Will adjusted his position on the barstool. “Adam mentioned cupcakes for that one. To mix it up.”
“Okay, perfect. What if we did the caramel apple cake as cupcakes that night? I could use my autumn harvest colors for the frosting.”
The light was back. Mission accomplished.
She was on a roll now. “And for the engagement party, what about cinnamon pecan petit fours? With caramel orange icing?”
His stomach growled in resounding agreement. “And for the couple’s shower?”
She tapped her polka-dotted pencil against her chin. “A different batch of cupcakes?”
“What about snickerdoodles?”
Her smile wavered, just slightly, but enough that he noticed. The mention of the cookies had disappointed her. She corrected, but it was too late. “Sure. That’d be . . . good.”
She said good the way a person would have naturally said sewer. Or toxic waste. “It was just an idea.”
He could have kicked himself, but he still had no idea what he’d done wrong. Or why disappointing her was one of the most unsettling things he’d ever experienced in his life.
He pressed his fingers against his temples. This bakery was like some kind of time warp. It did things to him, made him forget the past and wish for a different future and expect things in the present.
So, so dangerous.
“Did I say something wrong?” He had to know. The longer he sat there, the more trapped he felt, caught in a perfectly wonderful, terrible, addicting kind of parallel universe. He’d never cared what people thought before. He lived his life, did his duty, took care of those he was responsible for, and that was it. If someone didn’t like it or how he went about doing it, that was their problem. He knew his role in life and performed it well. He never intentionally hurt anyone, but he’d learned not to waste time on opinions.
And somehow, suddenly, offending Charlotte or hurting her feelings seemed akin to a sin he couldn’t bounce back from.
She shook her head, not speaking, which only confirmed that yes, he’d said something horribly wrong.
“Charlotte?”
She averted her eyes, rearranging the remaining samples on the tray between them. A fierce and irrational desire came over him—to knock the cakes out of the way, slide over the counter, cradle that adorable face of hers in both hands, and insist she confess right away. After he kissed her, of course.
The more rational part of him was staying busy just trying to convince the first part not to act.
“You didn’t say anything wrong.” She rolled in her lower lip, an innocent action that increased his initial desire tenfold. “I just . . . I just forgot.”
Forgot what?
Unfortunately, judging by the seconds ticking away on the cupcake-shaped clock on the wall, he might never know.
A hushed silence pulsed over the counter. Then came her voice, small and timid and two octaves hopeful. “I could make a snickerdoodle cookie cake.”
The proposition sounded like a peace offering. But what was she even apologizing for?
“That sounds delicious. And unique.” His voice sounded tired, even to his own ears.
“Will Brittany like it?”
Who cared anymore? But yes, she would. He nodded in affirmation.
She kept shuffling the samples around the tray. “And you . . . you’ll like it?”
He met her gaze, suspecting that something immensely important was riding on that question, but for the life of him, he was unable to decipher exactly what. All of the people skills, survival skills, and analytical skills he’d developed over the course of his career were absolutely useless in the undertow of Charlotte’s sea-blue eyes. “I’d like it a lot.”
Was that his voice, so husky? He sounded like he had strep throat.
He rocked back off the barstool so forcefully that it clattered to the floor. He had to get out of this bakery. Before those cake samples went flying and he did something really stupid and totally wonderful.
Like kiss Charlotte Cantrell and forget all his obligations and promises to his sister.
It’d been a week since Will had flown off The Dough Knot’s barstool so fast that he hadn’t even picked a wedding cake flavor. Charlotte wasn’t sure if she should call him, wait for him to contact her, or just go ahead and pick a flavor by herself. He hadn’t even come in for his customary Tuesday cookie purchase. What had gone so wrong that he propelled himself out of the bakery with little more than “Gotta go, see you later”?
She had replayed their conversation over and over in her head, but couldn’t see where she’d offended him. She had embarrassed herself, for sure, by connecting with him . . . really connecting . . . only to remember he was taken the moment he said the magic word, snickerdoodle.
When would she ever learn?