Page 6 of You Cake My Breath Away

“Oh great! We’ve read over your application and would love for you to come in and do a live audition for the show. Any chance you could be here this weekend?”

I rear back, surprised at her offer. I hadn’t expected to even get a call, seeing as I was so close to the cut-off time. Flying out to Tennessee on short notice isn’t ideal, but I can make it work.

“Yes,” I reply, already tapping out a message to my hardware store employees letting them know I’ll be gone. “I can be there. What time and where?”

As I’m sending the message, another one from Tilly comes in. She texted earlier saying we needed to talk, but I thought it was a perfunctory message spurred by Nora’s meddling. I start typing out a response but stop myself—again. Now that I know she found the sale paperwork, I need to make sure I have my story in order before I talk to her.

“I’ll send you an email with all the details,” the woman says with a chipper voice before hanging up.

All the tension releases from my body, and I sag into the aluminum chair in front of the worktop. This opportunity could be my big break, a way to prove I don’t need to be a doctor—like the rest of my family—to be worthy of the Wilson last name.

Her email comes through five minutes after the call ends. I open the attachments, noting the outgoing flight they booked for me on Saturday and a return flight for Monday morning. I’ll miss Sunday dinner, and Tilly’s birthday celebration, but I need this. She won’t care that I’m notthere, and I’m not sure I’m ready to see her yet either. At least not until I can think through what I need to say to her.

My footsteps are lighter as I stroll into my office, drop my phone on the desk, and unroll the draft paper along the surface. Photos of me, Jessie, and my brother Sebastian are hung on the wall, memories of laughter and the chaos of three young boys growing up in the suburbs of South Texas. My gaze slides to another picture—one I hate looking at yet can’t manage to let go—of me, Jessie, and Tilly. The Three Musketeers. Jessie’s in the middle of us—like he’s always been—but while they’re both staring at the camera with big smiles on their faces, I’m captivated by Tilly’s effervescent charm.

A knot lodges in my throat as I stare down at the picture, and shame washes over me. It’s been more than five years, but my heart still does that funny thing when I think about what could’ve been years ago had I not felt this overwhelming debt to Jessie.

My ribs squeeze tight, and disgust pours into my sternum. I shake my head, lip curling at myself for letting envy seep into my thoughts. Jessie saved my life. And I made him a promise long ago that I wouldn’t interfere, that I would let these feelings I’ve had for Tilly since we met dissolve.

Just because he’s gone doesn’t mean she’s meant for me now.

Blinking away the wetness on my lashes, I grab a pencil and get to work on a blueprint, ensuring I can at least keep the promise of constructing Tilly’s bakery by the beginning of the year.

Chapter four

Tilly

Life may be about dancing in the rain, but only for those fortunate souls who have never encountered an unexpected storm in San Antonio. The ceaseless rain nearly topples me over as I cross the street, seeking refuge under the sun-bleached awning of my favorite coffee shop. The familiar scents of hazelnut and cinnamon flow out of the small café as I head inside, heralding a sense of peace to what has been a chaotic morning. A new patchwork tapestry hangs on the wall beside a dozen bedazzled crosses, the muted sound of mariachi music playing through the stereo behind the barista.

“Caramel macchiato,” Violet says, placing the cup on the counter for another customer. My mouth waters picturing the flavors bursting on my tongue. Usually I’d love a frothy drink like that, but on a day like today, where Ineedto feel close to Jessie, simply drinking his favorite flavored latte draws his memory so close I can almost imagine he’s there beside me.

My phone vibrates in my hand, and I catch a glance of the notification.

Shantel: Boy, do I have a present for you!

I roll my eyes, still perturbed at her for the subterfuge leaving my house the other day. Curious, I swipe the screen and am ambushed by another dating profile she deemed good enough to send me. It’s like ever since I made the decision to get my life back on track, she assumes that means I’m ready to start dating again.

“Tilly?” Violet calls, snapping my attention away from the shirtless, blond-haired man on my phone.

“Yeah?”

She shakes the cup with her thick brows raised. “Here’s your drink.”

“My drink?” I ask, dumbfounded. “I didn’t order yet.”

She stares at me like I’m talking gibberish and says, “Traffic light earrings, hair in space buns, comes in Tuesdays and Thursdays around ten for a peppermint latte.” She shrugs. “Figured it was easier to just have it ready.”

My cheeks heat. Have I become that predictable? I step forward and grab the cup, warmth encompassing my hand as I wordlessly offer her the debit card from my pocket.

“It’s on the house,” Rosie, the elderly owner says with a wide smile, highlighting the deep wrinkles at the corner of her brown eyes as she comes to the counter. “Did you bring me more cupcakes?”

“Thank you.” Appreciating the kind gesture, I tuck my card into my pocket. Jessie’s life insurance policy left me with more than enough to live on for the rest of my life, but I won’t touch it. I’d rather use the money I get baking desserts for my parents’ restaurants to supply any needs I might have. “I need to pick up some ingredients, but I’ll bring some by tomorrow.”

“When are you going to stop dragging your ass and finally open your own bakery?” She pins me with a cold stare and pinched lips, the look of a woman who means business. “I need my mango habanero cupcakes daily.”

I laugh at her bluntness, reminded of something Jessie said before he passed. This was his favorite coffee shop. He always said the owner reminded him of his mother and her candor, never one to blanch awayfrom speaking their mind. My heart simultaneously warms and withers with the memory.

“Maybe one day.” I sigh and gulp down a swig of the latte, allowing the overly sweet peppermint drink to sooth my rain-chilled bones. Since graduating culinary school, I’ve made ends meet by supplying the bakery cases in my parents’ restaurants with old-fashioned pies, red velvet cakes, and an assortment of cookies, but I can’t lie that I die a little more inside each time.

---