A wave of guilt pressed on Charlotte’s shoulders, familiar and tangible. Had she been too flirty with this mystery man, considering she knew he wasn’t available?
Charlotte had been on the other side of that equation. The rugged, football-playing smooth talker she’d dated her senior year in college hadn’t been entirely honest about his relationship status—in other words, he’d outright lied to her face and was engaged to someone else. Charlotte ended up in the role of the “other woman,” the home wrecker. And even if it had been unintentional, it was both painful and guilt-inducing, and she never intended to go that route again.
Once she found out the truth, that was the end of it, despite the positive sign on the pregnancy test. She would go it alone as a single mom, for better or worse. She was done with the handsome, charming types who knew, along with the rest of the female population, that they were handsome and charming.
As she told Zoe every time her daughter asked where her future stepfather was—they were waiting for God to send them a safe, predictable nerd.
Preferably one who bought baked goods for her, not for another woman.
Charlotte slipped the snickerdoodles into the bakery’s signature turquoise and brown box, then removed her plastic glove and punched the buttons on the register. He was already handing her a five-dollar bill. At this rate, he might as well start a tab.
“Listen, there’s something you should know.” He darted a glance over his shoulder at the picture window, then back at her, a sudden seriousness lighting his hazel eyes. “There’s sort of this wedding, and . . .”
Wedding. Her stomach knotted. Of course. So Melissa was a fiancée. She dropped the money into the register and slid out his change, the quarters clanging loudly against the metal drawer. Why on earth did men not wear engagement rings the way women did? It wasn’t fair to not be able to tell at a glance that a man was taken.
Still, it didn’t matter. Not really. This man wasn’t safe. Not judging by the things he did to her stomach. And while he might be a little predictable with the every-Tuesday-cookie thing, he wasn’t a nerd. Not by far.
Charlotte needed “safe” for her and Zoe. This guy was a five-alarm fire.
“Wedding. Right.” She fought for her most professional smile as she handed him his change and receipt, trying not to imagine what he’d look like in a tuxedo at the end of a long church aisle. “Congratulations.”
Her mind raced through a blur of images, snippets of conversation pulled from their interactions over the past several weeks. How in the world had she known his favorite color was green, and that he loved desserts with extra nuts, and that he liked camping in Arkansas—yet didn’t know he was getting married?
“No, no.” He looked over his shoulder once more at the door, lowering his voice. “It’s not for—”
“Here it is!” The door to The Dough Knot flung open as if rocked on its hinges by the force of the proclamation. A short, stick-thin brunette rushed inside, flaunting a white tank top with the word Bride spelled across the front in hot-pink rhinestones. On her heels trailed a guy in a ball cap and ripped jeans who mouthed the words I’m sorry as they entered.
This had to be Brittany, the Bridezilla who had the appointment for the cake tasting. She was early.
And even louder in person than she’d been on the phone.
Charlotte pasted on her most patient, professional smile—one she’d mastered over years of donating free pastries to school bake sales. She refused to complain about Brittany—or to Brittany, for that matter. Cake sampling equaled potential customers, and potential customers equaled money in the bank—not to mention exposure and word of mouth. The majority of The Dough Knot’s custom wedding business came from guests who wanted a similar cake for their own upcoming nuptials.
And considering this past quarter’s bottom line containing all of her spring wedding business, she couldn’t afford not to keep Brittany happy. Not if she wanted to keep Zoe in private school, and keep them both in the safe, friendly apartment complex where they lived. Not if she wanted to keep baking.
And attempting to atone for her past.
“It’s smaller than I pictured.” Brittany planted her hands on her hips as she gave the bakery a quick look of disdain. Then she shrugged a tan shoulder. “But I guess we shouldn’t judge the quality of the cake by the shop’s décor.”