Cake Walk Read online

  Copyright © 2021 by Abby Knox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is coincidental.

  Edited by Aquila Editing

  Cover Designer: Cover Girl Design

  Summary

  Cara

  * * *

  I found the perfect spot to sell my cakes for my preschool’s fundraiser: smack in the middle of the town’s most exclusive gated community. That has everything to do with where the money is, and probably nothing to do with catching a glimpse of my dad’s gorgeous best friend, Michael.

  * * *

  Michael

  * * *

  I don’t remember how I ended up as the enforcer for the homeowners association, but I truly give no crap if some cute blonde wants to sell cakes on my street to raise money for the local preschool. When I discover that the cute blonde is my best friend’s daughter, I have to enforce the rules to make Cara go away. Far, far away, before I act on my feelings. Because my feelings are wrong…right?

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  More by Abby Knox

  Chapter One

  Michael

  * * *

  The pounding on my front door matches the pounding in my head. I roll to the empty side of my California king and shove the cool, unused pillow over my ears and eyes to blot out the rude interruption to my whiskey-soaked slumber.

  The knocking continues, now with fresh urgency.

  Emitting a groan mixed with a yawn, I rub my bloodshot eyes. In my season of life, a man my age should be too busy morning-fucking his wife even to notice some idiot knocking at 7:52 a.m. on a Saturday. A pair of soft thighs covering my ears seems like a most effective and pleasurable way to block out noise.

  No such luck for me; the knocking continues.

  I could ignore it. I shouldn’t; it could be HOA business, and I hate HOA business. On the other hand, maybe it’s not that. Perhaps I’ll get lucky. I grin ruefully, fantasizing that it could be the woman of my dreams knocking on my door. Wouldn’t that be the bee’s knees to fall in love at first sight at the age of 46?

  Harrumphing, I sit up and look at the front door camera that’s connected to my phone. It’s my neighbor, Mrs. Hurley. Local busybody—not the woman of my dreams.

  After throwing on a pair of flannel pajama bottoms, I shuffle to the front door and open it four inches precisely, not enough for her to stick her foot inside and “take just a quick moment” of my time to complain about the height of someone’s lawn or the peeling paint on someone’s mailbox.

  “Yeah,” I grunt.

  If she’s annoyed by my abruptness and appearance—I didn’t bother checking a mirror before answering the door—her oversized sunglasses and Botox camouflage that fact.

  “Mr. Brennan. I’m sorry to wake you—”

  “Are you?” I ask though she doesn’t hear it or acknowledge my question because she keeps right on yapping.

  “—but everyone is asking, did you issue a permit for this…this yard sale today? Because I don’t recall voting on a special exemption.”

  I rub the pads of my thumb and forefinger into my eyelids to clear the cobwebs caused by too much whiskey the night before and because I have no idea what Mrs. Hurley is babbling about.

  I also don’t like the way she said “yard sale” as if the idea of it is beneath her, like it’s equal to a tick on the tush of her obnoxious little terrier.

  “Huh?” is all I can muster in the way of requesting more information.

  Impatiently, Mrs. Hurley rams my door open wide; the force of it catches me off guard, and I stumble backward. Those new barre classes at the clubhouse are working for Mrs. Hurley’s core strength.

  Bleary-eyed, I look past her and follow her pointing beige talons.

  “Huh,” I remark, staring at the unusual sight at my best friend Bill’s driveway.

  “Is that all you have to say, Mr. President?”

  How I ever got roped into serving as the HOA president, I’ll never know. The velvet fog of retirement made me agree to “volunteer” for one thing or another, and as a newbie to Fox Chase life, the affluent suburbanites got their claws into me early. But I intend to weasel out as soon as possible.

  “No. I’d also say that’s not something you see every day in Fox Chase.” A line of people stretches from Bill’s curb at the corner of Vixen Court and around Hunter Drive. Cars are easing their way around each other, drivers looking for places to park where there are none.

  “There is a Hyundai parked in front of my house right now. A Hyundai!” Mrs. Hurley is chapping my last nerve. Not to mention her colossal tote bag is partially blocking my view of something particularly pleasing.

  In Bill’s driveway, a soft, curvy female wearing a yellow sundress scurries around, arranging colorful items on long tables. The set-up does sort of look like a yard sale, but not exactly. It seems a little more festive than the yard sales my dad used to let me tag along to, while he scoped out deals on rusty hammers and socket wrenches. This ain’t that. I see balloons and cutesy little pendant banners in bright colors. Gingham tablecloths. There’s one of those portable awnings set up at a checkout station, presumably to keep the sun at bay from all that skin she’s showing in that dress. It’s all very quaint. But none of the charm comes close to that damn dress that taunts the hell out of me at the moment; its spaghetti straps show off her long, tanned arms and delicate collarbones; the length of the yellow chiffon hangs just short enough to reveal a pair of solid and feminine thighs. Mrs. Hurley is still pointing, so I feel free to keep staring, noticing the way this strange woman’s butt jiggles under the wispy fabric. She looks as delicious as lemon meringue, and the thought of lemons—and her lemons in my mouth—makes my mouth water.

  It’s been way too long since I grabbed on to a soft, squeezable bottom. I bet those thighs of hers would do a more-than-adequate job of noise canceling. Better still, those thighs look strong enough to snap my neck efficiently. I silently groan at the thought of dying with a smile on my glazed-over face.

  Mrs. Hurley insists on interrupting my little death fantasy. “Mr. Brennan!”

  “I’m going, I’m going. Keep your Lululemons on,” I bark.

  I shuffle past Mrs. Hurley and meander down my front steps and across my lawn, my eyes examining the wavy blonde bob on Sundress Lady. That’s not Bill’s wife, Corrina. I’d be a world-class jerk if I found myself popping a boner over my best friend’s wife. But this woman’s hair is similar. A visiting sister-in-law from out of town? Who is she? She doesn’t live there, as far as I know—I kind of wish she did.

  “Mr. Brennan?!”

  Mrs. Hurley is still on my property, demanding attention yet again. Grunting, “Yeah?” I turn around to see her now pointing at my bare chest. “Aren’t you going to get dressed first?”

  “Avert your eyes if you must, Mrs. Hurley. But keep pointing at my chest like that, I’m going to have to
register a complaint with the Fox Chase HOA sexual harassment department.”

  She splutters and trails off, “There’s no…such department…I didn’t mean to….”

  I turn and continue on my way over to Bill’s house, my eyes locked on the pretty blonde with the cute and very busy ass, still arranging and decorating and looking stressed. Maybe I can be of help with that. With selling…whatever that is. Girl Scout cookies? Shit, yes, I’ll buy every last box and effectively put an end to this whole shindig. Everyone wins. Mrs. Hurley gets to shuffle off to the clubhouse with a slightly less sour look on her face, pretty Sundress Lady gets some quick cash, and maybe I get a phone number.

  The aroma hits me first, and I understand what’s going on here. This isn’t a yard sale but a bake sale. The first scent that strikes me is cherry pie, and I immediately begin to salivate. Maybe I’ll get something sweet for breakfast from her to counteract this hangover.

  The next thing that hits my senses is her voice. But it doesn’t make me drool; it hits me with a dose of reality right across the face. “Now, now, everyone. I’m not quite ready yet. The sale starts at 8 a.m. And it’s only 7:55. I’ve still got a batch of brownies in the oven.”

  Her words stop me dead in my tracks and turn my throat to the Sahara Desert. I know this person. She’s Cara Williams, the soft-spoken second daughter of Bill and Corrina.

  If I thought I would be an asshole for popping a boner for my best friend’s wife, this is an entirely more profound level of asshole. Bill’s daughter. The sweetest, most introverted of all five of the Williams girls, at that. As I recall, the one I used to see on my early morning runs in the city. I would spot her reading her books under a tree in the park near my condo before school.

  I should turn around and go back inside, take a cold shower, drink some water, eat some protein to soak up the remnants of this alcohol. I used to eat at a fantastic little restaurant near my condo for post-hangover chilaquiles. There’s nothing like that around here, and I don’t know how to cook. I could order some Taco Bell to be delivered. Not the same—not even close—but maybe the aroma of a crunch-wrap will be enough to drive Mrs. Hurley off my porch.

  I could do that. But then that would leave poor Cara under the scrutiny of Mrs. Hurley and any number of other neighborhood busybodies who might complain about the Williamses to the HOA. I don’t want that to happen, either.

  I have to do the right thing. I always do the right thing by the family that has taken me in on Thanksgivings and Christmases.

  As I approach, I can’t help but notice Cara looks very different from the painfully shy high school valedictorian to whom I’d cut a sizable check just a few years ago. The angelic girl is selling cakes on her parents’ front lawn.

  This simply won’t do. It won’t do for me to be having thoughts about her rump, and her thighs, and her cleavage in that dress, even if the message hasn’t reached my wide-awake cock yet this morning. And it won’t do for her to be going to any effort to collect money for anything. It doesn’t sit right with me. Not across the street from my house. And not when I, her Uncle Michael, can easily cut a check or whatever it is that she might need.

  Uncle Michael. God. I’m a sick, desperate man.

  I’m going to put a stop to this. Now. I’ve got to make her go away. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Besides, I don’t like the way people are so eager to hand her money. There must be fifty people lined up and more coming.

  I’m putting a stop to this circus once and for all.

  Why? Because I’m the motherfucking HOA president, and I have to enforce the rules.

  Chapter Two

  Cara

  * * *

  A hundred gourmet chocolate chip cookies, seventeen Granny Smith apple hand-pies with Saigon cinnamon, and nineteen cakes of varying flavors with colorful handmade icing flowers are attractively spread out over all the banquet tables I could find in my parents’ storage locker. The other pre-K teachers helped me make fun signage, festive balloon centerpieces, and eye-catching banners. My sister Cherise contributed a few batches of cupcakes in between her busy days at culinary school, as did a few of her classmates. My parents helped by letting me use their yard—smack in the middle of the wealthiest neighborhood in this suburb. But if I’m honest, the most significant help of all was name-dropping my brother-in-law.

  Famous British chef Phillip Wildwood married my older sister Chloe last year, as luck would have it. I may have implied on the Facebook event that Phillip himself had donated cakes to this fundraiser. While that might not be one hundred percent true, the cakes I made came straight from Phillip’s many cookbooks. He’d permitted me to use his image on the promotional materials, which, let’s face it, is pretty eye-catching for anyone in the market for baked goods.

  So it’s a good thing I know how to bake. And it’s a good thing I know how to use all the top-tier ingredients that Phillip was kind enough to donate; he couldn’t bear the thought of anyone selling cakes based on his recipes using basic supermarket ingredients. Bless his snooty British heart.

  Mom was livid when Chloe announced she was not coming home after meeting Phillip in England. Dad was taken aback but mostly okay with it, realizing he had no leg to stand on if he opposed the match, having built up Chloe’s confidence with the entire scheme. “I didn’t think it would work,” was one memorable line from the toast Dad gave at the state-side marriage reception. Now, anyone who looked askance at the age difference has come around because everyone can see how much he loves and takes care of Chloe. Her pregnancy, and Phillip’s willingness to fly family members back and forth to England anytime she needs them, has also softened everyone toward him, even if he is at times a bit prickly and difficult to read, except to Chloe, and to our mother. It might not be the most traditional mother-son-in-law relationship, with my mother being a year younger than Phillip, but he dotes on her almost as much as he does Chloe.

  Diana, my younger sister by a year, is here to help with the sale as part of her court-ordered community service, but she’s helped chiefly by eating the merchandise. I snatch a scone out of her hand. “What are you doing?” I hiss.

  “I’m hungry!” she defends through a mouthful of lemon poppyseed.

  “Then go inside and raid Mom’s fridge like you always do.”

  “Hurtful,” she says, with a playful smile on her lips.

  I roll my eyes. “Every bite you sneak is a dollar taken away from my kids. Kids you are supposed to be helping as part of your community service, remember?”

  “Your kids, huh? I don’t see any kids anywhere for me to help.”

  I cross my arms. “As soon as you stop damaging property, maybe grow up, become a judge, then you can decide what sort of community service is best for career criminals such as yourself.”

  “Career criminals don’t get sentenced to volunteer at snooty schools in the suburbs.”

  “Would you rather be picking up trash on the side of the highway? Because this is a pretty sweet gig. Any anyway, special-needs four-year-olds deserve playground time too.”

  Diana squints at me like I’m dim. “Of course they do. But why are we doing this here, at Mom and Dad’s house?”

  I sigh and explain it to her again. “Because Mom and Dad have a big yard. And this neighborhood is where the money is.”

  Diana arcs a brow at me and says, “Uh-huh,” as if she’s reading me silently.

  “And because Mom has a huge kitchen. So it’s more convenient.”

  “Right,” she says thoughtfully.

  “And it’s where I live. Because I can’t afford a place on my own on a teacher assistant salary.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And it’s close to Cherise’s culinary school, and she and her classmates donated the cupcakes.”

  “And?”

  “And what?!”

  “And it wouldn’t have anything to do with the proximity to the big wiener across the street.”

  I could blame my instant beet-red face on the morning ch
ill in the air, but there’s no point. Diana sees everything. And she loves to be in the know. Typical middle child.

  “God, you’re tactless! That’s not it at all!” I splutter.

  Diana gasps at my indignation. “You are so obvious! You’ve been obsessed since you were thirteen!” she stage-whispers.

  I set down the final pies fresh from the oven on the gingham tablecloth. “This whole crass subject could have been avoided if you hadn’t read my diary when we were kids.”

  Diana chuckles through a mouthful of peanut butter fudge. “This could have been even better avoided if I hadn’t set my ex’s car on fire. But to be fair, your crush on our Uncle Mike traumatized me into this life of crime.”

  “I hate you,” I chirp in a sing-song way that only sisters can say without hurting each other.

  “People always hate the truth-tellers,” Diana says.

  I roll my eyes. Diana might be the most Aries who ever Aries-ed. “If I give you some peanut butter fudge and sign your form for the judge, will you take it inside, stick it in your face hole and never say the words ‘Uncle Mike’ to me ever again?”

  Diana considers this. “Done.” She grabs the plate of fudge she’s been nibbling at for the last hour and goes inside. I love my sister, but she’s a handful. She’s always been the wildest, snarkiest, and at the center of most Williams family drama. You’d think that middle child would have gotten herself enough attention by now, but that well is bottomless.

  Once she’s gone, I look around me and wonder if Diana was right. Maybe I did set this whole thing up just to be closer to Michael. To maybe get a glimpse of him. Just like the way I did when I was in high school. In my senior year, I started going to city college twice a week. The downtown campus was just up the road from his condo, and I might have staked out where he would go running in the morning. I was so embarrassed when he’d spotted me.