Page 57 of Revenge Cake

CHAPTER 23

Present Day

Leilani

Item 1—Makeover

Item 2—Lure him back

Item 3—Seduce him

Logan: I’m coming over.

I smile wide as I set my phone down on my counter, resisting the urge to squeal in delight.

I did it.

I’m a master.

I’m so confident in my success today, I already started baking the Closure Cake: a two-tiered chocolate cake with a smooth custard filling and bittersweet chocolate buttercream frosting. A perfect representation of our failed relationship. A soft, gooey, and ultimately insubstantial core encased in a bittersweet tomb—bitter because he fucked me over with Keira, sweet because at least I’m making him pay for it.

And I’m dressed like a whore, like the femme fatale of Logan’s wildest fantasy and worst nightmare. I applied just enough makeup to make my skin glow without looking like I’m wearing any at all. I spritzed so much beach spray into my carefully unkempt hair, I smell like a god damn Pina Colada. My short white sundress is practically lingerie, barely covering the tan skin I lathered with enough lotion to make me look—just a little—sweaty. Like I need a bath after working in this hot kitchen.

I’m so dirty, Logan. Wash me.

I smile as I touch my cakes to test their temperatures. No, still too warm. They need another five minutes.

And in just five more minutes, Logan James Henderson will walk through that door, just as I start to frost his own Closure Cake.

It’s poetry.

I’m so giddy, I need occupation. I take the custard out of the fridge and give it an unnecessary stir. I check the cake more often than I should, and ultimately remove them from their tins too soon out of impatience, as if I can get him here faster by speeding up the clock.

After what feels like an eternity, I check my phone. Eight minutes have past. I bite my bottom lip, wondering if he’s sitting in his car right now debating whether or not he should come in.

Or maybe he called her to talk him out of his impulsive decision.

I try not to think about it as I start to assemble the cake.

But trying not to think about it is futile. I’m practically counting the seconds as I spread the gooey custard across the bottom layer. Just when I’m about to check my phone again, I hear a knock at the door, and I feel almost drunk with relief.

If he did call her, she wasn’t able to convince him.

I ignore the knock, knowing he’ll let himself in. I walk to the fridge and pull out the glass bowl of frosting, making sure I bend over far enough to show off my freshly shaved legs. Footsteps pound over the living room carpet. In my periphery, I see a dark figure appear at the entrance of the kitchen.

“I guess congratulations are in order,” he says, not sounding congratulatory in the least.

“Thank you.”

As I plunge the wooden spoon into the dark brown lump of frosting, I set my other hand on my hip to make my short dress ride up my thigh.

“When were you planning on telling me?”

I grit my teeth, annoyed that he hasn’t seemed to notice my dress yet. “I’m not supposed to contact you.”

“And this doesn’t seem like it would be an exception to you?”

“Why would it be an exception?”

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