Cake Walk Read online

  And when he handed me that huge check at my high school graduation party, I chickened out. I was eighteen, had pined for him for five years. I looked at the amount and realized just how powerful this man was, just how out of my league. Sure, we live in a fancy gated neighborhood, but we’re far from wealthy. My parents needed a big house for us five girls and jumped on a bank-owned Fox Chase house during the mortgage crisis. They got the house for a song and have worked hard to fix it up. We and others like us who bought the houses here for cheap have never quite fit into this neighborhood. This is why Daddy convinced Michael to move here, so he’d have someone to golf with now that he was nearing retirement from his house-flipping business.

  Ugh. Why am I torturing myself?

  Diana has been having fun with one boyfriend after another for years. I’ll bet she lost her virginity at 15, with as much as she sneaked out of the house. I don’t see anything wrong with that. Maybe she had the right idea.

  Maybe I’m pathetic, carrying a torch for someone almost as old as our father. Perhaps I’m sick.

  Is that why I dressed like this?

  I check the time on my phone, 7:59 a.m. My motive doesn’t matter now: time to sell some cakes. “All right, folks. I’m ready for you. Come and get it!”

  Behind me, a deep, male voice sears the skin on the back of my neck and makes my inner thighs gush with sweat.

  “How much for the cherry?”

  Wide-eyed, I whirl around and come face to chest with Michael Brennan. Face to bare chest. Oh no. Oh my. This isn’t happening.

  There he is, my dad’s best friend, bare of chest, wearing blue plaid flannel pajama bottoms, and looking mussed and sleepy and sexy as hell.

  “Hi, Cara.”

  I’m not prepared for him, nor am I prepared for the way he says my name. Like The Witcher just woke up with a croaky morning voice and wants me to join him in the bath. Uh, yes, please. All you need to do is ask. A wrinkle from the bedsheets still marks him across his shoulder, slashing down across his sternum. Wild images invade my stupid horny skull, involving Michael asleep, tangled up naked in sheets.

  “Hi. Hi…”

  “Michael.”

  “I know,” I laugh, slapping myself on the forehead. “Of course I know you.”

  My cheeks heat at the intensity of the way he’s looking at me while his Adam’s apple bobs.

  “I haven’t seen you since your high school graduation party.”

  I nod dumbly. Don’t comment on his shirtlessness. Don’t do it. “You had on more clothes then, as I recall,” I say, actually dipping my forehead to gesture at one small erect man nipple. It’s surrounded by soft salt and pepper fuzz that I would love to cuddle up to. Or grab tight to while I climb the man like a tree and grind on him.

  It’s not as if I have any room to criticize his man nipples. I, for one, should probably go inside and fetch a cardigan to cover up what my own nipples are doing right now, and not just because of the morning chill in the air that seems to hang on.

  Oh god, what is he doing to me? If he only knew the thoughts I was having about that chest, those lips, that slight scruff of beard.

  This man has no idea—none—how much he’s appeared in my fantasies over the years. So much so that I’ve never entertained the thought of anyone else. It’s preposterous, holding out for a man twice my age. But then, Chloe gives me hope. No fantasy is too ridiculous for the Williams girls. Some might say we like our men unattainable. I would say we have big dreams.

  One of those big dreams is threatening to push its way out the fly of his pajama pants.

  Don’t look at the tent. Don’t look at it. Don’t you dare.

  “Nice tent,” he says.

  “What?” I say, horrified, and my eyes do the thing they’re not supposed to do. They look down. My eyes can’t look away from the morning wood.

  His slightly bloodshot eyes are still as gorgeous as ever with those delicate crow’s feet that smile down at me. Michael gestures toward the cashier station next to me. He meant the awning tent. Not the…other kind.

  “Oh,” I say, laughing. “Yeah. I went a little bit overboard, but it’s all for the kids.”

  “How much for the cherry pie?”

  “Five dollars each.”

  He looks incredulous. “That’s it?”

  I give an exaggerated wave of my arm like the woman on The Price is Right. “Well, they’re small and portable. You can take them right back to your house. Where the clothes are, I presume.”

  He blinks at me.

  I stammer, “A-and we have a fine selection of layer cakes as well.”

  “l guess I’m pretty hungry. I’ll try some cake,” he says. He’s looking at me so strangely, like he wants to say something, but he’s holding back.

  I stammer. “I can’t cut you a slice of cake unless you buy the entire cake.”

  “Fine. I’ll take all of them.”

  “Mr. Brennan?” I look up at him, blocking the sun from my eyes. Politely, he steps sideways to block the glare for me.

  “How old are you, Cara?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “I think you can call me Michael now,” he says.

  I shake my head at my silly self. “Of course. Force of habit.” What I don’t say is that force of habit has nothing to do with my good manners and everything to do with shouting “Mr. Brennan!” every time I come when using my vibrator. And not just shout his name. I named my vibrator Mr. Brennan. I know. I know!

  “Now, Michael, what is it that I can get for you?”

  “All of them. Everything. How much for the entire inventory?”

  I bluster, “What? Why?”

  Ever the businessman, he peers down at me. “You drive a hard bargain. I’ll pay twice the asking price.”

  I shift my weight nervously. “This…this isn’t an auction, Mr. Brennan…Michael. I don’t think you understand….”

  He sighs. “Fine. Triple. For every cake you got.”

  I can’t believe he’s doing this. “That’s not your wallet in those pajama pockets, is it?”

  Don’t look down, Cara. You’ve seen that bulge before that time your family went out on Michael’s boat.

  “Fine. But I have dibs. I’ll be right back.”

  He leaves, and I expect Michael to come back fully dressed. I exhale in relief that I don’t have to face all that bare skin again, or all that lovely fuzz, or his dick’s outline. I mean, really. How dare he?

  A sweet older woman approaches the checkout station with a fistful of tens. “I’ll take the carrot cake, dear.”

  I stutter, “Ah, well…you see….”

  She furrows her brow. “What’s the problem, honey? Just the cake, that’s all.”

  I glance over at the nine-inch round layer cake decorated with chopped walnuts on the sides and orange carrot shapes frosted in a circle like a crown around the top.

  Looking over at Michael’s house, I begin to doubt he’s coming back. He’s probably toying with me. Maybe he’s known all along about my childish crush, and he’s messing around now. Taunting me with his money, reminding me how out of my league he is.

  “Of course,” I say to the grandmotherly woman, taking her cash and placing it in the cash box. I set about boxing up her cake, and then I text Diana to come outside and help carry the cake to the woman’s car.

  “Thank you, dear. This cake looks lovely,” she says. “You’ve done a tremendous amount of work.”

  I shrug and smile. “It’s all about the kids.”

  Diana comes outside at the exact moment I see Michael’s door opening. I hurriedly give her instructions and tell her to follow the woman to her car.

  Diana does as she’s told—thank god—but gives me the stink eye. “Alright, I’m going. Calm your panties.”

  I roll my eyes. “So gross.”

  She wags her head and follows the woman down the street, just as Michael reappears. Still shirtless. Still in those godforsaken flannel plaid pajama pants.

&nb
sp; Diana swivels her head around from Michael’s direction back to me and mouths, “Oh my god!”

  I purse my lips and wave my arms wildly for her to keep moving. And hopefully, disappear forever into the ether. Maybe then I’ll have some peace.

  Michael’s not just got a wallet in hand, but his open checkbook.

  “I see you couldn’t wait for me.” He winks, readying his pen. “Coulda got triple the asking price. Now, how much for everything here?”

  I shake my head in amazement. He’s not messing around. I think he’s unaware of the effect his half-naked body has on me. I swallow, my throat still dry as a bone.

  “If I sold all of this? Probably around eight hundred dollars. Including all the cookies and cupcakes, too.”

  He stills his pen in mid air and stares down at me. “What did you say this was for?”

  “I didn’t,” I say. “But it’s for a new pre-K playground. Special needs pre-K, to be exact.”

  “So you need a lot more than eight hundred.”

  I stammer. “W-well, yes. I have three more fundraisers planned for this year, and hopefully, we’ll—”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. Here.”

  He scribbles out an amount and tears off the check. When he hands it to me, I goggle at the amount. It’s five figures.

  “This is too much.”

  “On the contrary. Have your sisters, or whoever is around, deliver everything to my house. I’ll be in the shower.”

  I find my boldness, and I ask, “Why are you doing this?”

  As he walks away, he shouts over his shoulder, “Because I can’t let people give you money in the street. It’s HOA rules, not mine. I’m just protecting you from trouble. Everyone here can go home!” he shouts.

  People are grumbling and starting to ask questions, pressing me to let them pay for their cakes and cookies they’ve been browsing.

  I turn back to the crowd and tell them, “I’m so sorry folks. Mr. Brennan over there just bought me out. Thank you for coming, and I’m sorry.”

  By the sound of protest, you’d think I’d just told them all they were banned from buying cake ever again, for life.

  Michael has created more trouble for me by showing off with his money.

  And he’s gonna get it.

  Chapter Three

  Michael

  * * *

  I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.

  All the cake zombies who were lined up down the street are now lined up down my front walk.

  What the hell did I do?

  Cara sees me peeking through the blinds, and she’s standing there with one hand on her jutted-out hip, looking slightly sassy and amused.

  I’ve known this girl since she was a baby—when Bill, Corrina, and I started college together. Bill’s second-oldest daughter hasn’t lived with Bill and Corrina since she went off to college herself. Now, she’s back home, and I’m going get us both in trouble.

  The universe is playing some sick joke on me as punishment for not putting myself out there in the dating world. I was engaged once upon a time, and after that disaster, I’ve only had more disasters because of…some particular needs.

  And now, my self-imposed drought is causing me to look at someone I know in a very different light, and that’s not fair to her.

  It’s my fault for not keeping closer tabs on these girls. If I’d socialized more, paid more attention to my friends, I wouldn’t be lusting after a woman half my age.

  Against all my judgment, I open the door. They might as well have pitchforks and torches, the way they’re looking at me. “How can I help you folks?”

  “We wanted to buy those cakes.”

  Diana pushes past them with a rolling cart full of pastry boxes.

  The man at the front of the line says, “We heard Phillip Wildwood himself donated these cakes.” The name rings a bell, and then I realize that’s the famous British baker who married Bill’s oldest daughter last year. I recall having my assistant pick out a gift from the registry and ship it. The thank you card with the wedding photo is on my fridge. Perfect exchange of pleasantries for me. I didn’t have to attend a wedding, and they got a set of high thread-count sheets.

  “How badly do you want ‘em?” I ask the man as Diana wheels the cakes into my kitchen and begins unloading. Cara follows behind her with another cart packed full of cake boxes.

  “What?”

  “How much will you pay for one of those cakes?” I ask the man at the head of the crowd.

  “What are you going to do, price gouge us?” he asks.

  “No, but you came here to buy cakes. Anything you want to pay me to get a cake, I’ll donate back to the school.”

  And that’s how I spent the rest of my Saturday morning: selling cakes out of my damn house in my pajama pants.

  This is a punishment from the universe for lusting after my best friend’s 23-year-old daughter.

  Chapter Four

  Cara

  * * *

  At first, it’s amusing, what he’s doing.

  And then he hands me the second check of the morning.

  The crowd has gone, Diana had helped me deliver all the cakes and has hightailed it back to the house. It seems he has sold every last cake back to the shoppers. I’m standing in Michael’s doorway, half in and half out, watching him move around the kitchen. How can a person be so calm after dropping so much money on a whim?

  “This is insane. You already paid for everything and more,” I say, shaking the check at him.

  He pours himself a cup of coffee and offers me one. I shake my head.

  “Yeah, but it didn’t quite go as planned. The only way I could make those people go away was to let them buy the damn cakes. I couldn’t very well profit off my little scheme, now, could I?”

  The light in his eye lights a fire below my waist. I lick my lips.

  I check the amount on the check. “Wait a minute; this is thirty dollars less than the first check. Not that I’m complaining, but….”

  “I kept one for myself.”

  Curious, I ask, “Which one?”

  “It reminded me of you.”

  I look, and on the kitchen table is the lemon blueberry layer cake. “The one with the yellow sugar daisies all over it.”

  Smiling at him, I open my mouth to speak, but the words don’t come.

  “I think we’re done here. Tell Bill and Corrina to come on over for cake later when they get home.”

  I bite my lip. “Mom and Dad are in Barbados for their 25th anniversary. Hence why they didn’t mind me using their yard for the sale.”

  He eyes me. “Barbados, huh?” He looks a little strange, a little sad. “Imagine being 46 and celebrating 25 years of marriage.”

  I nod. “They’re my parents, so, yes, I can imagine.”

  We share an awkward silence, and I’m not sure where to look. His stomach growls, and I have an urge to putter around his kitchen and fix him an omelet. Finally, he says, “So I’m sure you’ve got things to do. School papers to grade and such.”

  I laugh. “We don’t grade papers in pre-K.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m sure you have things to do. Like, put tables away.”

  “Diana can do it,” I say with a smirk. “Community service.”

  “Do I wanna know?”

  I laugh and shake my head.

  “She might need you to supervise.”

  “Mr. B, Michael, I’m not her parole officer. She’s a big girl. Like me.”

  Michael’s jaw ticks. “Well…it was good seeing you again, Cara.”

  He seems as if he’s trying to get me to walk out this door. If he’s so worried about being alone with me, he should put on a shirt.

  “Let me thank you properly.” I take a step toward him. His eyes go wide, and he backs away from me.

  “You have to go. You don’t need to thank me.”

  “Why don’t you let me cook you breakfast.”

  He dabs the corner of his eye, strangely.

 
“Because it would be wrong.”

  “Wrong?”

  “Wrong, unseemly. For me to have you in my house by yourself.” He backs up again, now gripping the edge of the countertop. His knuckles are as white as the marble.

  “Nonsense, I’ve been alone with you lots of times.”

  “Not since you grew up into—” He blinks, darting his eyes around the room aimlessly.

  “Into what?” What in the world could he mean? Surely he doesn’t mean… That would be too good to be true. I’ve dreamt about it, hoped for it. Sure, I’m here offering to cook breakfast, my heart pleading for any excuse to be close to him. But I never thought that he would reciprocate my feelings.

  Finally, he pushes off the countertop and points at me. The look on his face is so severe, I flinch. “Into twelve different kinds of mind-blowing sex in a sundress.”

  I gasp and blurt before I can correct myself. “Mr. Brennan.”

  He takes a step toward me, and slowly I begin backing toward the door. My mind tells me to turn and run, but my body says stay.

  “I’m sorry,” he says softly, holding up his palms in apology. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  I shake my head and whisper, “I’m not scared. I think we need to unpack what you just said.”

  He closes in another step, and now my back faces the street, the door still open, thanks to Diana wheeling the carts away without stopping to close the door.

  “I shouldn’t have said that.” He towers over me in the open doorway, his shoulders level with my nose. I can smell his masculine scent. Move one inch, and I’d be burying my face in that expanse of silky chest hair. I swallow hard. It’s time to tell him the truth.

  “I think you needed to say that,” I say. “Just like I need to say some things.”

  My eyes drift upward to meet his big, soulful green eyes, his fierce expression that communicates both fear and something like desperation.