor, Becky PhilpottâI love you
more than cupcakes!
To the entire editorial and marketing team at HarperCollinsâyou guys rock!
And to my agent, Tamela Hancock Murray with the Steve Laube Agencyâthank you for your consistent support and cheerleading.
To Anne, for being a friend, a first reader, and a voice of reason and truth. I am so grateful for your friendship.
To Jacki, for always being willing to fly with me into the unknown. You're a warrior!
And to Audreyâmy Little Miss, who's always up for dessert. I love you! Let's eat cake!
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in
possession of pastries is in need of a hungry man.
He was back.
The bell on the door to The Dough Knot chimed a heads-up as the tall, semidark, and handsome not-quite stranger strolled inside, head down as he typed on his phone.
Charlotte Cantrell tried to disregard the flutter of butterflies in her stomach, but it was rather like ignoring a herd of stampeding elephants. You didn't linger in denialâyou just got out of the way.
But Charlotte had nowhere to go.
Behind the display case full of pumpkin cheesecake muffins, orange-coated petit fours, and cinnamon pecan cookies, she pretended to clean the already spotless counter and tried to look nonchalant. Like it was every day a drop-dead gorgeous man with amazing hazel eyes walked into her bakery and placed an order.
It wasn't
every
dayâit was actually only every Tuesday at 5:40. She could set her watch by him.
Charlotte automatically reached to box his standard to-go orderâtwo of her delicious, secret-ingredient giant snickerdoodlesâand hesitated. Would it be good customer service to let him know she remembered his order, or would it just come across as desperate?
She might be a single mom, but she certainly wasn't desperate.
She waited, taking the opportunity to study him while he was occupied with his phone. The sweep of dark hair over his forehead. The perfect cut of his button-down shirt.
Mr. Right, who came every Tuesday, without fail.
And bought cookies for another woman.
He looked up then, caught her in her hesitation, and offered a sheepish grin that made him all the more charming. “Sorry.” He held up his phone. “I had to answer that. My friend's on his way to meet me here.”
“It's no problem.” She forced herself to act nonchalant. Or tried, anyway. Attractive, polite,
and
apologetic for something as small as texting while walking into a business?
So
that's
where Mr. Darcy went.
It was enough to make Charlotte swoon like one of Jane Austen's heroines, but then there'd be no one to work the register, and Ms. Mystery-Right wouldn't get her weekly treat. Besides, swooning had only left her with a broken heart in the past, and she had no desire to repeat history.
Mr. Almost-Right caught her gaze then and smiled broader, as if somehow he could read her thoughts. She blushed, afraid the heat of the attraction pulsing toward
him over the counter might overbake the baked goods. “The usual?”
So much for pretending she didn't know.
She was a glutton for punishment. The man clearly had someone else in his life, someone he cared about enough to make a special trip to the bakery every single Tuesday. And yet Charlotte had deliberately sent her friend and part-time employee Julie on her afternoon break at five thirty so that she would be alone when Mr. Right showed up. What did she expect? That he would throw himself across the counter and proclaim his undying love?
It didn't matter. Julie was due back any time now. A new brideâJulie called her Bridezillaâwas coming in to taste a wedding cake. Julie was going to work the counter while Charlotte dealt with the bride.
Charlotte had spoken with the woman on the phone the other day. She had managed to compliment
and
insult the bakery all at the same time, and yet somehow left Charlotte eager to please her.
Such evil was almost impressive.
“The usual, yes, please.” He slid his phone into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled his wallet from the other side. No ring on his tanned left hand. A few weeks ago, she had wondered if maybe he was a single dad, and the sweets were for his daughter. She usually had a pretty accurate radar for picking out fellow single parents.
But all of his comments over the last month or so hadn't added up to that deduction.
Melissa said to tell you thanks. She said the cookies this week were even better than last. Melissa said she hasn't had a cookie this good since high school.
Melissa was one lucky woman.
A wave of guilt pressed on Charlotte's shoulders, familiar and tangible. Had she been too flirty with this mystery man, considering she knew he wasn't available?
Charlotte had been on the other side of that equation. The rugged, football-playing smooth talker she'd dated her senior year in college hadn't been entirely honest about his relationship statusâin other words, he'd outright lied to her face and was engaged to someone else. Charlotte ended up in the role of the “other woman,” the home wrecker. And even if it had been unintentional, it was both painful and guilt-inducing, and she never intended to go that route again.
Once she found out the truth, that was the end of it, despite the positive sign on the pregnancy test. She would go it alone as a single mom, for better or worse. She was done with the handsome, charming types who
knew
, along with the rest of the female population, that they were handsome and charming.
As she told Zoe every time her daughter asked where her future stepfather wasâthey were waiting for God to send them a safe, predictable nerd.
Preferably one who bought baked goods for
her
, not for another woman.
Charlotte slipped the snickerdoodles into the bakery's signature turquoise and brown box, then removed her plastic glove and punched the buttons on the register. He was already handing her a five-dollar bill. At this rate, he might as well start a tab.
“Listen, there's something you should know.” He darted
a glance over his shoulder at the picture window, then back at her, a sudden seriousness lighting his hazel eyes. “There's sort of this wedding, and . . .”
Wedding. Her stomach knotted. Of course. So Melissa was a fiancée. She dropped the money into the register and slid out his change, the quarters clanging loudly against the metal drawer. Why on earth did men not wear engagement rings the way women did? It wasn't fair to not be able to tell at a glance that a man was taken.
Still, it didn't matter. Not really. This man wasn't safe. Not judging by the things he did to her stomach. And while he might be a little predictable with the every-Tuesday-cookie thing, he wasn't a nerd. Not by far.
Charlotte needed “safe” for her and Zoe. This guy was a five-alarm fire.
“Wedding. Right.” She fought for her most professional smile as she handed him his change and receipt, trying not to imagine what he'd look like in a tuxedo at the end of a long church aisle. “Congratulations.”
Her mind raced through a blur of images, snippets of conversation pulled from their interactions over the past several weeks. How in the world had she known his favorite color was green, and that he loved desserts with extra nuts, and that he liked camping in Arkansasâyet didn't know he was getting married?
“No, no.” He looked over his shoulder once more at the door, lowering his voice. “It's not forâ”
“Here it is!” The door to The Dough Knot flung open as if rocked on its hinges by the force of the proclamation. A short, stick-thin brunette rushed inside, flaunting a
white tank top with the word
Bride
spelled across the front in hot-pink rhinestones. On her heels trailed a guy in a ball cap and ripped jeans who mouthed the words
I'm sorry
as they entered.
This had to be Brittany, the Bridezilla who had the appointment for the cake tasting. She was early.
And even louder in person than she'd been on the phone.
Charlotte pasted on her most patient, professional smileâone she'd mastered over years of donating free pastries to school bake sales. She refused to complain about Brittanyâor
to
Brittany, for that matter. Cake sampling equaled potential customers, and potential customers equaled money in the bankânot to mention exposure and word of mouth. The majority of The Dough Knot's custom wedding business came from guests who wanted a similar cake for their own upcoming nuptials.