left earlier and been more prepared, but I wasn’t because I was too busy daydreaming about Guy’s mouth and hands and tongue and body parts in general.
The wedding is at the Bay Room in the Financial District—an imposing building named The Liberty Skyscraper. The room itself is on the 60th floor, and its full name is actually, “The Bay Room at Manhatta”, with no N, like it’s too pretentious to carry the extra letter.
It took me forever to get up to the 60th floor and then I had to fight with an attendant to get in because he didn’t think I belonged. I’m wearing one of my nicest dresses, a deep purple with a square neckline and flared skirt. He’s not wrong, exactly, but I couldn’t bail because my appearance is more Bridge and Tunnel than Upper East Side. Finally, the wedding planner saw me and yelled at the attendant and hustled me back to the kitchen.
Except I couldn’t find the cupcakes. At first, I thought Guy had totally duped me and didn’t have them delivered, but then why go through all the trouble of helping me make them if he was going to con me? And then one of the kitchen staff remembered seeing them earlier that morning. Finally, we found them, stuffed into the back of a giant walk in fridge. But by then, I was running out of time.
I’m flustered. Panicking. I can’t even get the cakes onto the tiered stand because I’m rushing too much, and I’ve dropped three already. Presentation is just as important as taste. This has to be perfect.
I’m in the corner of the kitchen while the catering staff bustles around behind me, yelling and talking and clanking dishes.
I can do this.
“You have ten minutes,” the wedding planner says as she rushes past me, holding a giant arrangement of calla lilies.
“I’m on it.” I take a few deep breaths. I can do this.
I place the mini cakes steadily and carefully, and then there’s a voice behind me.
“Scarlett, darling, that color is fabulous on you.”
I spin around and Carson is there, air kissing me on both cheeks. “I could eat you like one of your cupcakes.”
I grip his upper arms and scan him like he’s an apparition. “Carson? What are you doing here?”
It’s like he, poof, magically appeared in front of me in a suit. Like a fairy godmother, except with a mustache.
“A little birdie told me you might need some help. Except, it wasn’t a bird, it was a cantankerous chef who is clearly smitten with you.”
My face heats. He doesn’t know about the make-out session. Sessions. Plural. He can’t. Guy wouldn’t tell him.
“He is not smitten with me.”
“Okay, you keep telling yourself that, princess. But he let you use a new kitchen. It might as well be a declaration of his intentions. He sent me and I’m being paid, so tell me how I can help?”
I’m too happy he’s here to spend any time complaining, so I show him the cakes, the tiers, and the decorations I brought, little Beatle bobbleheads, mini guitar figurines, a yellow submarine, British style telephone booth, and mini British flags.
Carson is efficient and bright, setting the adornments around the cakes strategically and making suggestions as we place the decorative items so it’s quirky and cute instead of completely haphazard.
My fingers place the mini cupcakes on the tiers, but my mind is spinning.
He did this. He sent Carson because he wanted to help but didn’t want to disrespect my wish to keep our distance. And like the contradictory fool I am, suddenly I want to see him. Stupidly, I wish he had ignored my request and come instead of Carson, but then that would make him a pushy jerk and I wouldn’t be wanting to see him, most likely. How dare he.
We have a majority of the cakes set up lickety-split and I finally take a breath.
Carson helps me roll the table out to the reception area and lock the wheels and then we can leave. I always make extra, just in case there’s any mishaps, so I give Carson a box to take home. I still have a dozen in one of my transportable containers.
Normally, I love staying to watch the bride and groom interact on their wedding day. It gives me hope that someday I might find something real, but tonight Carson and I head back down to the ground floor in the elevator together.
“What are you up to now?” I ask him.
“Meeting my boyfriend for