Page 56 of Saddle and Scent
My hands are coated in buttercream and regret, flour dusting every surface within a five-foot radius of where I've been working.
The Hendersons' daughter is getting married next weekend, and they specifically requested "something elegant but not too fancy"—which is baker-speak for "we want perfection but we're only paying for decent."
The problem isn't the cake.
The problem is my brain, which keeps wandering to silver-streaked hair and storm-gray eyes, to the way Juniper lookedyesterday in the rain, soaked through and defiant as ever. The problem is the scent memory that clings to everything—honeysuckle and stubborn determination, sweetness cut with the kind of wild energy that makes my chest tight and my hands shake.
Hence the stress baking.
When I can't sleep, I bake. When I'm worried, I bake. When I miss someone so fiercely, it feels like a physical ache, I bake until my arms are sore, and the ovens have been running so long they're practically smoking.
Today, I've made six dozen dinner rolls, two apple pies, a batch of experimental lavender shortbread, and this fucking wedding cake that refuses to cooperate.
I step back from the latest disaster, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist, and survey the carnage. Powdered sugar has settled over everything like snow, mixing with the flour to create a fine coating of baking debris. Empty mixing bowls are stacked in precarious towers by the sink, and I'm pretty sure there's buttercream in my hair.
This is what happens when I let my emotions get the better of me.
The morning started normally enough—coffee at five, first batch of bread in the ovens by five-thirty, the familiar rhythm of mixing and kneading that usually centers me.
But then Wes had shown up with that shit-eating grin and the news that he was taking breakfast to Juniper, and everything went sideways.
The way he'd said her name, like it was something precious.
The careful way he'd selected which pastries to take, choosing her favorites without even thinking about it.
The fact that after ten years, we all still know exactly what makes her smile.
By seven, I was elbow-deep in cake batter, muttering curses at the mixing bowl like it had personally offended me.
By eight, I'd moved on to aggressive pie crust rolling, taking out my frustrations on innocent dough.
Now it's nearly nine, and I'm contemplating whether setting the whole kitchen on fire might be a more productive use of my time.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Beck." Ray's voice cuts through my flour-induced haze, heavy with exasperation. "You've been at this for six hours straight. The ovens haven't stopped running, you've got enough baked goods back here to feed a small army, and you're muttering at that cake like it owes you money."
I don't look up from the disaster I'm trying to salvage, carefully piping a border of rosettes that are supposed to hide the structural issues plaguing the middle tier.
"It's a wedding cake, Ray. It has to be perfect."
"It's a wedding cake for the Hendersons, who think caviar is fish bait and champagne is what you drink when beer runs out." Ray leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, studying me with the kind of look usually reserved for mental health interventions. "They're not gonna notice if the roses are slightly lopsided."
He's not wrong, but that's not the point.
The point is that when my hands are busy, my brain can't spiral into all the ways I've fucked up my life.
When I'm focused on buttercream consistency and proper temperature control, I can't think about the way Juniper used to laugh at my terrible jokes, or how she'd steal bites of whatever I was making before it was finished, or the fact that I've been in love with her since I was seventeen and too stupid to know what to do about it.
"Maybe you need to go find some Omega pussy to work out all this sexual frustration," Ray continues, apparently unawarethat his commentary is about as welcome as a root canal. "Because this stress-baking marathon is driving me fucking insane, and if I have to smell one more batch of cinnamon rolls, I'm gonna lose what's left of my mind."
I finally look up from the cake, fixing him with the kind of stare that's made grown men reconsider their life choices.
"Fuck off, Ray."
He rolls his eyes, unimpressed by my intimidation tactics.
"See? You're also a bigger swearing jerk when you're stressed for coochie. It's like clockwork with you—whenever you get worked up about something, you turn into Gordon Ramsay with commitment issues."
I'm about to tell him exactly where he can shove his amateur psychology when a familiar chuckle echoes from the back entrance.
