Holiday Wedding (Holiday Romance-Spicy Version #2)

13

Sunday, December 15

9 days until the wedding

Jenny

You have to go cake tasting,” Caleb says. It’s late afternoon. He’s got Dean and me lined up, sitting next to each other on the sofa. It was hard to miss how Dean scooted away from me when I first sat down. He hasn’t said a word to me since our lunch with Eddie, and I haven’t spoken to him either. It’s the silent treatment, but I’m not sure which of us started it.

Caleb paces in front of us with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Cake tasting?” Dean repeats, sounding horrified, like he must have heard it wrong the first time.

“Cake tasting!” I repeat, clapping my hands, thrilled at the thought.

“That’s right,” says Caleb. “It’s that new bakery, the one opened by the guy who won the Great British Baking Show. What’s his name?”

I clasp my cheeks with both palms. “You don’t mean Atlas Poilane? The winner of the ninth season? Magnifique Bakery?” My eyes widen in awe. “I had a cupcake from there, and it was like a party in my mouth. So good!”

“Gwen said the same thing,” Caleb exclaims, stopping in front of me.

“Well, duh, because we got those cupcakes together.” I look between the two men. “We had to wait in line for over an hour to buy a single $10 cupcake. It was insane.”

“Ten dollars?” Dean’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Totally worth it,” I assure him. “It was almost as good as Alvina’s cookies.”

Now, even Dean appears impressed.

“I want to surprise Gwen with their wedding cake, but it’s so popular I would be recognized for sure and if I used my real name to book the appointment, I’m worried someone working there would tip off the press. Then everyone would know we’re getting married soon.” Caleb rips his fingers through his hair. “So I used a fake name. Janice and her husband were supposed to go, but they just called and they’re both sick. There’s no way I can reschedule this close to the wedding.”

“No problem,” I’m quick to say, raising my hand. “I volunteer as tribute. I can go. It’ll be a breeze to pick since I know what Gwen likes.”

“I wish it were that easy.” Caleb’s tugging on his hair again. “They only offer the appointment to couples. The bakery said they had too many times when the bride or groom came to the tasting alone and put in an order only to find that their partner disagreed with their choice once the cake was delivered. That’s why they have this couples only policy. You both have to go.”

“Oh.” I glance sideways at Dean. This is awkward.

“It’s fine,” says Dean with a businesslike nod.

Caleb’s stopped moving. He stands before us, reminding me of a school principal, ready to lecture errant children. “I don’t think you heard me. I said they only do tastings for couples.”

Dean finally looks my way. We share a confused glance, and then it hits me. “Oh! You want us to pretend we’re getting married?”

Caleb nods. “Exactly.”

“What?” asks Dean. “Are you joking? Is this a prank?” He looks around the sunlight-filled penthouse living room, with its floor-to-ceiling windows and 103-inch flat-screen TV like he expects Candid Camera men to jump out at any minute.

His reaction stings.

Would it really be so awful to be fake engaged to me?

“I’m serious,” Caleb answers. “I’m sorry it’s an imposition, but I need your help.”

“I don’t know,” says Dean, hesitating. “You’re the actor. Not us. What if they find out we’re lying?”

I turn to him and ask, “What’s the worst that could happen? They ban us from their shop.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, the seriousness of that consequence hits me. I don’t want to lose access to those cupcakes.

My voice pitches high as I ask Caleb, “That wouldn’t happen, right? They wouldn’t kick us out and tell us we could never go back?”

“Why do you sound so panicked?” asks Dean.

“You don’t understand how good they are.” I’m willing to do a lot of things for my friends, but giving up those cupcakes would push me to my limit.

“No one is going to take away your precious cake,” Caleb reassures me. “They’re not checking for a marriage license. Just act like you’re getting hitched. Pretend you’re in love.”

Dean and I exchange a doubt-filled glance, then look quickly away. A warm flush travels up my neck.

Caleb smiles his most charming smile and clasps his hands together with a drawn-out, “Please?”

That man is one heck of an actor. He’s got me convinced. Who am I kidding? He had me at “cake.”

Dean, on the other hand, is still doubtful. “Really?” he asks Caleb, who nods firmly.

“Okay.” Dean takes a deep breath, gathers himself, and asks me, “You ready for this?”

“Are you serious? I was born for this.” I spring to my feet and head toward the door.

We enter the elevator and stand side by side, facing forward. “Hey,” I say, biting the inside of my cheek. “I want to say I’m sorry about that incident with Eddie. I realize you were trying to do something nice for me and I responded by getting mad at you.”

I’d talked to Gwen on the phone about that lunch and the fight on the sidewalk. She’d pointed out how Dean was being his usual protective self. She said that’s what he does. Throws himself in front of any obstacles that might hurt someone else. In this case, the obstacle was Eddie, and Dean’s fake boyfriend act was his way of shielding me. By the time we hung up, I’d felt like a fool for getting so upset.

Dean lets out a breath. “It’s okay. I should be the one to apologize. Not everyone needs rescuing. Sometimes I forget that.”

I smile at him, a wide, relieved grin. “No worries. I like your ‘pour my drink on Eddie’ idea, though. Wish I’d thought of it myself.”

Dean’s lips twitch. “I’d like to see that,” he says as the elevator dings open on the first floor.

Twenty minutes later, we’re in the East Village. Dean and I skirt around the long line of people waiting to order at the bakery counter and head to the back where there’s a door with a bell and a sign that reads, “By Appointment Only.”

Dean pushes the button. A chime faintly rings somewhere. After a minute, a young woman wearing a flour-dusted apron comes out. She wipes her hands on a towel. “Mr. Jones?” she addresses Dean, who stares at her blankly. He doesn’t respond to the fake name Caleb used to book the appointment until I jab him with my elbow. Then he steps forward and hastily says, “That’s me.” They shake and Dean gestures my way. “This is my— er—fiancée, Jennifer.”

“Hi, I’m Laura.”

Her fingers are cool and slightly damp when I shake her hand. “So nice to meet you. I absolutely love your cupcakes,” I gush as we follow her into the back of the bakery. We pass through a bustling kitchen that smells like my version of heaven, sugary and sweet. I inhale, savoring it.

Laura opens a door and ushers us into a small room with a round table and two seats. There’s a pitcher of water on the table, along with cups, napkins, and forks.

“Please have a seat,” she instructs. “I’ll be right back with your cake samples.”

Dean takes off his suit jacket and carefully places it over the back of the chair, smoothing the shoulders, and sits. The chairs are a delicate metal, like ones you might find in a garden. I worry that Dean’s seat might collapse from that muscular body sitting on it. The room is painted a pale lavender. Framed pictures of elegantly frosted cakes hang on the walls.

The staff has decorated for Christmas. A picture of Santa eating cookies is centered over our table and a small ceramic Christmas tree with tiny lit-up ornaments is a centerpiece.

Dean’s on the opposite side of the table from me. I scoot toward him, loudly scraping my chair over the stained concrete floor, making a horrible noise. Dean winces and asks, “What’re you doing?”

“Getting closer to you,” I grunt. This chair is heavier than it appears. “They won’t believe we’re in love if we’re sitting far away from each other.”

Now I’m so close to him that our elbows touch. “We should probably hold hands.”

Dean’s eyes widen in alarm, his shoulders tensing. “Really? You think that’s necessary?”

I let out a peal of laughter. “No. I’m just messing with you.” I bump my shoulder into his, setting him swaying.

He relaxes. “I thought you were serious,” he says with a hesitant smile.

“Nope.” I lean an elbow on the table. “It might be fun pretending, though. We can make up personas for ourselves. Speak in fake accents. Create cutesy pet names for each other. Stuff like that.”

“Pet names?” he asks with a bemused twitch of his lips.

“What shall I call you? Let’s see.” I roam my gaze over him, taking in his thick dark hair, warm eyes, and broad shoulders. “Snookums? Honey bunch? Hot lips?”

“Hot lips?” Dean interjects with a laugh, the nice one, rich and deep. It echoes around the room.

Maybe I shouldn’t have said that because now I’m looking at his lips, which are full and rather kissable. Wait. This is Dean I’m thinking about.

I don’t want to kiss him.

Do I?

We hate each other.

Right?

I break off my internal monologue to find Dean staring at me. “What about you?” I ask to distract myself. “What name would you give me?”

“Sweetheart,” he answers immediately, like he doesn’t have to think about it. That’s the second time he’s said that word to me.

A warm feeling I don’t want to identify washes over me. I tease, “Aww. Is that because I’m so sweet?”

“No. It’s because you like to eat sweet things.” He points to a picture on the wall. “Like cake and your secret stash of purse candy.”

I gasp, shocked someone knows about that. I thought I’d done such a good job of hiding it.

“I can’t figure you out,” he continues, eyeing me shrewdly. “You work out every day. Those bizarre exercise routines Gwen’s always complaining about—goat yoga, boot camps, aqua aerobics—and yet you stash candy in your purse, your pockets, your glove compartment. I once saw you take it out of your sock.”

“It’s because of the candy that I have to work out.” My cheeks heat with embarrassment. “When did you see me get it out of my sock, anyway? I didn’t think you noticed anything I do.”

“I’m always paying attention to y—”

We’re interrupted by Laura, who walks in bearing a platter with tiny cups filled with cake and frosting. I’m instantly salivating.

“Here we are,” she sings out, placing it on the table between us. “We’ve got cake on this side—vanilla, chocolate, yellow, and pink champagne.” She points to each one. “On this other side are the frostings—vanilla, chocolate, raspberry, and our seasonal flavor for Christmas, eggnog buttercream. You can mix and match them however you like.”

I’m already picking up my fork when she says, “I’ll leave you to it. Come on out if you have questions. I’ll check back later.”

Dean says a polite “thanks,” as she leaves.

I swirl raspberry frosting on my spoon and scoop up a bit of vanilla cake, then pop the mixture into my mouth. It’s so delicious that I close my eyes and let out a soft moan. When I open my eyes, Dean is staring at me with rapt fascination.

“Is it—” He clears his throat. “Is it good?”

“Good? It’s divine!” I nod to his fork, laying unused on the table. “What are you waiting for? Dig in.”

“I thought I’d let you pick the flavor.”

I drop my hand and blink at him, uncomprehending. “Why? This cake is one of the best things I’ve ever eaten. You have to try.” When he still doesn’t reach for his fork, I cry out, frustrated, “Come on! Live a little.”

His movements controlled, Dean carefully rolls back the sleeves of his pristine white dress shirt. I stop chewing, distracted by his corded forearms, which have enough muscle to crack a walnut in the crook of his elbow. Once that’s done, he reluctantly reaches for the fork and picks up a bite of yellow cake mixed with eggnog buttercream frosting. When he places it in his mouth, Dean lets out a quiet, “Yum.”

“See?” I take a bite. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

His eyes are bright with pleasure as he chews. “It’s phenomenal.”

“Here,” I say, holding out my cake-laden fork, “try the pink champagne with the vanilla frosting.”

Dean freezes, staring at me. I hold the fork higher, offering it to him. Slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, he leans forward and gently takes the cake between his teeth. His breath, warm and soft, brushes against my knuckles before he pulls back.

Butterflies swoop low in my stomach, fluttering their wings before I crush them. Stop it, I tell myself. This is Dean. We don’t like him, remember?

I’m suddenly absorbed by the way his jaw moves as he chews, the way his throat works when he swallows, and the shallow way he’s breathing, stuck in this tiny room with me. He catches me watching and stills. Brown eyes unblinking, he stares back with that intense gaze of his. There’s a hint of apprehension in his expression, mixed with something intense. Tension builds, a string pulling taut that snaps when he looks away.

He clears his throat, then changes the subject. “Any updates on the wedding planning?”

Bolder now, Dean grabs a large scoop of vanilla cake with vanilla frosting.

I mix chocolate and raspberry. “The wedding?” I lick frosting off the back of my fork. Dean tracks the motion, and my cheeks burn. “Um—” I stammer, suddenly self-conscious. “I went over the to-do list with Gwen on the phone this morning. She still feels guilty for leaving.”

“She shouldn’t.”

“I agree, but you know Gwen. She’s not the best at asking for help. I told her we’ve got it covered. The only big thing left is the final fittings for the tuxes and my bridesmaid dress. We will go on Thursday for that. I assume you’ll be there too? Getting your tuxedo altered?”

Dean nods confirmation.

“We have most of the preparations done.” I drop my hands into my lap and blow out an audible breath. “Weddings are a lot of work. All this effort for an event that’s going to last less than six hours.”

Dean chews slowly, leaned back in his chair. He swallows. “Do you think it’s not worth it?”

“Are you kidding me? For Gwen, it’s definitely worth it. We’ve been planning imaginary marriages to our Prince Charmings since we were pre-teens. I’d do anything to give her the wedding of her dreams. She deserves it more than anyone.”

Brown eyes with rings of gold observe me intently. “You really love her, don’t you?”

“She’s my sister from another mister.” I try to say it lightheartedly, but there’s a pang from deep inside because it’s the truth.

A beat of silence, then he says, “I owe you an apology.”

I sit up with a start. “Apology?” I repeat dumbly.

He shifts, the metal of his chair creaking alarmingly. Dean casts his gaze upward, at the ceiling, and says, “It was hard, watching Caleb fall apart when he lost Gwen, dragging him out of bars, tucking him into bed when he passed out. I know there’s no one to blame but him. It was his decisions, his choices, but it’s hard to be angry at someone who’s already suffering so much.” He visibly swallows, his voice dropping lower by an octave. “I needed to point the finger at someone, and I directed it at you. Maybe that was unfair.” His eyes drift back up to meet mine. “I’m sorry.”

Something inside me lightens. Dean’s not looking at me like a person he hates right now. Instead, he watches me warily, like he’s worried I might not like him.

Before I can respond, Laura pokes her head into the room. She says, “Just checking on you lovebirds. Do you need anything?”

I smile sweetly at Dean. “What do you think, Boo Bear? Need anything?”

His gaze narrows as my grin grows wider. Then he smirks and says, “No, Sweetheart. I’ve got everything I need.”

Sweetheart.

“Okey-doke,” Laura says cheerfully. “I’ve got to grab a cake out of the oven and then I’ll be back to get your selection.”

Once she’s gone, Dean growls, “Boo Bear, really, Jennifer?”

I send him a mischievous wink. “I thought it suited you because you’re big, like a bear.” I grow serious, crossing my arms on the table. “We both get an honest say in which cake we like without influencing each other. I think we should speak our favorite out loud on the count of three.”

Dean nods sagely. “Good idea. One…two…three.”

Together, we both yell out, “chocolate with eggnog.” We stare at each other in open-mouthed shock.

“Really?” My voice is small. “We want the same one?”

“We do.” Dean smiles at me, amusement dancing in his expression. He moves into my personal space. “You have a bit of frosting…” His rough thumb comes out to gently swipe across my lower lip, skin dragging on skin, and I forget to breathe. I let out a soft exhale, not breaking eye contact. Dean’s pupils dilate. At the same time, we both lean forward, closing the distance between us.

It’s not until she speaks that I realize Laura has reentered the room. We jump back from each other when she calls out a cheerful, “What did you decide?”

“Chocolate,” I say.

“With eggnog,” Dean adds.