Sweet and Salty (Marshall My Heart #1)

26. Chapter Twenty-Six

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

J esse

I’ve never babysat a cake before. It puts a definite crick in my neck, but listening to Laura sing along to show tunes in the driver’s seat makes it all worthwhile. She has a pretty, lilting voice, and she goes all in, even if she’s off key. I really like seeing her imperfections, and that she feels comfortable enough with me to show them.

Spending half an hour in an enclosed space with a gaudy four-tiered cake and a woman you almost—but might have if Sasha hadn’t walked in—kissed is a new form of torture for me. Laura in every form is appealing, whether she has on makeup or not, whether her hair is frizzy or curling over her shoulders like a model. She’s still dressed for work in her soft scrub pants and a loose short-sleeved T-shirt that adheres to her breasts in a way that I should not be staring at. The scent of sugar and chocolate clings to the inside of her car like a limpet to a shark.

We make it to the resort in decent time, despite her numerous half-whispered remarks about tourists clogging the roads. As far as I can see, there are only one or two extra cars around.

The resort is set against the lake which is, quite simply, beautiful. It’s different from Florida lakes, which have a flat expanse decorated with low swamp grass. Here flowers of every color bloom and the lake is a kaleidoscope of blues. The resort is a collection of sprawling timber buildings with dark green roofs and balconies with white and dark green Adirondack chairs waiting for tired butts ready to relax.

Laura parks around the back of the main building in a parking structure built underground “so they can heat it in the winter,” she tells me with an eye roll. That seems like a perfectly good reason to me, but Laura is a local. Maybe she likes freezing her pretty round buns off in the dead of winter.

I should not think about her frozen buns.

Once she parks, I help her load the cake—which has to weigh at least fifty pounds—onto a catering dolly, and we wheel it together into the reception hall, which is a round, barn-shaped building that’s been renovated into a convention center.

“Wow, this place is wild.” I pause in pushing the dolly to stare up at the giant tree growing in the middle of the hall. It’s blocked off with a glass hexagon, but you can still see the many-branched oak, decorated in fairy lights. The hall is divided into three sections to the east, west, and south of the entrance. Everything is wood-paneled and classy. Definitely Laird-Hunting-Castle-motif, apart from the black-and-white landscape photographs decorating the hallways.

A hand-painted signpost—which could also easily have been purchased from Etsy—stands near the front entrance. Each prong points to a different direction with cutesy phrases like The Flamboyance of Flamingos Cocktail Reception and The Pride Assembles for Dinner.

Talk about sticking to a theme. I respect it.

“It’s a lot, isn’t it?” Laura says, no love lost in her voice. She bends down and pushes the dolly toward the spot where there are hopefully no live lions.

“You don’t like it?” I’m not sure if I’m referring to the room or the theme. Both are equally overwhelming after my recent foray into Wisconsin monasticism.

“Fricking Drydens,” she grumbles. “This whole resort is their property, and they renovated it like this.” She brandishes a hand toward the general surroundings. “It’s ostentatious, is what it is.”

“Who are the Drydens? I’ve heard people talking about them.”

We reach the dining room, set with more circular tables than I’ve ever seen outside of the Golden Globes on TV. The tablecloths and bows on the chairs are all vivid shades of purple, and there are large bamboo stalks, colorful feathers, and wild, spiky flowers in the centerpieces. We push the cake to a separate, smaller table set with a white tablecloth and a small wooden sign reading In Love and Wildly Sweet. Safe to assume that’s the cake table.

Laura runs an arm over her forehead, wiping away the minimal sheen of sweat that’s gathered there. “Do you know how in some small towns there’s a feud or rivalry between some of the longtime families? One of those ones that have been raging for generations until everyone has kind of forgotten what it was about in the first place and it becomes more work to keep hating than just to get over it and smile at each other at the coffee shop?”

“Um, sure.” I start plucking cardboard pieces from the side of the cake, revealing it in all its glory. And wow. It’s definitely something. Four tiers, and nothing traditional about it besides the heady scents of sugar and vanilla.

“This is nothing at all like that.” Laura disassembles her side of the makeshift cake carton and stows it on the bottom tray of the catering trolley. “The Drydens suck. They’re rude and snobbish and flash their money all around town. They rig every single local competition. I mean, look at this place. They bought it from my grandparents, who had distant Potawatomi Nation roots, and they totally stiffed Mom’s family. Just because they could. Do they even have a perfunctory land acknowledgment? No, of course not. Don’t even get me started about how they never lift up anyone else unless it suits them. They persist in whitewashing the history of this county like everyone else, and worse than that, they own a pharmaceutical empire that definitely used to dump toxic waste on the mainland. They destroy our future and our past.”

Expending all that vitriol seems to invigorate her, bringing a flush to her freckled cheeks and making her eyes glow as green as emeralds. If I wanted to kiss her before, it’s nothing compared to the urge now.

The pieces of cardboard in my hands weigh down my arms. Quickly, I move them to the bottom tray of the catering trolley, trying to regain my composure. “Wow. I had no idea. They sound like assholes.”

“Exactly.” She huffs, the breath lifting a lock of hair away from her eyes. “Okay. This looks all right, doesn’t it? I mean, it’s what she wanted. Fingers crossed her wishes were accurate.” Laura takes out her phone, her diatribe apparently forgotten, and moves around the cake table, snapping various photos. “These will look great on Frosting Monkey. Unless I keep getting comments like ‘What the hell was she thinking?’ I admire Daisy for standing up and asking for what she wants.” She sighs and turns to me. “Are you okay on your own for a little while? I have to get some more stuff out of my car, change, and the ceremony starts in about forty-five minutes.”

“Sure.” I smile at her, a gesture that feels as natural as breathing. I’ll wait forever for her. “I’ll see you soon.”