Page 54 of The Best Kind of Bad

RayAnne failed to mention that the reception hall was in a barn.

Without air conditioning.

My chocolate mouse cups are wilting and the cheesecakes are sweating.

I air out my arms, realizing I’m sweating, too.

I’m a mess. My hair is in, what can charitably be called, a messy bun. I’m wearing one of my college tees and a frosting-smudged pair of jeans. My fingers are dyed from the watercolor icing and I’m exhausted.

And I haven’t been this proud of my work for a long time.

I’ve done more weddings than I can count, and it’s felt like a long parade of whatever was trending on Pinterest that season.

No personality.

No story.

But RayAnne, the sweet, late bloomer, inspired me. So did these wide-open prairies. The big sky. The cheerful wildflowers.

I really put my heart into this one and it’s been a long time since I slowed down and took the time to do that.

Mimi’s was a smash success in Lincoln. It grew at a sprint. I went from making humble homespun cakes to catering fancy fundraisers. Huge, showy weddings. Right before the fire, I was in the process of hiring more pastry chefs, because the six I had working for me couldn’t keep up with the demand.

I was proud of my success, but that very same success had taken me away from doing what I loved.

Baking.

Putting my heart into it.

I shove my hair out of my face and glance at the cake table. Dusty’s not far away from it. It’s like my body has Dusty radar. He looks annoyingly good in a pair of black slacks and a light blue dress shirt.

Like… damn.

I’m trying to tell myself that I’m not at all impressed by how good he cleans up. That clean-shaven jaw. The artfully styled tousled hair.

Or by the way that dress shirt is straining to contain his broad shoulders.

Who am I kidding? The man is a God-damned treat.

My rational side is nursing a bruised ego, but my lower half is his number one fan.

I’ve been painfully aware of where he is and who he’s talking to all night. My gaze finds him like a heat-seeking missile, and I instantly look away.

He’s talking to that skinny bitch again. The one Andy says I have nothing to worry about. My simmering anger ignites yet again. Does she have to look that stunning? She’s got on a little black dress that looks like it was painted on, exposing miles of perfect, shapely legs.

Yeah.

Nothing to worry about.

I find myself desperately wishing I had taken the time to dress up. Even just a little.

And not just for Dusty’s sake.

But… mostly for Dusty’s sake.

I just didn’t expect to be as involved as I have been. Usually, my assistants would transport the cakes. Arrange them. Talk to the wedding directors.

I forgot how much customer facing work is involved with wedding duty.

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