Page 17 of The Plan
I’m abruptly pulled from my daydream when I feel burning heat on my cheek. “Going somewhere nice?” Blake asks as he wipes some icing sugar off before sticking his tongue out and licking his thumb clean.
Holy shit, that sight does things to me.
When he raises an eyebrow at me, I remember he’d asked me a question, although I now have no fucking clue as to what it was. “Um…yes,” I say sceptically.
His laughter points to the fact that wasn’t the best answer.
“The power’s back on.” His eyes flick to the kettle so I break away from his intense stare to make us both a drink. “This really is incredible,” he says from behind me. When I look over my shoulder, he’s taking in my half-finished creation. It’s a three-tiered wedding cake that will have a swirl of roses wrapping around it.
“Thank you.”
“Is there any to eat?”
“No, not yet. Once I’ve finished and photographed it you can eat the lot if you like. For now, though, I can offer you a sandwich?”
“That’s perfect, thank you. So how long will it be until it’s finished?”
“Tomorrow, probably.”
“What?” he asks with a sad face.
“It’ll be worth it,” I say, thinking of the deep red velvet cake and creamy butter icing hiding under the fondant.
* * *
“So what’s the plan with this cake making, then?” Blake asks when I join him at the table with a giant cheese sandwich for him and a salad for me. I don’t miss his look of disapproval as his eyes glance at my salad. I may be all for enjoying myself now, but I’m not going to let it all slip away from me. I would still like to fit into some of those designer clothes I have.
“I need to get a portfolio of work together so that I have something to advertise with, and I’ll have to see how it goes from there. What I would really love is to have my own bakery in town. I used to love going to that old one on the high street with my mum when I was a kid. They had a couple of seats in the window and after a day of shopping she’d take me in there and get me a milkshake and a massive slice of lardy cake. I used to love looking at everything they had in the counter and watching the lady behind making fresh batches of sausage rolls and pastries. I was so sad when I found out it’d closed.”
“I think you would make a killing. People around here would love an old-fashioned bakery. To get anything out of the ordinary we have to go into Belfast.”
“We’ll see.” It might all sound like a great plan but I haven’t ever run a business before, let alone a bakery. It’s going to take a lot of work—most of which I haven’t even considered yet. One thing at a time; let’s see if anyone wants to pay money for my cakes first.”
“You can do it,” Blake says with such confidence it warms me from the inside out. I smile at him and we both continue eating, lost in thought, but I don’t miss his eyes looking up at me.
“You should speak to Cara,” he says, suddenly piping up and ruining any thought I was having that he could be sat there thinking about me like I am him. The look on my face must make him realise I have no idea what he’s talking about. “She’s a designer. She did all my stuff,” he says, pointing to the logo on his t-shirt. “She’s great. She could help you with a website and whatever else you need.”
“I haven’t even got a name yet, let alone considered a website,” I admit.
“You got this, baker girl. Don’t even sweat it. Your cakes are incredible; people will be begging you for them, just you wait and see.
Right, I’ve got a meeting with some fences,” he announces before taking his plate and mug to the sink and disappearing, leaving me with only the image of his arse walking out and his confidence in me.
It’s refreshing to hear it.
Edward never encouraged me to do anything other than fit the image he and his family wanted portrayed. Hearing Blake sound so sure of my success makes me want to do it even more.
* * *
I clear up before getting back to my roses but I only get a couple made before something else distracts me.
Blake.
He’s ripped down the old fence but he’s only just come into view as I stand in front of the kitchen window. He’s digging a hole, which means he keeps bending over and giving me a great shot of his behind and the little bit of skin that appears when his t-shirt rides up.
I’ve no idea how long I stand gawping at him, but eventually he stands up and drops the shovel before turning around. It all happens in slow motion. He lifts the bottom of his t-shirt and slowly but surely reveals inches upon inches of taught, tanned skin as he brings the fabric up to his face to wipe the sweat and mud away.
I’m staring, I know I am. I also know that my mouth has dropped open and I’m a few seconds away from drooling, but I can’t help it. The man’s like a fucking piece of art. Then, I panic, because his eyes lock on mine. I expect him to laugh or at least smirk at me for blatantly ogling him, but he does neither. He just stands and stares back, like he’s trying to tell me something, but I have no clue what it is.
