The Icing on the Cake

  I did my best not to chuckle at the image that presented. After all, Armando was taller, buffer, and . . . well, pretty much everything-er. Poor Kenny wouldn’t stand a chance should a scuffle ensue. He could always utilize his cell phone to call for backup, but by the time help arrived, Armando would’ve squashed him like a bug.

  From the looks of things, anyway.

  My thoughts gravitated to a particular I Love Lucy episode—the one where Lucy tried to make Ricky jealous. That hadn’t ended well. I had a feeling this wouldn’t either.

  Pushing my errant thoughts aside, I took in the handsome stranger. As I leaned closer, his cologne—Yum! What is that?—grabbed me and held on like a cowboy on a bronco. He began a conversation about the upcoming fund-raiser, which morphed into a full-fledged chat about my church, which transitioned into a conversation about life on Galveston Island.

  At about this point, I was convinced God had sent Armando to me as a gift not just for the church but for me personally. Gorgeous. Suave. Sexy. Pure perfection.

  Or not.

  Turned out he had a sarcastic side. As the conversation transitioned, I picked up on a lot of attitude, particularly when we got to talking about life on the island. He wasn’t a fan of island living and enjoyed poking fun at those who were.

  What’s up with that? How can I marry you if you won’t live here with me?

  He began to share about how he preferred Houston to living on the Gulf coast. As he turned the conversation back to the fund-raiser, as he rolled his eyes and went on and on about how dreadful it would be to have to spend so much time in Galveston if he helped out, I pretty much decided I’d rather work with anyone but him.

  So much for thinking I might be a good match for your brother, Bella. Forget it.

  I shook my head, unable to make sense of his ramblings. With such sarcasm eking out of him, he suddenly looked ugly to me. Deep down ugly, I mean.

  “Why don’t you want to live on the island?” I asked after his lengthy tirade about the island. “Why Houston?”

  He gave me a pensive look. “How long have you lived here?”

  “Since my father took the church. About six years. We moved down from Lufkin.”

  “Lufkin?” He snorted.

  “What about it?”

  “Nothing. Kind of . . . in the woods, right?”

  Are you calling me a hick?

  “Lufkin is a great little town,” I said. “But I’m happy to live on the island now. I find it very exciting.”

  He folded his arms at his chest and leaned back in the chair. “Sounds like something a typical tourist would say, which just confirms that you haven’t been here long. Otherwise you’d be dying to get off the island, not on.”

  Okay, I felt like slapping him at that proclamation. Six years of living on the island did not a tourist make. And I certainly had no aspirations to leave. Still, I could see the determination etched in his brow. This guy wasn’t going down without a fight. Fine. I’d give him a fight.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but he interrupted me. “You’ll see.” He sighed and looked at the glass cases. “It gets old after a while.”

  I couldn’t imagine it. How could hanging out at the beach ever get old? How could working on the Strand, the coolest historical street in the universe, get old? How could spending time with people like Bella and Hannah—doing the thing I loved, no less—get old?

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I argued. “The sound of the waves hitting the shore? The smell of the saltwater? The families gathered at Stewart Beach under beach umbrellas?” Those images had forever imprinted themselves on my mind, and I loved them.

  “Whatever.” He released another sigh, and his gaze traveled back to the glass cases. I could see him eyeing the cheesecake but pretended not to notice.

  You don’t deserve any cheesecake, mister. And if I could take that brownie back, I would.

  I shifted the conversation to the fund-raiser, now all business. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Kenny again. He was looking more handsome by the moment, shaggy or not. Good, solid, reliable Kenny. Marriage material.

  My suddenly handsome assistant hovered closer than a helicopter coming in for a landing—and was about as subtle. At least two or three times I caught him, mop in hand, bumping into Armando’s chair. Accident? I think not. And the huffing sound he made after Armando’s dissertation about church life left little to the imagination as well.

  Perfect.

  “So.” Armando stretched, showing off his biceps. I did my best to avoid looking. “Tell me why I should do this thing at your church? Talk me into it.” He looked at the white chocolate raspberry cheesecake again. “Because, frankly, church stuff is not exactly high on my list of exciting things to do.”

  How could this guy be related to the Rossis? No way. They were kind. Fun-loving. Godly. Full of enthusiasm for life. Crazy about all things Galveston. He was . . . ugh. Not my type, for sure.

  Time for a distraction. I dove into a lengthy discussion about the fund-raiser, doing my best to sing the praises of our little church—our precious, sweet church—but I seemed to lose him about halfway into it. He rose and walked over to the glass counter, now staring at the few remaining products inside.

  You know that line in Jerry McGuire where the girl says, “You had me at hello”? Well, I’m pretty sure I had this guy at white chocolate raspberry cheesecake. The boy stared through the glass at the display of cakes I’d just set up and practically drooled all over himself. Fine. I knew his type. If I couldn’t win him over with my charms, I’d get him with my sweets. Before the day ended, he would plan to run the sound at our event. A belly full of homemade cheesecake would do the trick. I hoped.

  I rose and walked behind the counter. “You like cheesecake?” I asked.

  “Yeah, my aunt Rosa—”

  “Oh, I know all about your aunt Rosa’s cheesecake. I’ve tasted it firsthand. She’s great. Probably the best ever.”

  “Big of you to admit,” Armando said.

  I hated that he’d called me big. Probably just a slip on his part. Still, it didn’t set well with me. “I come in a close second,” I managed after a couple seconds. “If you don’t mind my saying so. Want a piece?”

  “At six dollars a slice?” He smirked. “Why would I pay that kind of money when I can go home and get Aunt Rosa’s for free?”

  I wasn’t sure which struck me as odder—the fact that he assumed I’d charge him, or the idea that he still considered the Rossis’ house his home. Biting back the words, “So, Galveston is your home after all?” I pulled out the cheesecake, cut a large slice, and plopped it onto a plate.

  “I’ll give this to you on one condition.” Lifting the plate, I held it just under his nose, close enough where he could drool all over it.

  “Let me guess.” He rolled his eyes. “You’ll swap out the cheesecake for my work at the church?”

  “Mm-hmm.” I nodded, then pulled the plate away and set it on top of the glass case. “Your decision.”

  He stared at the plate for a moment and folded his arms at his chest. Seconds later he grabbed the slice and shoveled a big bite into his mouth, a dreamy expression on his face. “Mmm.” He took another bite. Then another. About five bites in, he gave me a sheepish look. “This might very well turn out to be the most expensive piece of free cheesecake I ever ate.”

  “Yep.” It might, at that. I planned to work him hard over the next few weeks. He would earn that piece of cheesecake, no doubt about it. And hopefully, somewhere along the way, I would find it in my heart to tolerate the guy.

  5

  Cream of the Crop

  Inside some of us is a thin person struggling to get out, but they can usually be sedated with a few pieces of chocolate cake.

  Author unknown

  The following Saturday afternoon, I left Kenny—sweet, shaggy Kenny—in charge of the bakery so that I could slip away to meet Armando at the church. No point in delaying the inevitable. We had to put
a plan into action, and I needed this guy’s help.

  We would put on a great talent show, fully decked out with lights, sound, and all other technical necessities. The community would be wowed. My dad would see the value of twenty-first-century living, and Armando . . . well, Armando would be forced to spend quality time with godly people who—I prayed—would do more than tolerate him. Perhaps if we handled ourselves in a proper manner, he could be won over, not just to church people but to a renewed faith.

  If I could stand being around him.

  As I drove to our little church, I spent time praying. Surely the Lord would change my heart regarding this guy. How else could we do this if I couldn’t tolerate spending time with him?

  I pulled up in front of the church and saw a red sports car sitting there. Quite a contrast—that fancy, newer-model car in front of our tiny, worn-out building. As Armando climbed out and glanced my way, I could see the curious expression on his face.

  “Not quite what you were expecting?” I asked as I walked in his direction.

  He shook his head. “Nope. My parents go to the Methodist church. It’s huge.”

  “Yeah. Lots of people are into those big churches. But we’ve always had a thing for smaller ones. Makes for a more intimate setting.”

  I regretted those words the minute his brows elevated.

  “Well, more intimate in the spiritual sense,” I added.

  “Of course.” He gave me a curious look. “But why would you want it to stay small? Doesn’t that sort of defeat the whole ‘get them in the door and lead them to the Lord’ thing?”

  “Oh, I’m not saying we want it to be small forever. Just saying that’s how it’s been. We’re used to it. It’s . . . comfortable.” The word comfortable wasn’t spoken as a death sentence, but it somehow felt that way.

  “Is there something I should know?” he asked. “Some reason why people don’t like to come here?”

  I did my best not to sigh. “Those who do come love it, and they love the close-knit community. I think more people would be interested if we updated a few things. We’ll just leave it at that.”

  “Ah.” He followed on my heels as I walked to the door leading to the side hall. I used my key, but as always, the lock gave me fits. After a couple moments of watching me struggle, Armando took the key and forced the lock to budge.

  “I did a little stint as a locksmith,” he explained.

  “Oh.” Is there anything you haven’t done? I thought about Bella’s description of him—how she’d called him a jack-of-all-trades—but quickly shut down my train of thought before it derailed the conversation.

  “You ready to get to work?”

  “Sure.” He hesitated, and his gaze shifted to the ground. “But just one thing first.”

  “What’s that?”

  He glanced back up, a boyish smile on his face. “Did you bring any of those brownies with you?”

  Now it was my time to quirk a brow. “Who wants to know?”

  He shrugged. “I’m just saying . . . the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

  Yeah, and I want your heart about as much as I want a lobotomy.

  Thank God I hadn’t spoken the words aloud, though the temptation to do so gripped me like a vice. He stared at me with those dark brown puppy dog eyes, eyes so filled with love—for brownies, of course—that I had no choice but to come up with something kind to say.

  When in doubt, employ a teaser.

  “We’ll just have to wait and see what I brought with me.” I gave a little shrug. “Patience, my friend.”

  Not that he was really my friend.

  “I can tell you one thing you’ve brought.” He pointed at me. “You realize you’re still wearing your apron from the bakery, right?”

  “I took off from work in such a hurry that I didn’t notice,” I explained. “Sometimes I wear this apron home from work and forget I’ve got it on until time to get in the shower at night.”

  “At least you haven’t showered in it.”

  “Yet.”

  That got a laugh out of him. He pointed at a brownish smudge on the right side of the apron. “What’s this?”

  I stared at it for a moment. “Chocolate filling for the éclairs.”

  “And this?” He pointed at a lime-green smudge.

  “Four-year-old’s birthday cake. Turtle theme. I went a little crazy with the lime-green shells, but it turned out okay. The mother liked it better than the son did, I think.”

  “That’s probably a good thing, since she’s the one who paid for it.” He pointed at the pocket on my right side. “And this?”

  I gasped as I noticed a bright blue stain oozing through. “Ugh.” I reached inside my pocket and pulled out a bottle of fondant coloring gel. “Now how did that get in there?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t even want to know, but it’s a great color on you. Matches your eyes.”

  Sure it does. My eyes are—Oh wait, they were blue. Just not that shade of blue. Still, if the guy was trying to flirt, he certainly knew how to go about it.

  “Baby shower cake,” I said after a moment’s thought. “Little boy. Obviously.”

  “Ah.” He stared into my face so intently that I felt the temperature in the room go up by two or three degrees. “You really love what you do, don’t you?”

  “Well, of course. Don’t you?”

  He laughed—not a “well, of course I do” sort of laugh, but more of a “you have no idea how far off base you are” kind.

  I led the way into the church, half curious about his reaction to our worn-out building and half proud mama hen. My comments shifted from “This is the room where I teach the three-year-olds” to “This is our makeshift office” to “This is the fellowship hall. I know it’s small, but it cleans up nice for weddings.”

  “Weddings?” That seemed to stop him cold. “You do weddings in a place this size?”

  “Well, yeah.” I paused to think it through. “I mean, obviously not the kind of weddings you guys do at Club Wed. These are really scaled down. A lot of people in our church are from low-income families. They couldn’t afford a wedding at your place.”

  Oh, ouch. Talk about a slap in the face.

  I backpedaled as quickly as I could, shame washing over me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that.”

  “No offense taken.” He looked around the room, and I could read the curiosity in his expression. “I wasn’t saying there’s anything wrong with having a wedding here. Just wondered how you managed to fit everyone inside. Seems a little smaller than I expected, that’s all.”

  “It’s bigger than it looks. We’ve easily had 150 in this room.”

  “I see.” Armando nodded. “And you make the cakes for these weddings?”

  “I do.”

  “If they’re half as good as those brownies—the ones I hope you brought with you—the wedding guests are probably in heaven.”

  Flattery will get you nowhere, fella.

  Okay, maybe it would. I reached into my purse and came out with the ziplock baggie holding the brownies. He took one look and his eyes bugged.

  “Th-thanks.” Armando grabbed the bag from my hand and opened it. A couple moments later, the same look of pure delight that I’d seen at my shop earlier in the week crossed his face. Little did he know I was prepping him for the great reveal—the soundboard. No doubt he would need a double dose of chocolate once he saw how antiquated our system was.

  “Mmm. These brownies are great.” He smiled, and I took note of the chocolate on his teeth. “Have I mentioned that you’re a great cook?”

  A wave of embarrassment washed over me. “Thanks. I’ve always been at home in the kitchen. Did I mention that my aunt has a famous bakery in Houston and that she’s the brains behind this venture?” Well, maybe not the brains, but certainly the pocketbook.

  “Bella told me something about that. She mentioned that your aunt is a little scary.”

  “Yeah.” I sighed. “But s
he’s a great baker and taught me a lot as a kid. I’ve always loved making cakes and cookies. I also had lots of one-on-one time with my mama when I was growing up. She’s pretty savvy in the kitchen too.”

  “You’re an only child?”

  “Yep.”

  “Lucky.”

  “I am?” Strange, I’d never considered myself lucky being an only child. In fact, I’d always longed for a sister, which was why I’d taken my friendship with Hannah so personally. “Why do you say that?” I asked after a moment.

  He rolled his eyes. “Trust me, growing up in a houseful of brothers and sisters is highly overrated, especially in the Rossi family.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged, then glanced my way. “Let’s just say I never quite measured up to the others and leave it at that.”

  In that moment, I saw a hint of pain in his expression. I almost felt sorry for him but couldn’t figure out why.

  “In a family like mine, you are constantly compared to the others,” he added. “Sibling rivalry is one thing, but favoritism is another.”

  “I see.” Only, I didn’t. Not really. Did I mention I’m an only child?

  He carried on, passion lacing his words. “Trust me when I say that I wasn’t good in sports, I couldn’t cook like my older brother, I couldn’t manage a business like Bella, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Do you want me to go on?”

  I had a feeling he would anyway, so a response seemed futile.

  His jaw tensed. “I’m not as good as the rest, at least as far as my parents are concerned.” Those chocolate-brown eyes of his clouded over. Well, not literally, but I could definitely see the angst written there.

  “They said that?”

  “Not in so many words.” He took another nibble of the brownie. “Don’t know what started all that. That’s not why you brought me here.” He gave a little shrug, and I could read the embarrassment in his eyes. “I think we’re supposed to be looking at the sound system, right?”

  “Right. Are you ready?” I asked after he popped the final bite of brownie into his mouth.