Page 77 of Faking It with the Firefighter

Abigail shrugged. “Tourism is good for the town. Plus, all those trendy tourists will want to book at the new Monticello Hotel when it’s open. And that’s a good thing for Charlie and Sebastian and the rest of the town. Even you.”

“I guess that’s true, but it still doesn’t answer my question. How did you manage to arrange this?” I asked again, not letting her off the hook.

“Well,” she started. “Sinclair has recently become a client of mine. He’s looking to buy some commercial property.”

I wiped my butter-and-sugar-smeared finger on my apron as I spun toward her. “What! Have you lost your mind? What about everything he put Charlie through this year?”

“I know. I know. But he’s not a threat to Charlie anymore. And the way I look at it, if I’m his agent, then I can be sure toshow him only the appropriate properties—not the historical ones that Charlie’s meant to protect.”

“Is that like a Trojan horse thing?” I asked. “You’ll be on the inside?”

“Sure. Except I’m not planning to take him down,” she said. “He’s switched gears. He’s trying to rehab his image.”

“I get it. I’m sure you’ve had your fill of sabotage this week,” I joked.

“Hey.” Abigail playfully shoved my shoulder, and I rocked back, elbowing the middle tier of the wedding cake. The cake wobbled, and Abigail yelped.

I lunged forward to catch the middle tier. My fingers sank through the buttercream to the Styrofoam beneath, and I caught the cake before it toppled off the counter. We shared one of thoseI-can’t-believe-that-just-happenedlooks.

“Oh, my God, Sophie. I did it again!” she said, looking genuinely dismayed at her next bout of sabotage.

A little giggle slipped through my lips, and Abigail groaned—then began to laugh. I wiped the frosting off my elbow and did my best to smooth the dimples in the cake. “Don’t worry about it. Nothing a bit of buttercream won’t fix.” I looked at the stand mixer and added a couple extra sticks of butter. I might need more if Abigail stuck around any longer.

“Abigail! I need you!” Blair shrilled from a distance.

“Think I can hide behind the cake?” Abigail asked.

“I think you should step away from the cake now,” I said, leading her off to the side as we both giggled. Blair called for her again.

Abigail rolled her eyes. “I guess I'd better go see what’s going on. Will you be here for the ceremony?”

“Of course! How could I not stay for part two? I just need to duck back to the café to help with the lunch rush, and then I’ll be back here in time to see the vows.”

“I’ll see you later then.”

I watched Abigail walk off, then glanced at my watch. I needed to hurry. I finished the buttercream, taste-tested it (obviously), then got to work icing the bottom layers. Then I piped the borders and moved the top tiers of real cake back onto the bottom two fake ones.

When I got married, I’d have real cake all the way through. And I wouldn’t live stream my wedding to anyone. It would be intimate and small, and exactly how I wanted it.

Yeah, right, my mind scoffed.You’ll be able to magically stand up to the family’s expectations?

I huffed and refocused on the icing. With one last swirl of fresh buttercream to hide the cake boards holding up the top tiers, I was done.

Time to get back to work.

As I packed up and made my way through the back door toward the parking lot, I saw a man striding toward the vines in the distance, broad and tall and tanned. His soft blond hair had a little waviness through it, and his teeth were pearly-white and perfect, just like the rest of him.

On the outside.

Theo Sinclair. The man who’d tried to destroy Charlie’s beloved home. I scowled at the sight of him, then scurried to my car. Abigail might be willing to entertain him, but I wasn’t. I’d be staying away from Theo Sinclair if it was the last thing I did.

TWENTY-SIX

ABIGAIL

Blair neededme to stand in while they adjusted the lighting at the altar so she’d look her best during the live stream. Our build and coloring were similar, and she needed to do her hair and makeup, so she pushed me toward the video team.

In the ceremony space, a dozen workers rushed to get the chairs set up. Shouts echoed through the building, and the distant din of the reception hall could be heard—caterers and sponsors jostling for space, some of Sinclair’s staff trying to control the chaos, and even a full-on security team to hold down a perimeter around the vineyard. The live stream from the fire had caused a swell of excitement, and a bunch of rabid fans were trying to sneak into the wedding.

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