Page 11 of 40 and (No Longer) Fighting It
The texts coming through her phone all morning from her brothers, reprimanding her for abandoning the family in favor of her friends, hadn’t helped her mood a bit either. Her perfect brothers with their perfect families and church-going friends who would never dare plan anything on a Sunday night and tempt them to miss family dinner.
How had she managed to end up the black sheep of the family? And why was she still hearing about it at forty?
She sighed, staring down at the bowl of buttercream. There was no use pitching a hissy fit about any of it. She just had to knuckle down and get her work done. And her brothers could take a flying leap.
Compared to the industrial mixer, the mixing bowl for her seventeen-year-old KitchenAid that her grandmother had given her as a wedding gift weighed nothing, but this was the umpteenth batch of buttercream she’d made since seven a.m. and she was tired. Grunting as she lugged the double batch from the counter to the table where the last twelve dozen fresh cupcakes waited for their decorations was merely one miniscule way to release her overwhelming frustration. A frustration that only got worse when Maria entered the kitchen with a couple hundred pounds or so of irritating male trailing behind her.
Claire scowled at Lincoln. “I thought I told you to leave.”
“Now Claire.” Maria tsked, but Claire could see amusement in her eyes. “Is that any way to talk to a handsome man who’s ready and willing to get his hands dirty?”
She certainly couldn’t deny that he was handsome, but that didn’t mean she was going to be congenial about his presence inherkitchen. She slammed her fists onto her hips. “Lincoln Young get his hands dirty in a small-town pastry kitchen?”
But Lincoln had set a bag of something he must’ve bought from the bakery, given it was a bag from her shop, onto the counter near the KitchenAid, and he was already rolling up the sleeves of the navy-blue button-down that made his eyes resemble the summer sky. “Where are the aprons?”
A wicked impulse pulled at her. Giving Maria an impish grin, she retreated to her office and returned with a hot-pink, glittery apron, hemmed in frills, with the wordsBitch, I Am the Secret Ingredientsplashed across the front. It had been a Secret Santa gift from someone in her circle of friends last Christmas, but now it seemed uncannily appropriate.
“Here you go,” she said sweetly.
Maria choked on a laugh.
Lincoln, to his credit, didn’t hesitate, even if his wry grin said he knew she didn’t think he’d dare wear the obnoxious thing. “Secret ingredient, huh?” With a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows, he took the hideous apron from her, lifted it over his head, and proceeded to tie the strings in the back. “Okay, where do you want me?”
“That’s a loaded question,” Maria replied archly as she passed Claire on her way out of the kitchen.
Lincoln’s grin was wry. He held his hands out in awell?gesture.
Well, indeed. She passed him a couple of pastry bags. “Bags.” She pointed to the fluffy lavender-colored buttercream next to a bowl of white. “Icing. Know how to layer those in the bags?”
His look said he wasn’t an idiot. She shrugged. “Okay then. Get to work.”
Her kitchen. She was boss. She waited for the great Lincoln Young to balk, but wonder of wonders, he didn’t. While he prepped the pastry bags full of icing, she piped the honey mascarpone filling into the strawberry cupcakes. Then, setting Lincoln to brush the honey simple syrup that she’d flavored with amaretto over the tops, she took the first pastry bag and bent her aching back to the task of piping out tiny flower after tiny flower to make up the soft purple hydrangea blooms, transforming each cupcake into a massive flower spray. The work was tedious, repetitive, but also calming, and she found herself loosening up despite Lincoln’s invasion of her kitchen.
After she directed Lincoln in mixing another batch of buttercream, she allowed him to begin piping the dotted light-gray centers of the hundreds of tiny blossoms, a task he actually seemed to enjoy if his light humming was any indication. When she finished the flowers and took over the centers, Lincoln retrieved the yellow-orange butterflies she’d already prepped from the fridge and placed them carefully, per her direction, atop the cupcakes, their fiery colors the perfect contrast to the cool purple hue of the blossoms.
Then came the boxing. Twelve dozen cupcakes in perfect pastry boxes, all ready to go, in half the time she would have been able to manage on her own.
Lincoln never argued. He didn’t try to take over. He didn’t search for more efficient ways to complete the task or critique her technique. He simply kept his lips zipped and followed orders.
Lincoln “Iron Chef” Young, following orders. She’d never have believed it without seeing it with her own two eyes.
Her delivery assistant, a college student who helped her part-time, arrived as they were loading the boxes of cupcakes, along with cakes and pies, croissants and bread, into Claire’s SUV.
“Thanks for working with me, Brandon,” Claire said, wiping a clump of dried icing off her apron. “I know the delay today threw your schedule off too.”
“No problem, Claire.” The handsome twentysomething winked as he took Claire’s keys. “You know I’d do anything for you.”
She swatted his arm. “Get moving.”
Brandon blew her a kiss as he got into the SUV.
Claire turned to go back into the bakery, only to find Lincoln standing, feet planted, arms crossed over his broad chest, glaring down the car.
“What’s your problem?”
She had to wonder why God had chosen to remove the filter that usually guarded her tongue only when it came to this hopelessly sexy chef.
“He’s young enough to be your kid.”
