Sally grins, displaying rosy cheeks that make me think of Mrs. Claus and Christmas cookies. She’s probably only ten years older than me, but there’s something maternal and soothing about her. I can understand why she does so many wedding cakes. She can calm a nervous bride with nothing more than a look.
“We’re all set,” she assures me. “But we do need to narrow down the choices for the cupcakes.” The plan is to have five different flavors of cupcakes—one for each of the tiers—so the guests can pick their favorite. Additional cupcakes—in case anyone wants seconds—will be scattered artfully on the table, mixed with the fresh wildflowers I have on order from the florist. Daisies and sunflowers and Indian paintbrushes that remind me of the incredible arrangement Damien sent me after the night we first met.
Sally nods to the table set up at the back of the storefront, elegantly draped in white linen. It’s topped with a row of ten tiny cakes. “I thought you might want to refresh your memory.”
I laugh. “Even if I’d already decided, you know I’d have to sit down and taste those.” I glance at my mother as I head toward the table. “Do you want to try, too? They’re all amazing.”
Mother’s brows lift sky high, and I wonder when my mother last had a carb that didn’t come from a lettuce leaf or a glass of wine. “I don’t think so.”
I shrug. “Suit yourself,” I say, and see my mother’s lips purse as I settle behind the table. “More for me.”
The first cake is a tiny cheesecake. It’s Damien’s favorite, and I restrain myself from taking a bite because I’m going to ask Sally if I can take it home for him. I can think of all sorts of interesting negotiations we could have if he’s bargaining for cheesecake.
I smile as I taste the next cake, not because I’m a fan of red velvet, but because I’m imagining all those possibilities. The next is a deep, delicious chocolate that I savor with a moan that is almost sexual. Sally laughs. “That cake gets that a lot.”
“It totally stays,” I say, then grin wickedly at her. “In fact, let’s have a dozen packed up to take with us on the honeymoon.”
We’re laughing, and Sally’s asking me about the honeymoon, and I’m telling her that it’s a secret even from me—a Damien Stark surprise—when my mother clicks her way over on her nail-point heels. She stops in front of me, effectively ending my moment of bridal bonding with Sally.
“Chocolate, yellow, white,” she says. “A pound cake. A cheesecake. If you insist on doing cupcakes at least stick with traditional flavors.”
“I don’t know,” I say, taking a second bite of the cupcake I’m working on. “This one—butternut?—is to die for.”
“It’s very popular,” Sally says. “But try the strawberry.”
My mother reaches over and snatches the fork out of my hand. For a moment, I’m fool enough to think that she’s going to get in the spirit and try the cake. But all she does is point the tines at me. “Honestly, Nichole,” she says, in a tone that leaves no doubt that I have committed some heinous sin. “Are you trying to ruin your wedding? Have you thought about your waist? Your hips? Not to mention your skin!”
She turns to Sally, who is clearly struggling to wipe the expression of appalled shock off her face. “Bless her little heart,” my mother says, in a tone that practically drips sugar, “but my Nichole isn’t a girl who can eat cake and then get into something as form-fitting as a wedding gown.”
“Nikki is a lovely young woman,” Sally says firmly. “And I’m sure she’s going to look stunning at her wedding.”
“Of course she will,” my mother says, her voice sounding farther and farther from me. It’s as if I’m sliding back, moving down some tunnel, away from her, away from Sally, away from everything.
“That’s why I’m here,” Mother adds, her tone entirely reasonable. “My daughter knows she has no self-control about things that are bad for her—cakes, candy, men,” she adds in a stage whisper. “I’ve always been there to help her keep her eye on the prize.”
“I see,” Sally says, and I have a feeling she sees more than my mother wants.
As for me, even from the depths of this well into which I’ve fallen, I am seething. I want to leap out of my chair and tell my mother that she’s never helped me, she’s only manipulated me. That she’s not interested in what I want, but only what I look like and how I act and if I’m presenting an image that stands up to the Fairchild name—a name that’s not worth what it used to be since she took over—and decimated—the oil business that she inherited when my grandfather passed away.
I want to say all of that, but I don’t. I just sit there, my plastic smile on my face, hating myself for not moving. For not telling her to get the hell back to Texas.
But what I hate even more is the fact that I’m now clutching the second fork in my hand, and it’s under the table, and the tines are pressing hard into my leg through the thin material of my skirt. I don’t want to—I know I need to stop, to stand up, to simply get the hell out of there if that’s what it takes—but whatever strength has been building in me over the last few months has scattered like dandelion fluff under the assault of a ferocious wind.
“Nikki,” Sally begins, and I can’t tell if the concern in her voice is because of my mother’s speech or if she sees some hint of my struggle on my face. It doesn’t matter, though, because her words are cut off by the electronic door chime.
I look up, then draw in a breath. The tunnel disappears and my vision returns. The fork tumbles from my hand to the floor, and I realize I’ve stood up.
It’s Damien—and he is moving like a bullet toward me.
I head around the table, unconcerned about anything else. He stops in front of me, his face hard, his eyes warm but worried. “Turns out I could work the cake thing into my schedule, after all.”
I try not to smile, but the corners of my mouth twitch, and I feel tears of relief prick my eyes. “I’m glad.”
He reaches out and strokes my cheek. “You okay?”
“I’m perfect,” I say. “At least, I am now.”
The worry fades from his eyes, and I know that he believes me. He takes my hand, then turns to face my mother. “Mrs. Fairchild. What a pleasant surprise,” he says, in the kind of overly polite voice that suggests there’s nothing remotely pleasant about this particular surprise.
“Mr. Stark—Damien—I—” She stops abruptly, and I am amused. My mother is very rarely rendered speechless, but the last time she and Damien met he sent her away, effectively getting rid of her by flying her back to Texas on one of his jets. And that was before she’d said the variety of nasty things she’s since uttered about the two of us. I have to wonder if she doesn’t now fear that her ride out of California this go-round will be significantly less pleasant.
Damien, however, is the picture of cultured politeness. “It was so kind of you to come with Nikki today. I think we both know how valuable your opinion is to her.” My mother’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. I can tell that she wants to reply, to lash out with the sweet sting of words that she’d want to cut him as deeply as a blade has cut me, but they clearly don’t come. I’m not surprised. My mother is formidable, but Damien is more so.
Her expression shifts from consternation to surprise when Jamie bursts into the bakery like a tornado. “I’m here! I’m here! Big ticky mark for the maid of honor!”
For a moment I think that she really is here simply because she promised me she’d try to make it to Love Bites on time. But when I see that it is not me she looks to first, but Damien, I realize that he called her—and that she is part of the cavalry, too.
A moment later, Ryan Hunter, Damien’s head of security, hurries inside as well, only to stop short when he sees Damien, then fall back toward the door, his eyes on my mother, as if she is a bomb about to go off. Laughter bubbles in my throat. I never felt loved by my mother. Damien not only makes me feel loved, but also cherished and protected and safe.