My stomach tightens and drops. I lower my arm to my side but keep the fist.
“But, I personally don’t think we need to. I know you can do this, Brooke. I’ve seen some of the cakes you’ve created, and your detail work is beautiful. Joey’s right. You are a fabulous baker. You’re just nervous.”
“I’m more than nervous.”
Tasting bile in my throat, I begin pacing the room, feeling Dylan’s eyes on me as I wring my hands out.
I’m a fabulous baker. My detail work is beautiful. I can do this.
I swallow thickly and repeat her words in my head like a mantra, hoping for confidence but only butting against my own self-doubt.
This is insane. How can this be happening? How can either one of them think I can handle this? I’m not Dylan.
I am not Dylan.
I think about the bride on her big day, without a cake. I imagine her disappointment and her anger, her sadness and the memories I’m keeping from her with just a simple phone call and some regretful words.
“We’re so sorry,” I will say. “We just can’t do it. Medical reasons. It’s just not possible. Please don’t hate me.”
She’ll cry into my ear or curse me out. Maybe both. Probably both.
I continue to pace, my eyes losing focus somewhere on the floor passing under my feet. “God, I can’t cancel on her. I can’t. It’s her wedding day. I would feel awful.” I rub at my chest, pressing my palm against my heart. It flutters wildly.
“Brooke.”
I can’t cancel. There it is. My decision made, and one that comes with a mound of stress, knowing how easily I can still end up ruining this woman’s wedding day by screwing up this cake. But canceling? I just . . . I can’t do that. I will never do that to someone.
Maybe she’ll be so deliriously happy on Saturday, she won’t notice my blunder in the corner of the reception hall?
I bite at my thumb nail and squint at the floor, the wall. I force air into my lungs and will my pulse to slow.
If I have a stroke right now and Dylan has to go against doctors’ orders and get up to call an ambulance, everyone will hate me for dying.
“Brooke.”
Turning my head at the sharp sound of my name, I focus on Dylan’s face and halt near the window. I lower my hand. “Huh?”
She smiles hesitantly. “Why don’t you do a practice run this weekend? The whole cake. That way if you have any issues or difficulty with any of it, you can figure it out ahead of time. Plus, I’ll be right upstairs if you have questions.” She rolls her eyes, sighing. “You know I’m not going anywhere.”
My spine straightens. A practice run?
I can work on the cake until I get it right. Until I get it perfect.
“Really? Dylan, really?” I move around the bed and stop to stand beside it. “You don’t mind if I stay and work on it after hours? And Sunday?”
“Not if you clean up your mess.”
“I will!” My own excitement startles me. I place a hand to my mouth, a rush of hot breath bursting against my fingers. “Sorry,” I murmur, blushing as I spin to grab my bag. “Okay. Yeah . . . okay, I’m just going to go get changed now.”
Dylan laughs quietly, reaching for her magazine again.
After dressing quickly in my dark washed jeans and a print v-neck top, I pull my hair back into a haphazard bun and dart down the stairs, stowing my bag away before rushing into the main bakery up front.
I have so much to do now that Dylan is bedridden. But first things first.
Joey eyes me curiously while he helps a customer, nudging against my hip as I reach for the design binder on the shelf.
“What are you doing?” he murmurs.
I open the binder on top of the display case and flip to the special orders paperwork we keep in the back flap.
“I want to see what I’m up against with this cake. I’m going to do it. Dylan suggested I practice it this weekend. I want to be prepared.”
“Wow, really? You’re actually going to make a wedding cake by yourself? You?”