7

“Yeah. Earlier is plenty welcome if you can, but five is when it’ll be a bit late. I want people to be able to enjoy the cake and digest it before we go on our night run.” “Night run?” I asked curiously.

“Uh… yeah. You know. Celebrating spring by enjoying a cool night run instead of a frigid winter run.”

“Uh-huh,” I murmured. “I’ll take your word for it.”

I wasn’t really a runner. While I was kind of average-sized, I had a softness around my middle from sampling so many of my own goods. But I didn’t mind it. I was fairly confident in how I looked. All I’d really want to change about myself was being a few inches taller so I could reach the top shelves more easily, having bigger hands to use male-geared culinary tools better, and maybe not being a part of the itty-bitty titty committee. My modest, barely-B cups did their best, but they weren’t exactly overflowing.

My rear, however, more than made up for it, and it was just hard for me to feel bad about myself when I had a thicc ass.

“Eh, maybe it’s a country thing,” he said, and who knew, maybe it was. We chatted a bit more as I rung him up for the deposit and had him write his number and address on the receipt. I was a bit paranoid about somehow misreading or messing up his number and losing out on the rest of the money, so I made sure to text him while he was still in the bakery. I had to admit, it was cute how his clunky Otterbox case began to ring with a familiar song about a monster wolf in the UK.

Awwwwoooooo! It howled musically, and I swore the guy blushed a little, which made him even more handsome.

“Nice ringtone you have there…” I paused, realizing we’d never exchanged names, so I looked at his receipt. “Castiel.”

“It’s Cas, please,” he said, offering me that crooked smile again. I probably shouldn’t have liked it as much as I did, but I definitely did like it. “Castiel is for when I’m in trouble.”

“And are you in trouble often?” I asked. Whew, that was smooth! Normally, I would never really flirt with a customer, but if the vibes were right, why fight it?

“You ask like you’re looking for trouble,” he shot right back.

Maybe in any other situation that line would be sleezy, but it made me chuckle a bit.

Actually, it was more of a giggle. A giggle. Like I was a hormonal, crushing teenager again. Although I knew it wasn’t exactly the most professional thing for me to do, it was such a lovely change of pace, emotion-wise. After so much time fretting, worrying, grieving, and planning, it was nice to just flirt. Banter. And there were no stakes to it. It wasn’t like me and Mr. Country Cas were going to see each other again after I delivered his cakes.

“Nah, I’m too boring for that,” I said, gently shutting the conversation down. It wasn’t that I wanted it to end, but if I was going to get three sheet cakes done, I needed to get cracking.

“If saving the day for my entire family constitutes as boring, I have a much more sedate life than I thought.” He tipped his head to me before putting his card back in his wallet. “I look forward to seeing you later, Miss…?”

“Felicia,” I answered. “You can call me Felicia.”

“All right then, Felicia. I look forward to seeing you later.”

“I look forward to it, too.”

And to my great surprise, I was telling the truth.

Felicia

A Recipe for Attraction

I STARTED MEASURING THE INGREDIENTS FOR ALL THREE OF THE CAKES. UNLIKE A HOME BAKER, I HAD ENOUGH OVENS THAT I could cook all three at the same time without worrying about variations in the batter needing different baking times in the same range. And, with more than a dozen food scales at my disposal, it was easy to weigh what I needed and not getting anything mixed up.

Had I bitten off more than I could chew by agreeing to deliver three cakes by the afternoon? Absolutely. But I was kind of excited about it. The constant drudgery of trying to make sure I was caught up with bills and taking better advantage of online advertising felt like never-ending chores with no reward. But speed baking three quality sheet cakes? That was a challenge I could win.

And honestly, I could use the win.

For the vanilla cake, with the layers of cream and tart rhubarb jam, I decided on a Genoise sponge. It was soft and similar to a butter cake, but with whipped eggs folded into the batter to give it a pillowy sponginess. It would be too delicate for a thick, rich ganache or something between all the layers, but the rhubarb and cream would be a right treat. And since the chocolate cake did have ganache, I went with a butter cake recipe for the base. It was simple, but that was all right. The real star would be the frosting and filling.

Lastly was the lemon cake. I decided on a sponge cake, but not as light and airy as the vanilla. However, when I spotted a large jar of lemon curd in my industrial fridge that had been hardly used, I decided to add a center layer of that. Did the client ask for it? No. But I knew it would be a lovely sweet yet sour contrast to the rich creaminess of the cream cheese frosting. It would be delicious. Besides, if I didn’t use the jar soon, I’d have to throw it away, and I didn’t like wasting anything.

“Waste not, want not,” I murmured as I added it to my ingredient pile for the third cake. “Let’s do this!”

It felt a bit like being back in the supplemental trade education program in high school, when I felt like I was an RPG character on a mission and guaranteed success as long as I stuck to it and gave it my all. It was a more innocent time, even if I had a lot less than I had now.

That was the funny thing about life. As children, we had so little actual power over our lives and what happened in them, needing to rely on adults for most legal, financial, and medical matters, and yet we often felt so unstoppable. As an adult, I was in charge of my own destiny, and I felt like I spent more time worrying about making the wrong choice than actually making any real choices.