No Weddings (4 page)

From somewhere further inside, a metal clap and a ringing sounded out. I followed the noise to the back, into a kitchen sizable enough to accommodate an army of pastry chefs. The lone occupant, however, stood with her back to me, surrounded by hundreds of colorful cupcakes and a few multi-level cakes. The sound came from a metal bowl that spun to a stop a few feet from her, mere inches from a cake half-covered in icing.

Her shoulders slumped in relief.

A ruffled apron had twisted on her body; the bottom sat crooked on her hips. Dried remnants of various frosting colors dotted the tanned skin on her arms, making her look like she’d broken out in rainbow chicken pox. She wore shorts short enough that I could see toned thighs beneath her apron skirt.

A quick glance at my watch: 7:03 a.m.

Oblivious to my presence, she bent over, focused on icing a different cake, armed with some weapon of pastry, a plastic bag with a gleaming metal tip on the end. I kept silent, unwilling to interrupt her flow. Curves in motion reminded me of what I’d admired during the grand opening of Loading Zone, yet the image of the woman in front of me was day and night to the one I remembered.

The master craftsman standing before me proceeded to coat her creation in what looked like shining green scales, each one laid perfectly upon the last. Her speed with the icing tube was such that I barely saw her movements before the entire surface had been coated.

She straightened and eyed her work from several angles before nodding once. She discarded the bag, then pulled off a plastic lid from a glass bowl and picked up a small spatula. After she dipped it down and scraped up, the tip was coated in pink frosting.

I watched, amused that her determined focus made her completely unaware she was late. Another time check: 7:07 a.m.

From my position leaning against the edge of a stainless steel counter covered in rows of cupcakes, I cleared my throat.

She jumped. Pink frosting flew out in an arc as she whirled around, splattering onto everything in its path, including me.

“Whoa! Easy, Maestro.” It was an apt nickname, the way she orchestrated creations with the flick of her pastry wand. I dragged my finger along my forearm, scraping frosting off, and then stuck it in my mouth, licking the sweetness while I stared at her.

She dropped her frosting weapon and fully faced me, wiping green-stained hands on her apron. “Oh! Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I…I forgot the time.”

Striking greenish-hazel eyes stared back at me, flecks of gold sparking in the bright light. Her cute face had smudged flour on one cheek, her chin, and a long smear across her forehead. Long dark brown hair had been clipped up, but some pieces had fallen loose, brushing her cheeks.

A purple V-neck tee clung to the top of her breasts before the apron hid the very interesting curves from sight.

But out of sight meant on my mind…

Her brow furrowed. “Wait. Are you here about our meeting? Where’s Kristen?” Her expression hardened further into something resembling annoyance.

“Yeah, sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you or intrude into your private space. I knocked and tried to get your attention, but you didn’t hear me. Kristen had an emergency. I’m here to present the proposal.”

With a cautious expression, she held out her hand. “I’m Hannah.”

My memory flashed to the hand I’d offered and she’d rejected six months ago. Regardless, I shook hers, surprised by her strong grip as it held mine for a brief second. “We’ve met once. I’m Cade.”

Her eyes narrowed for a split second as she released my hand. “Oh, yeah. I remember. The player, Drink List Guy.” She turned away and proceeded to use the insides of her outstretched forearms to scoot her cupcakes away from the edges of the counters.

“Player?” Well that answered a question about the ice-queen treatment six months ago.

“Kiki shared your exploits. You sounded like a player to me.”

I closed my hand to find it sticky. I flipped it over. Green icing coated my skin. I rubbed my palm clean on my thigh. If the color didn’t wash out of my jeans, I’d deal.

By the time she turned around, her “cute and disheveled” vibe disappeared behind a calm, collected demeanor. I smirked. There was a touch of the Ice Queen Hannah I remembered.

I still had to take a deep breath, though. The girl in close proximity to me was beautiful and sensual, even with her false demeanor. I decided it was all a front, because her true identity was the one I’d caught unaware while she lost herself in her craft.

With quick fingers, she untied the apron, pulled it over her head, then tossed it onto a wheeled chair in the corner by a desk. “Let’s go up front so we can sit down.”

I nodded and walked to the front area of her store. She passed me, heading toward two chairs stacked upside down on a table. I went beside her and grabbed one as she pulled down the other, righted it, and took a seat.

She regarded me casually, as if she had all the time in the world. An eager potential business partner would show more interest, but I got the impression nothing Hannah did would reveal what lay hidden beneath her now-shellacked expression.

I glanced at her bare forearm that was splattered in frosting, thinking if she had a mirror, she might be less confident about her chances of winning a business negotiation. When I met her gaze, however, her calmness left me uncertain. She looked like she could wrestle an alligator and win.

I almost smiled, but forced a hard expression. Her distracting appearance aside, I focused on the task at hand. Two could play hardball, and I’d been trained by the best.

“As I’m sure Kristen explained, we’ve formed an event-planning and hosting company. We need a supplier for cakes, and you come highly recommended by Kiki.”

Her head tilted, her expression shifting from cold to curious as her gaze searched mine. “Only by Kiki? Didn’t you taste the cake I made for your club’s opening? What did you think?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, it was good.” Fucking amazing, actually. But I wasn’t about to tell her that. This was a negotiation.

“Good?” Amusement flashed in her eyes. She glanced out the window, getting a faraway look as a smirk played at the corners of her lips.

Then she shifted back in her seat and regarded me.

And I took a good hard look at her as well. She was nothing like the Hannah Martin I’d expected before I walked into her kitchen. I grew more fascinated by the second with the hard-edged woman across the small tabletop from me. And although she was interested in the business portion of this meeting, instinct told me she was curious about what lay under my outer shell as well.

Well, good luck with that one.

“Since Kristen was supposed to be here, I don’t have one of the subcontractor agreements with me, but I’ll email it to you later today. Essentially, we need someone as the sole supplier of our events. We’re demanding no less than three weeks’ notice from our clients, so that’s the possible amount of lead time you’ll receive as well. At the time of booking, we can ask them if they have a cake preference, but ultimately, most will have no say, as we’re trying to keep control of the creative details once they pick a theme.”

A spark of interest showed in her eyes. “I’d have total creative control?”

I gave her a nod. “Unless they make a specific demand when they book.”

She drummed her fingers on the table. Her nails were perfectly manicured but short and free of any polish. “How many parties are you doing a month?”

“We figure it will be a couple of parties a month to begin with. Our preferred themes center on holidays, but we’ll still do the occasional charity event or special occasion.”

“What are you paying?”

Those greenish eyes held mine, and I think she stopped breathing. Although I could’ve drawn out the suspense, I wasn’t a masochist. Still, I found it oddly reassuring to see the fracture in Little Miss Calm, Cool, and Collected. Maybe Kiki had been right—Hannah was
possibly
not an Ice Queen after all. But one had to look past the glacial exterior she tried valiantly to maintain.

I leaned forward, holding her gaze. At closer range, I became consciously aware of her scent. Not one hint of over-drenched, alcohol-based perfume. Instead, a slight sweetness drifted up, different than all the cake makings in her kitchen—something floral.

“We’ll pay whatever it costs.” I held my tone soft but firm. She hadn’t known until now that we weren’t negotiating price here. Only her availability. Her commitment.

“Whatever I
charge
?” she clarified. Smart girl.

“Within reason, of course. Decide what your time is worth per hour. Make works of art, and you can charge accordingly. Heavy-hitting names in social circles, both here and from Manhattan, will attend these events.”

She blinked. Her gaze fell to the surface of the table, her eyes scanning back and forth in thought. “What’s the catch?”

I leaned back with a nod. “You can’t ever say no. We need to rely on you without exception. You’ll be required not only to create the cake, often solely from your imagination, but it also must be
the perfect
one-of-a-kind cake. You’ll be expected to deliver to the function, no matter where it’s held, which may be here in the Philly metro area, at a location in Manhattan, or possibly anywhere in between. We’ll expect you to remain at the function, serving to the guests when the time comes, and then packaging and disposing of the cake when the party’s over.”

Sitting now on the edge of her seat, she listened to the list of requirements my sisters and I had created over the last week in a volley of back-and-forth emails. I’d taken no notes then. Hannah took no notes now.

“Is that all?” Her eyes gleamed, even though her tone was smartassed; it was a lot to ask of a baker. But at the same time, when she had the ability to name her price, details became inconsequential.

“No. One last demand. You can’t create or cater cakes for any other event-planning company. We’ll have your exclusivity during our business relationship and for two years after termination. A noncompete clause is built into the contract.”

That rule was mine from the email volley. We weren’t creating a business that everyone would crave to be a part of, only to have some copycat edge in as competition. Our suppliers needed to be exclusive. In exchange, they would be a part of something unique and amazing.

“What if one of your guests wants a cake for a birthday party?”

“If the client only wants a cake, and they call you direct, then it’s acceptable. But no other party-planning company can hire your services.”

She sat back then and looked out the window on to the empty street. We asked a lot. I was about to reveal something else that would likely make her balk. My instincts told me I could convince her to sign with us, but truly, when one didn’t know the deeper motivations of the person you bargained with, anything could happen.

“There’s one other thing.” I waited until she pulled her attention back into the room.

She glanced at me but remained silent.

“We won’t be doing any weddings. With you as our exclusive baker, you can’t either.”

Her eyes narrowed, as if I’d suddenly become the mean kid in the sandbox who’d yanked her favorite toy from her grasp. A loud foot tap began from beneath the table.

I’d dealt my final card then remained silent, stoic.
In the art of business war, he who speaks first, loses.

“Why?” She leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest.

I kept my gaze locked to hers, unaffected by her coolness, sensing her interest.

I shrugged. “Not your concern at this point. It’s the way we’ve decided to run things.”

She scowled. “It
is
my concern. What you’re suggesting isn’t equitable and may be contractually illegal. If you want me to buy into such a harsh restriction, you need to give me a really good reason.”

“It will be equitable and legal if we come to fair terms we both agree to. There are sound reasons from our company’s standpoint, but the only one you need to be concerned with is that it exposes Invitation Only to too much risk.”

Her eyes narrowed again for a split second. “Being exclusive to your company is one thing. The weddings I’ll have to think about. And if I agree, the price will be steep for that kind of sacrifice.”

“I’d expect so.”

“I’ll want to review my contract for a few days before making a decision.”

My respect for her heightened as she played her hand with caution, but she’d said “my” contract. The possessive meant she already pictured herself in the role.
Perfect.

“The contract I’ll email gives you until 5:00 p.m. Monday.” I leaned back. “I have one more stipulation.”

An incredulous laugh burst from her. “Really? How many ‘one mores’ will there be?”

I smirked. “Just this one ‘one more.’”

She arched a brow, waiting. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“I need to taste test your current product.” I didn’t, really. But something about this paradox of a girl made me want to stay a little longer than necessary.

Humor gleamed in her eyes. She shook her head and finally gave into the smile threatening to break free. And just like that, her tough exterior melted to reveal a much warmer side beneath all the “prim and proper” of the former Ice Queen. Apparently, I’d been granted exclusive access behind the curtain in Oz.

She stood and nodded. “You can taste to your heart’s content.”

I followed her back to the kitchen, becoming increasingly aware that Hannah—Off-Limits Hannah—had some very appealing curves. The loose cotton shorts and shirt she wore clung to her body in an understated way, hiding nothing of the beauty beneath.

Gritting my teeth at my ogling her body in those uncontrolled seconds, I forced my attention onto stainless steel appliances and colorful rows of frosted cupcakes.

“Forgive my mess. I get out of control when I bake.” She laughed, but this time, it was different, more relaxed. The action lit up her whole face.

Banishing all thoughts of Hannah’s physical appearance, I glanced around at the product of what looked to be days and days of baking. “What’s all this for?”