Always the Baker, Finally the Bride Page 3

  Andy and Jackson exchanged glances before Andy piped up. “With ribs?”

  “Nah. The drive home. Fee keeps a lock on my snacks when she’s home. But it’s my favorite candy, man.”

  “I get it. What about the trash bags?”

  “Nah.”

  “No?”

  Sean shook his head and dug deep into the bag. “Such low expectations, Doc.” He tossed a roll of garbage bags into the air, and they landed in Andy’s hand with a thud. “You don’t know yet that I got your back?”

  Jackson laughed and shook his head. “You gonna flip those ribs, or what?”

  “Grab something to drink and join us,” Andy told Sean on his way out the back door.

  Making his way around Henry, Jackson followed and leaned against the deck railing. Andy Drummond, ortho man, monster-dog owner, and soon-to-be father, had found his sweet spot in life right there in front of the grill.

  “How many times a week do you think you barbecue, man?” Jackson asked him.

  “In weather like this? Not usually more than four.”

  “Four!”

  Jackson couldn’t imagine even just eating at home four nights a week, much less taking the lead in organizing the meal. The Tanglewood took up every spare moment of time for both him and Emma, leaving very little space for much else.

  “Hey, Andy. Can I talk to you about something?”

  “Sure,” he replied without looking up from the rows of ribs rubbed with his secret recipe of brown sugar, chili powder, garlic, and whatever else he wouldn’t give up. “What’s going on?”

  “I had a meeting today. Sort of intriguing, actually. But I just don’t know how Emma will respond. How anyone at the hotel will respond, really.”

  Andy rolled the grill top closed and wiped his hands. “Yeah?”

  “Just between us, right?”

  “ ’Course.”

  “Well, there’s an offer on the table about The Tanglewood.”

  “What kind of offer?”

  Jackson inhaled sharply before he replied, “To buy the place.”

  Andy narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “What do you mean? Somebody wants to buy the hotel?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it for sale?”

  Jackson sighed. “I don’t know.”

  “Are you really considering it?”

  “Well, the offer is pretty great. And if the timing is right, Emma and I could have a really long, extended honeymoon before we start our life together.”

  “Sorry to say this, but I think The Tanglewood is a big part of your life together, isn’t it?”

  “I guess so.”

  “She’s got the baking thing, and the tearoom.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And the staff is family to you both, literally and figuratively.”

  “Yep.”

  “Ah, man. Sherilyn.”

  “I know.”

  Andy folded his arms and gazed out over the back lawn. After a long and thoughtful moment, he chuckled. “Sorry, man. But you sell that hotel now and you’re gonna be crucified.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  Emma tore off the top sheet of paper from her sketch pad and crumpled it with both hands before tossing it at the trash can at the side of the desk. It bounced off the rim and fell to the floor next to half a dozen others, and she let out a growl as she fell back into the chair.

  “No luck?” Fee asked her, setting down a cup of tea on the desktop before making her way to the sofa and sinking into it.

  “None,” she replied, and she picked up the delicate china cup and gave it a sniff. “What is this?”

  “Pumpkin spice.”

  “Really. I’ve never—”

  “Premium black tea from Sri Lanka,” Fee interrupted, looking up at the ceiling as she recounted the description from one of the canisters of loose tea she’d brought along. “Flavored with pumpkin and exotic spices.”

  Emma took a sip, and her eyes popped open wide. “It’s wonderful. Is that what you’re having?”

  “No. Mine is gingerbread. It’s got orange peel in it.”

  Emma joined Fee on the sofa and set her tea cup on the coffee table in front of them. “Let me try?” Fee handed her the cup, and she sniffed at the contents. “Mmm.” She took a sip. “It really does taste like gingerbread.”

  “It’s good, right? Very autumnal.”

  “Both of them are.”

  “Speaking of seasons,” Sherilyn announced as she plunked down the stairs, rubbing her belly as she joined them, “we’ve got a spring wedding to plan. How did you do with the sketch of the cake?”

  Fee shook her head and pointed one index finger over Emma’s shoulder, toward the discarded paper wads on the floor by the desk. “Not so much,” she said.

  “Oh, Emma. You’re actually having trouble with the cake? Really?”

  She felt a flush of heat rise over her. “There’s a lot of pressure about the cake,” Emma defended.

  “But that’s what you do, sweetie. That should be the easiest part.”

  Emma stared Sherilyn down. “Are you joking? It’s like Audrey choosing her own wedding gown, or—or you!—when you had to plan your own wedding. A wedding planner, planning her own wedding . . . but . . . remember how hard that was?”

  “To be fair,” Fee added dryly, “it would have been a lot easier for her if she’d been able to hold onto a dress rather than losing half a dozen of them.”

  “It was only two,” Sherilyn objected. “And yes, I see your point. But you’ve got to narrow it down, Em.”

  “That’s impossible to do,” she told them. “When you have every cake in your repertoire to choose from, how do you finally say, ‘THIS! This is the one and only, be-all-and-end-all cake for Jackson and me,’ huh?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Sherilyn said, trying three times before she finally rolled forward to grab Emma’s cup from the coffee table. “How do you narrow it down for your brides?”

  “That has caffeine,” Fee pointed out as Sherilyn drank from Emma’s pumpkin spice.

  “Just a sip. Ooh, it’s delicious.” She handed the cup to Emma. “Just pretend you’re one of your brides and sketch out a cake that tells your story with Jackson. Maybe a cake that represents The Tanglewood.”

  “Or it could have an Atlanta Falcons theme,” Fee suggested, deadpan.

  “Absolutely not!” Sherilyn exclaimed.

  “Well, that would be right for Jackson and me,” Emma teased.

  “But it would not be right for the rest of the wedding.”

  “I don’t know,” Emma replied, holding back her amusement. “Nothing says romance like a candlelight ceremony in The Desiree Room, a hydrangea bouquet, and a wedding cake shaped like the Falcons’ end zone.”

  “Stop. You’ll make my water break.”

  “When exactly is the bambino due, anyway?” Fee asked. “You look like you’re about thirty months pregnant.”

  “Feels like it too.”

  “She still has three weeks,” Emma interjected. “Three long, long weeks.”

  “Not so long if you consider how many wedding plans we need to nail down before then, Emma. And just you wait!” Sherilyn warned her. “You’ll be much more sympathetic about all of this once you and Jackson start your family.”

  “Actually,” Emma said as she pushed back into the cushions behind her, “we’re not entirely sure we want to have children.”

  The look on Sherilyn’s face made Emma chuckle.

  “What? Of course you’ll have babies, Emma Rae. You love babies.”

  “Yes, I do. And I’ll be the best aunt to yours that ever lived. But Jackson and I are both really involved in our work, and what little time we have beyond that . . . we like to spend it wrapped up in each other.”

  “Emma.” Sherilyn’s voice clanked with disappointment, like a lone nickel dropped into a large metal jug. “Really?”

  “We have so many things we want to do together. And apart, for that matter.”


  “Like what?”

  “Well, we have this dream, sort of.” Emma’s heart began to race just thinking about it, and she grinned at her interested two-member audience. “We’d like to take a whole year and go live in Paris.”

  “Paris! What would you do in Paris for a whole year?”

  “Everything!” she cried with enthusiasm. “We would go for walks through the Vergers de Champlain, explore the great art in the Louvre, take bike rides in the country, and stroll along the Seine. And I’d like to take those classes at Lenôtre while Jackson works on his book—”

  “What book?” Sherilyn interrupted.

  “The one he would write if we lived in Paris for a year.”

  “You’d really do that?” Her friend tried so hard to hide her incredulous astonishment, but Sherilyn had never been good at disguising her true feelings. “You’d move away?”

  “Not forever. Just for a year.”

  “What about getting to know this little one?” she asked, rubbing her stomach and looking at Emma through misted eyes. “And the hotel. What about The Tanglewood?”

  “We’re not leaving next month,” she reminded her with a soft smile. “It’s just something we dream about for our future. My point was that children aren’t really something either of us feels compelled to rush toward. It doesn’t mean we don’t like kids, or that we won’t ever have any. Or that we won’t love yours, Sher. It’s just not something we see in our immediate future. After such a long time lost in trying to build our careers and then getting the hotel up and successful, we’d just like to spend some time getting lost in each other for a while.”

  Sherilyn looked to Fee, seemingly for a show of support. But Fee simply shrugged and turned her attention to her gingerbread tea.

  “Paris,” she breathed on a heavy sigh. “It’s so . . . far away.”

  “I know,” Emma said with a smile as she rubbed Sherilyn’s hand. “But we’ll get married first, so why don’t you just focus on the wedding, okay?”

  “The wedding,” she replied, nodding. “So about that wedding cake, Em . . .”

  I walked right into that.

  “Did I wake you?”

  The timbre of Jackson’s voice, warm and rich, evoked a spontaneous smile, and Emma sighed and leaned into the cell phone cupped in her hand. “No.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Having a scavenger hunt.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Only in part. I’m on the hunt for a little creative inspiration.”

  “For?”

  “The ideal wedding cake.”

  “That should be right up your alley, my friend.”

  Emma chuckled. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But it’s the detail of our wedding that seems to be causing me the most distress. Anything to contribute?”

  “As long as you marry me, Emma Rae, I couldn’t care less about the rest of it. I’d marry you on a running trail at Vickery Creek with no one around except the two of us.”

  “I both love and hate you for that, Jackson.”

  His laughter tugged at the heartstrings dangling inside of her.

  “Relax,” he urged. “You’ll know it when it strikes you.”

  “Promise?”

  “I do.”

  “Careful, buddy,” she said with a snicker. “Save those two words for later, when you need them.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Emma closed her eyes. “Are you at home?”

  “No. Still in my office.”

  She pictured him there in the creaky leather chair, his suit coat folded neatly over one of the side chairs across from the desk, his shirt sleeves probably rolled up to mid-forearm, and his sleepy, milk-chocolate eyes narrowed.

  “Go home, Jackson. Get some sleep.”

  “I can’t sleep,” he said. “Not until I talk to you about something.”

  “Are you breaking up with me, Jackson? Have you met someone else?”

  He snorted in a chuckle and growled, “Not on your life. And when would I find the time?”

  “Then lay it on me. What’s on your mind?”

  “You sure? It’s not something you can discuss with the girls. It’s just between us for the moment, capiche?”

  “Capiche like a fox. What is it?”

  “I took that meeting with Rod Bingham.”

  Emma’s stomach did a little somersault. “Jackson, I’m so sorry. I’ve been so wrapped up in the wedding plans that I completely forgot about that. How did it go? Are they actually interested in franchising The Tanglewood?”

  “Oh yeah, they’re interested.”

  She listened as a low moan accompanied his breath as he exhaled. “And?”

  “And there’s an offer on the table to purchase the hotel as part of the deal.”

  She gulped. “Did you say . . . ?”

  “Yep. Allegiant Industries would like to buy The Tanglewood too. And clone it across the country, into Canada and over to Europe within the next five years.”

  Emma knew she needed to reply, but the giant lump in her throat obstructed her voice.

  “Emma?”

  “Wow.”

  “I know.”

  “Sell The Tanglewood.”

  “I know.”

  She swallowed hard around the lump and sighed. “How do you feel about that, Jackson? Is that something you would consider?”

  “Well . . .”

  Oh, my. He’s considering it.

  “. . . not at first. But I started thinking about the future.”

  “A future without The Tanglewood. That’s hard for me to imagine.”

  “I know.” He sighed again. “But we’ve talked about this, about how the hotel takes up every spare moment of our lives. And about how we’d love to have a little freedom to travel or pursue other interests.”

  “Or live in Paris for a year.”

  The coincidental timing of her earlier conversation with Sherilyn and Fee struck a hollow chord in the pit of her stomach, and Emma massaged her throbbing temple.

  “Exactly.”

  “Oh. Jackson.”

  “It’s not like we haven’t talked about it before,” he reminded her.

  “Yes, but only in the most abstract terms. Now that it’s a real possibility, it leaves me feeling—”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “—stunned.”

  Jackson sighed, and Emma could hear the rustle of his hair as he shook his head against the cell phone.

  “When do you have to give them an answer?”

  “Next week.”

  “Okay, then why don’t we sleep on it?” she suggested. “Try to put it out of your mind for the moment. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon, and we’ll take some time together. We’ll figure this out, Jackson.”

  The line went silent, except for his gentle intake of breath.

  “Go home and get some sleep,” she said softly, and he exhaled. “And stop thinking about everyone else and how it might affect them. For the moment, lay down that big block of the weight of the whole world and just breathe. All right?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Jackson?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I love you.”

  “Somehow, that eases the pressure,” he told her. “Say it again?”

  “With pleasure,” she replied, and her lips stretched into a grin. “I love you.”

  Jackson sighed. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Count on it.”

  Emma let him disconnect the call before she folded up her cell phone and laid it on the desk. She said a quick, silent prayer for Jackson to have an easy night’s sleep, asking God to guide him to the right decision and thanking Him for such a wonderful man with whom to share her life.

  And my pulse is pounding against my skull again, Lord. Please make it stop.

  Staring down at the outline of a cake on her sketch pad, Emma recalled that first day when she met Jackson at the bakery where she used to work. She hadn’t even known it was raini
ng until she spotted the droplets on his jacket.

  “You know, these brownies are awesome with hazelnut coffee. Can I interest you in—”

  “No, thanks,” he said, cutting her offer right in two. “Just black.”

  Emma tried to resist the urge to tempt him further, and she was successful for about twenty seconds. Then, with a charming smile, she extended a glass coffeepot toward him.

  “Dark roast. Extra bold. Hazelnut’s perfect with chocolate.”

  He didn’t raise his chin, only his eyes, as he glared at her across the bakery case. “Just black. Thank you.”

  Emma shook her head and slipped the pot back to its place before grabbing the Colombian from one of the adjacent burners.

  “Black it is.”

  He raked his dark hair with both hands, and his milk-chocolate brown eyes met hers without warning. There was a world of conversation between them in that one frozen moment in time, and she peeled her gaze away, trying not to stare at the slightly off-center cleft in his square chin.

  “That’ll be four dollars and eighteen cents.”

  He slipped a five toward her and muttered, “Keep the change.”

  She hesitated, wondering if she should bother to point out that she was the baker and not a waitress. And then she realized the tip was only about 80 cents.

  Stand-up guy.

  While GQ took his cup and plate and settled at a table near the window, Emma wiped down the counter and started a new pot of decaf.

  A sort of happy grunt called her attention back to her customer, and she tripped over the crooked grin he aimed in her direction.

  “What’s in this?” he asked her, wiping a smear of chocolate from the corner of his mouth. “It’s fantastic.”

  He’d ordered another six of them to take back to his office, and Emma hadn’t realized until much later that the chance meeting in the bakery where she worked had actually marked the start of the rest of her life.

  She opened the box of colored pencils and spilled them out on the desk. Less than an hour later, Emma’s scavenger hunt ended in success, and she leaned back and admired the wedding cake on the page before her.

  Flowers on top and between each layer . . . a simple ribbon adornment . . . and a thin, leafy scrollwork pattern on the sides . . . It was the perfect cake to represent the fairy tale that had begun that rainy day in The Backstreet Bakery.