Page 5 of Sapphire Storm

Strengthening his smile, he stepped forward firmly andextended his hand. “Good evening, Mr. Walker. I’m Ethan Blake, the hotel’sexecutive pastry chef. I’m so grateful you were able to come out this evening,and I’m so very sorry if some of our earlier samples weren’t to the liking ofour bride and groom. I’m sure we’ll come up with something they’ll just adore.”

Gazing into his eyes with unnerving intensity, shaking hishand as if their joined arms were stuck in molasses, Roman Walker said, “Oh,yeah, this isn’t about them. I wanted to meet you in person. You know, get asense of the man behind the cake.” His voice sounded breathy but distant. Likean attempt at seduction mired in distraction.

“Apologies if I misunderstood.”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong. I want to make sure you’reworking your absolute hardest.” Roman’s eyes scanned Ethan’s body, travelinglow enough to make clear that yes, this had been some attempt at bad porndialogue.

Ethan smiled. “Restassured,thiswill be one of the finest wedding cakes I’ve ever made.”

“Close that.” The young man jerked his head in the directionfrom which Ethan had just come, then wet his lips with the tip of his tongue.

The order was both brusque and inappropriate, but RomanWalker's tone and drowsy half smile suggested Ethan would be happy withthe end resultonce he complied; Ethan felt otherwise.

“Perhaps we leave it open alittle, ifyou don’t mind. The room tends to get a bit warm, especially if it’s beenunoccupied all day. And sugar heats up the blood, as I’m sure you well know.”

“Sugar is poison,” he said. “But sometimes poison can beaddictive, right?”

“One way of putting it. Have you had a chance to try any ofthe samples?”

Was Roman’s sudden glare meant to be seductive? Even if itwasn’t, Ethan thought it best to swiftly put some distance between it and himby walking along the edge of the table and taking up a position a few pacesaway.

“No,” Roman finally said. “I was waiting for you to lay itall out for me, big man.” The fitfluencer leaned against the edge of the tableand looked from Ethan to the cake slices.Big man. Sugar is poison.Flirting,or making a dig about Ethan’s weight? Ethan was pretty regular with his gymtime, but his abdomen had developed a mind of its own when he turnedthirty-five, and noamountof sit-ups had been able torestore the washboard stomach of his youth. When he saw Ethan’s blankexpression, Roman laughed, an awkward, nasally sound that didn’t match the poisedperfection of the rest of him. “Sorry,” he said quickly, “you just, uh. I’m alittle nervous.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t be, Mr. Walker. Restassured,all the resources of this hotel are at your disposal. We’ll make sure youremployers are nothing but pleased, I guarantee it.”

“No, I mean about you, Mr. Blake. You look as good as you doon TV.”

“Oh, I see,” he said, realization dawning. “Cake Face,I take it.”

Roman nodded, resting his hip against the edge of the table.“You were too hard on that girl from Minnesota, though. Her cake totally lookedlike Eleanor Roosevelt.”

“Eleanor Roosevelt in a tornado, perhaps.”

“Whatever. I was really into it.”

“The cake or the show?” he asked.

“You,” Roman said.

Ethan swallowed. “Thank you. I did it as a favor for afriend I used to work with. It was supposed to be a web series. I never expectedNetflix to pick it up.”

Roman took several steps toward him. “Hey, now. It waseducational. For some of us, at least. I mean, I know way more about a bunch ofour old presidents than I did before.”

The show had required its contestants to make cakes thatlooked like famous dead people while baking and bickering and gettingobnoxiously drunk inside a warehouse decked out like a cheap spaceship. Ethanhad been a judge for the “Grand Old Pavlovas” episode, in which the playerswere required to capture the visages of famous pre-Eisenhower-era politicalfigures, and the season finale in which the winner had been declared. If RomanthoughtCake Facewas designed to inform, he’d probably skipped the“It’s Buttercream, Bitch” episode, in which the entries had to be fashionedafter ’90s pop stars. Although, given his age, maybe that would have been aneducation for him too.

“I never thought about it that way.”

“Also, you look good on TV.” Roman ran his finger throughone of the slices, scooping up a dollop of icing on one finger. “But you’d lookgood anywhere.” He sucked the icing off gently.

Is this kid for real?Ethan thought, even as hefelt an involuntary stirring down below.

Was it remotely possible a fitfluencer drowning in sexualattention had become so smitten with him after his brief appearance on a lousyreality baking show that he’d staged this meeting just to get him alone in ahotel room? The notion was absurd, but for some reason, Roman Walker expectedhim to believe it. It didn’t matter. The man was entirely too young anddirectly associated with one of Ethan’s biggest jobs that year, which renderedhim epically off-limits. What the meeting needed was a quick change of tone. Asa seasoned hotel employee, he’d long ago learned the best method for deflectingan unwanted advance—change the subject to a nonsexual topic that made the guestfeel important.

“You know, I could use your help with something, Mr.Walker,” Ethan proclaimed.

“Call me Roman,” he said.

“Roman, then. I’m not sure if anyone’s told you this, but Ihave a specialty for weddings. Other than the cake, of course. It’s acustomized dessert I make out of one of the couple’s favorite memories.”

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