Page 90 of Passing Ships

As the night wears on, the cake begins to take shape. The final layer of buttercream is smoothed over the surface, and I help Jessica carefully place the delicate sugar coral and shells she crafted around the edges. They’re beautiful little works of art that make the cake look like something out of a fairy tale.

When we finally step back to admire our handiwork, it’s nearly dawn.

“Okay, so the time they give on The Great British Baking Show is a little skewed,” I admit as the first light of morning filters through the windows, casting a soft glow over the bakery.

The cake is perfect—an elegant, towering creation that looks nothing like the disaster we caused just hours before.

Jessica lets out a low whistle. “You two did good. Really good. Now, get out of here. I’ll call in a favor and have this delivered to the venue this afternoon.”

I throw my arms around her, and it catches her off guard.

“Thank you so much. I’m sorry we kept you up all night.”

“Yeah, and we’ll stay to help you clean up,” Lennon says as he tosses seven hundred dollars on the counter.

“No, no. My staff will be here shortly. They can handle that. You two need some sleep. You have a big day today.”

He tosses another hundred-dollar bill on top of the stack as he turns to me.

“Not bad for a couple of cake wreckers, huh?”

I laugh. “Not bad at all.”

Amiya

Thank God it’s a sunset wedding.

Lennon and I made it home at five. We didn’t even bother showering off the flour and frosting before crawling into bed. I set the alarm for ten so I could get up and showered to meet the girls at the cottage.

I wake Lennon as I’m leaving.

“Do you need to ride with me?” I ask.

“No. Wade’s picking me up,” he mumbles.

He gets up and staggers to the kitchen to make coffee.

“Okay. See you there.”

I grab my keys just as a knock vibrates the back door.

“Fuck. That must be him,” he says.

I open the door, and standing on the deck in a well-tailored Armani suit is Allen Chamberlin. He’s the wealthy owner of an Atlanta-based engineering firm, who has been asking me out since I began managing his portfolio over a year ago.

“Allen,” I say, trying to hide the frustration in my voice.

I meant to call to politely uninvite him, but it slipped my mind in the chaos of last night.

“Hi, Amiya. Am I early?” he asks as he looks at my lounge pants and tee.

Lennon walks up behind me with a mug of coffee in hand. He’s wearing a pair of sweatpants, but his chest and feet are bare.

“Hi,” Allen greets, confusion evident in his voice.

“Nice to meet you, Allen. I’ve heard so much about you,” Lennon says.

“You have?”

---