Page 39 of Holiday Wedding
Caleb nods. “Exactly.”
“What?” asks Dean. “Are you joking? Is this a prank?” He looks around the sunlight-filled penthouse living room, with its floor-to-ceiling windows and 103-inch flat-screen TV like he expectsCandid Cameramen to jump out at any minute.
His reaction stings.
Would it really be so awful to be fake engaged to me?
“I’m serious,” Caleb answers. “I’m sorry it’s an imposition, but I need your help.”
“I don’t know,” says Dean, hesitating. “You’re the actor. Not us. What if they find out we’re lying?”
I turn to him and ask, “What’s the worst that could happen? They ban us from their shop.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, the seriousness of that consequence hits me. I don’t want to lose access to those cupcakes.
My voice pitches high as I ask Caleb, “That wouldn’t happen, right? They wouldn’t kick us out and tell us we could never go back?”
“Why do you sound so panicked?” asks Dean.
“You don’t understand how good they are.” I’m willing to do a lot of things for my friends, but giving up those cupcakes would push me to my limit.
“No one is going to take away your precious cake,” Caleb reassures me. “They’re not checking for a marriage license. Just act like you’re getting hitched. Pretend you’re in love.”
Dean and I exchange a doubt-filled glance, then look quickly away. A warm flush travels up my neck.
Caleb smiles his most charming smile and clasps his hands together with a drawn-out, “Please?”
That man is one heck of an actor. He’s got me convinced. Who am I kidding? He had me at “cake.”
Dean, on the other hand, is still doubtful. “Really?” he asks Caleb, who nods firmly.
“Okay.” Dean takes a deep breath, gathers himself, and asks me, “You ready for this?”
“Are you serious? I was born for this.” I spring to my feet and head toward the door.
We enter the elevator and stand side by side, facing forward. “Hey,” I say, biting the inside of my cheek. “I want to say I’m sorry about that incident with Eddie. I realize you were trying to do something nice for me and I responded by getting mad at you.”
I’d talked to Gwen on the phone about that lunch and the fight on the sidewalk. She’d pointed out how Dean was being his usual protective self. She said that’s what he does. Throws himself in front of any obstacles that might hurt someone else. In this case, the obstacle was Eddie, and Dean’sfake boyfriend act was his way of shielding me. By the time we hung up, I’d felt like a fool for getting so upset.
Dean lets out a breath. “It’s okay. I should be the one to apologize. Not everyone needs rescuing. Sometimes I forget that.”
I smile at him, a wide, relieved grin. “No worries. I like your ‘pour my drink on Eddie’ idea, though. Wish I’d thought of it myself.”
Dean’s lips twitch. “I’d like to see that,” he says as the elevator dings open on the first floor.
Twenty minutes later, we’re in the East Village. Dean and I skirt around the long line of people waiting to order at the bakery counter and head to the back where there’s a door with a bell and a sign that reads, “By Appointment Only.”
Dean pushes the button. A chime faintly rings somewhere. After a minute, a young woman wearing a flour-dusted apron comes out. She wipes her hands on a towel. “Mr. Jones?” she addresses Dean, who stares at her blankly. He doesn’t respond to the fake name Caleb used to book the appointment until I jab him with my elbow. Then he steps forward and hastily says, “That’s me.” They shake and Dean gestures my way. “This is my— er—fiancée, Jennifer.”
“Hi, I’m Laura.”
Her fingers are cool and slightly damp when I shake her hand. “So nice to meet you. I absolutely love your cupcakes,” I gush as we follow her into the back of the bakery. We pass through a bustling kitchen that smells like my version of heaven, sugary and sweet. I inhale, savoring it.
Laura opens a door and ushers us into a small room with a round table and two seats. There’s a pitcher of water on the table, along with cups, napkins, and forks.
“Please have a seat,” she instructs. “I’ll be right back with your cake samples.”
Dean takes off his suit jacket and carefully places it over the back of the chair, smoothing the shoulders, and sits. The chairs are a delicate metal, like ones you might find in a garden. I worry that Dean’s seat might collapse from that muscular body sitting on it. The room is painted a pale lavender. Framed pictures of elegantly frosted cakes hang on the walls.
The staff has decorated for Christmas. A picture of Santa eating cookiesis centered over our table and a small ceramic Christmas tree with tiny lit-up ornaments is a centerpiece.
