Page 67 of Home Sweet Home

West cut the cake into lopsided squares, and the boys lined up. They each took a piece then found a spot on the grass to sit and enjoy the dessert.

“Thanks,” Evie said as West handed her a piece of cake. She rotated it, examining it like it was a Degas and she was an art student. It was yellow cake with chocolate frosting, which seemed to be from a can and was definitely melting down the sides like the clocks in a Salvador Dali painting.

West sank down next to Evie, his back pressed against the chain-link fence, his ass planted in the dirt just like hers. When she stood up, the seat of her shorts would probably be caked in dust. Across the lawn, Freddy threw a piece of cake at Oliver, which smacked him on the cheek and landed on the grass with a soft thud. It left a streak of chocolate frosting just above his cheekbone.

“Were you surprised?” West asked, mouth full of cake.

She tried to smile, but it was as thin as the melting frosting. “Very.”

He scooted closer to her, his thigh touching hers. “Did I say something wrong?” He shook his head, the plate resting on his lap. “You know, I couldn’t stop thinking last night. About what I said at Kayla’s salon. I didn’t mean there’s anything wrong with being a waitress.”

The thought of West sitting in his room, thinking about their conversation, was enough to bring a real smile to her face. “I know that.”

“I only meant… I know I haven’t been around for long, but I’ve never seen you happier than when you watch someone eat something you baked. I’m sorry if I made assumptions. I didn’t mean anything by it. I just want you to be happy. That’s all.”

Evie flattened her legs against the dirt, the sun beaming down on her thighs as she decided to forgive him for what he’d said. Of course he hadn’t meant anything mean by it. West Hawthorne didn’t have a mean bone in his body. It was one of the things she’d always loved about him. She reached over and gave his hand a quick squeeze, but only after a glance toward the boys to make sure no one was looking their way. “I know, West. It’s not that. I just have a lot on my mind.”

All his attention was on her, his eyes focused and intense. “Like what?”

This day was filled with bad memories and equally bad thoughts, ones she barely allowed herself to think, let alone say out loud. So she shook her head and said, “Nothing.”

Disappointment crossed West’s face, but when she smiled at him, it was gone as quickly as a blown-out birthday candle.

“Thanks for the cake. Really.”

“So?” West motioned toward the plate in her lap. She hadn’t taken a bite yet. “What do you think? Made it myself.”

“Really?” Evie asked, and no matter what she thought of her birthday, the gesture was sweet enough to clear the clouds that had been hanging above her all day.

West grinned. “Really. Take a bite.”

She lifted a forkful to her mouth and placed it on her tongue.

It was so over-baked and dry, it made her mouth feel like sandpaper. The only flavor she could taste was sugar—the cake was so saccharine sweet—and the frosting was most definitely from a can. She forced herself to chew the small bite she’d taken and swallowed it down.

West looked at her with eager anticipation. “And?”

Evie contemplated how to let him down easy, but then she had a better idea. “Want to learn how to bake a real cake?”

* * *

Egg sliddown the glass mixing bowl, and when it pooled at the bottom, slivers of shell floated in the goopy whites.

West grabbed another egg from the carton and positioned it above the edge of the bowl, the same place he’d cracked the first one.

Evie caught his wrist. “Not like that.”

“Really?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “I crack eggs wrong?”

Evie used a spoon to fish out an eggshell piece. “See this? People don’t like biting into cake and getting something crunchy.”

She took the egg and tapped it against the flat countertop, and when she held it over the bowl, she fingered the fissure, breaking the shell in two. The egg slid down into the pile, no shell along with it. She gave West a triumphant grin.

His hip bumped against hers. “Well, now you’re just showing off. How many of these we need?”

Evie glanced at the recipe, though she’d made it enough times she didn’t need to. “Eight.”

She watched him crack the rest of the eggs, her gaze focused on his hands and his fingers flexing as he broke each egg in two. His deft fingers worked the eggs like he’d done it a million times.What was it he said about his hands? That they were magic.“You’re a fast learner.”

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