cake ready in time with all I have to do?”
“I can do it.” Was that me who spoke?
They both turned my way. Yep, it was. Hell, I had surprised myself. But seeing Delilah frantic and in need of help that I could provide had kick-started a surge of adrenaline that I’d once only felt on the ice. Here was a challenge I could sink into, something I could do that was worthwhile—useful.
Saint immediately adopted a “Now I gotta deal with this fucking guy” expression. “That’s nice of you—”
“He’s not kidding,” came Emma’s voice at my elbow. I nearly jumped. The woman moved on cat feet.
Now that I noticed her, all other thoughts scattered. I couldn’t concentrate past the warm edge of her arm brushing mine. It was hard enough to look at her without illicit thoughts flickering through my brain. What would she do if I leaned in and licked her?
“I’m serious,” she said, breaking into my haze. “His pastries are the best I’ve ever tasted.”
A flush of pride washed up my neck and over my face. At some point, hers had become the opinion I valued the most.
Delilah’s brows lifted. “Seriously?”
I could do this. I wanted to do this.
“Well, I don’t know about the best ever,” I said. “But I do know how to make a cake. I promise I wouldn’t do anything to ruin your day.”
“He’s being modest.” Emma nudged me, as if to say, “Speak up, you dolt.” But she didn’t let me. “Saint, remember that week of filming we did in Lyon? And we went out that one night?”
Saint brightened. “Oh shit. That good?”
“Better. But I might be biased.”
I had no idea what they were talking about, and Delilah clearly didn’t either. But she was smiling, tentatively hopeful. Which was good. I didn’t want to see this poor woman undone by a cake disaster. Besides, being tucked away in the kitchen instead of mingling with guests and struggling not to carry Emma away and do dirty things to her was more than fine by me.
Saint glanced down at his bride. “What do you think, Tot?”
Delilah pinned her eyes on me, suddenly 100 percent master chef. “What can you do?”
“Depends on what you want. What was the cake you had ordered?”
“A hazelnut sponge with vanilla-and-mango mousse. Vanilla buttercream with a fondant overlay and flowers.”
Ideas flowed and pinged around my brain, kicking up that heady surge of excitement and challenge once more. This I knew. This I liked. “You’re feeding what? Forty?”
“Forty-five. Fifty, to be safe.”
“You want a traditional multitier with buttercream, then we’re pushing it. Especially if you expect any sort of elaborate decoration.”
“The cake feels cursed at this point.” Delilah’s scowl made me want to smile. It was as if she was personally offended by the bad luck, which I could understand.
“I could do croquembouche. That’s relatively quick and a crowd-pleaser. There are endless possibilities of gâteau.” My fingers twitched with the need to get started. “Do you have any favorite flavors? Food allergies?”
While I talked, Delilah began to smile.
“No food allergies. And you’re hired.”
“I’m doing it for free.” I walked farther into the room, taking a look around. The kitchen was as good as what I had at home. Delilah was a professional chef, and I had no doubt she had the tools I needed. But I could always go to the store in a pinch. “What will it be?”
Delilah glanced at Saint, who shrugged. “Whatever you want, Tot.”
“Can you do mango cream in the croquembouche?”
Mangoes must have been a thing with them, because Saint grinned.
“Of course. How about two croquembouches and perhaps glace au beurre noisette to accompany?”
“I think you are my hero,” Delilah said with a relieved laugh.
“Dessert hero,” Saint corrected, but he was smiling, too, in a reserved way that reminded me too much of myself. “Thanks, man. Seriously.”
“It’s not a problem.”
“What was that last bit you mentioned?” Emma asked, looking a little glazed in the eyes. The woman really did love her desserts.
“Browned-butter ice cream. I’ll be serving it more as a semifreddo, though, considering the time.”
“Lord save me.” She fanned herself.
I was supposed to be avoiding the temptation of Emma Maron. But I couldn’t hide my pleasure in seeing her pant. Then a thought occurred to me. “You don’t mind, do you? I’ll be leaving you alone for a while.”
Hell. I hadn’t thought. I was here to run interference, not make dessert.
But Emma gaped, as though I was being ridiculous. “Are you joking? Delilah’s right; you’re a hero for doing