Marie Ferrarella - Bridesmaid For Hire

The Shane she’d known back in college had occasionally slipped her notes with drawings of the two of them at the bottom. She recalled that he liked to draw. But back then the only thing he was capable of doing in the kitchen was opening the refrigerator door.

How had he gone from kitchen illiterate to a master baker?

“It’s catchy, don’t you think?” Shane asked. There was a touch of pride in his voice that she found hard to miss now.

“More like incredible,” she admitted.

“That’s a word I usually hear after someone has sampled one of my cakes.” Before she could say anything, Shane changed the conversation’s direction. “When you walked in, you said something about coming here to order a wedding cake.”

She was almost grateful to him. It was as if he had snapped his fingers, getting her out of her mental haze and forcing her to focus on the reason she had come here in the first place. The sooner she stated it, the sooner she could get away.

“Right.” She took out the paper that Theresa had given her. The cake’s specifications were written in the woman’s rather striking handwriting. She focused on it now. “I need to have this cake made and delivered to the Blue Room at the Bedford Hilton Hotel by two o’clock.” Pointing to the line on the paper, she said, “I need it by that date. That’s in three weeks.”

He didn’t bother looking at the paper. “I know when it is—”

“Good then.” She left the paper on the counter for him. “You can send the bill to—”

“—and it’s not possible,” Shane said, completing his sentence.

Caught off guard, she stared at him, wondering if she’d heard him correctly. “Excuse me?”

“I said that it’s not possible,” Shane repeated in the same quiet, calm voice.

“What do you mean it’s not possible?” Gina demanded. “I’m giving you three weeks’ notice.”

“I know,” Shane responded, unfazed. “And I’m booked solid.”

Was he bragging? Okay, she’d let him have his moment. All things considered, he deserved it. She had never wished him ill. She looked around, noticing for the first time that there were framed photographs on the walls. None of him, she noted, but of some of the cakes he had created.

The one that caught her eye was amazingly constructed in the shape of the Eiffel Tower. How did someone even begin to do that? she wondered, stunned.

She looked at Shane, utterly impressed. “You’re doing well, I see.”

Shane nodded and replied without a trace of bravado, “Very well, thanks.”

“And I’m happy for you,” she told him—and she meant it, aside from attempting to get on his good side for the sake of her client. “Surely you can squeeze in one more cake.”

She couldn’t read the expression on his face. But there was no misunderstanding his words. “No,” he replied flatly. “Sorry.”

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