that, this sort of mixture of honesty and vulnerability mixed with strength.
I unlock the door to Savor, still awaiting permits but already stocked and outfitted for business, and head back to the storage area to get out the mixers and supplies we might need, setting them out on the counter. My heart thumps a tad wildly in my chest but I don’t take the time to examine why the organ is excitable at the thought of spending time with Scarlett.
My phone dings and I pull it from my pocket. There’s a text from Oliver.
Let me know if you want help with the Marie situation.
Somehow when he was over earlier, my divorce—or lack thereof—had come up. Oliver hinted strongly that he could help push things along. How? I’m not entirely sure. I think the man has blackmail material on everyone in town and then some. I don’t want to be beholden to him more than I already am, though, so I told him thanks but no thanks.
The door swings open and I forget all about Oliver and Marie and possibly my own name as Scarlett walks into the kitchen, her hair a messy bun on her head, her face bare of makeup. She’s fresh and sweet, and nothing at all like the fiery amazon that launched cupcakes at my head just short while ago.
She glances around uncertainly. “Where should I . . .?” She holds up the box.
“Here.” Stalking in her direction, I take it. “You can put your coat in one of the cubbies over there.” I motion to the open doorway by the entrance, an alcove for employees to leave their personal items.
I wash my hands while she hangs up her coat and puts on an apron, not because my hands are dirty but because I need to do something other than ogle her.
She walks over to where I set the box and starts pulling items out.
I stop beside her. “I got out some things that might help.” I point out the mixers, bowls, and other accoutrements. “Now tell me what to do.”
“We’ll need to bake and cool, but the most time-consuming part will be decorating. The theme is Beatles, so I’m doing little Beatle heads for the fondant decoration.”
I stare at her, surprised and confused. “Beetle…heads?”
A slow smile spreads across her face. “Sorry, not beetles. The Beatles. Like John, Paul, George and Ringo, not the black bugs with twitchy claw hands.”
“Thank God for that.”
She smiles and looks down at the list in her hand. “There are stencils for their heads—outlines of hair and mustaches, basically, and a guitar stencil. I premade and sealed the fondant.”
“Okay.”
“Here’s the order details and recipe lists. There are four different flavors with six different fondant tops.” She hands it to me and our fingers brush, making my heart stutter in my chest for a moment. “We’ll need to make extra of each, just in case.”
“Of course.” I focus on the list in my hand, scanning down the ingredients and details, my eyes halting at a surprising ingredient.
“Sour cream?”
She nods.
“That’s why they’re so moist.”
She flushes and her eyes dart away, clearing her throat around a laugh. “Um. Yeah. An old trick my granny taught me.”
I keep reading. “This is a pretty intense order.”
“Yeah.” She bites her lip. “They’re spending a pretty penny, so I gotta get everything right. It’s a sweet story, actually. They met in Strawberry Fields.”
“In Central Park?”
She nods. It’s a memorial, a couple acres of real estate directly across from the Dakota Apartments where John Lennon lived and died.
“They are both big fans.”
“Well, with wedding flavors like Rocky Road Raccoon, Sexy Cinnamon Sadie, and Hey Jude Peppermint Java, I would hope so.”
She grins suddenly, the movement lighting up her whole face. “I came up with the names, you like them?”
An answering smile tugs at my mouth. “I do.”
We stare at each other for a few long seconds and then her smile falters.
“Right. Let’s get going. Time waits for no woman in need of cake.”
We organize the ingredients and move around the kitchen, getting the batter made quickly with the mixers and loading the trays once they are done.
I’ve cooked with a lot of chefs, both experts and aspiring, but I’m not sure I’ve ever made cupcakes with one. And it’s not as awkward as I had thought. We move around each other with surprising ease, exchanging bags of flour, cartons of eggs, and both of us double-checking the sugar before dumping it into the mixers.
Once things are baking, we work on