Page 5 of Fake Notes

“Positive,” she said, looping her arm in mine. “But only if we can make iced coffees while you pour out your soul on how unfair life is.” She waggled her brows and I laughed. Every time P visited me while I worked, she insisted on one of Batter and Bake’s famously delicious vanilla lavender iced coffees.

“Um, abso-freaking-lutely,” I said, and then I bumped her hip with mine. Already I felt better in her company. “And, hey. Thanks,” I said, my voice soft and my chest filled with gratitude. Maybe everything would be okay, after all.

After the rush of commuters on their way home from work, Penelope and I finally closed the doors at just past four-thirty. We’d been so busy, I hadn’t even begun prepping the cakes, so I was infinitely grateful when she shooed me to the back of the shop and told me she’d sweep and clean up while I got to work.

I headed into the kitchen and washed my hands, donning a clean apron before I pulled the first carefully wrapped cake from the walk-in freezer and arranged the layers on the counter where I’d frost them with a thin, smooth coating of buttercream.

With any luck, I’d finish these in an hour and I could move on to the fondant, so that all Mom had to do when she arrived in the morning was drape it over the pre-frosted cakes, then create the flowers and roses or whatever decorations they required with the remaining fondant or gum paste.

I consulted the list my parents left me and matched the last name on the cake with the corresponding frosting flavor, then checked the fridge, relieved to find a fresh batch of vanilla waiting for me. Most wedding cakes would take vanilla. Hopefully this would be enough to last me so I didn’t have to mess with making frosting. I was a decent enough baker, but my ability to destroy a kitchen and dirty every dish when I worked was unparalleled, and the last thing I wanted to do was spend hours cleaning up afterward.

Reaching inside the fridge, the cool air washed over my skin as I pulled out the giant tub and lugged it to the counter by the cakes. Next, I grabbed the turntable, decorating comb, icing smoother, and spatulas.

One more thing and I was ready to roll.

I headed toward the supply cabinet once more and climbed the little stepladder my parents kept for me because I was vertically challenged, then flicked on the stereo. Classical music trickled from the speakers, and I grimaced before I quickly turned it to my favorite pop-rock station. I smiled as I cranked the volume, picturing Dad red-faced, lips tight, angrily muttering to himself when the latest boy band hit blasted his ears at the butt crack of dawn.

Ah, it’s the little things . . .

As I worked, spreading the snow-white frosting over the cakes, I tried to focus on the monotony of the task, desperately wishing away the knot of anxiety tightening in my chest. At this very moment, my parents were sitting down with the lawyer, discussing the suit against them.

And at this very moment, Cranky Lady was eating and breathing and having a jolly ‘ol time, despite the fact that I was over here sweating bullets at the possibility my parents might lose everything. I knew it wasn’t my fault. Mom and Dad told me repeatedly. So did their lawyer. And Penelope. And Topher. As did the rational part of my brain. But knowing I wasn’t to blame and feeling it were two entirely different things.

My heart twitched as I glanced up from the cake. My gaze flickered over the kitchen, and a lump formed in my throat. I had no idea how much the lawyer and court fees would cost, but the legal fees alone would sting. And that was for a subpar lawyer. Batter and Bake did well enough. Enough to send me to Lakeview and live in one of the more affluent neighborhoods, but I also knew my parents had a lot of business debt. Rent in the upscale part of town wasn’t cheap. So hiring the best of the best to represent us wasn’t an option, at least not if they wanted to pay the mortgage for the bakery and for our home, among all our other expenses. They didn’t know it, but I overheard them talking about it at breakfast—how they crunched the numbers and the lawyer they had really wanted was financially out of reach.

I expelled the air in my lungs and shook my head. I needed to let it go and focus. Take one day at a time. And today, I had to ice these cakes so that Mom could get them to the customers on time and we could make a fat commission to pay for our mediocre lawyer.

The doors to the kitchen burst open and in came Penelope, face flushed and wringing her hands in front of her chest with a pinched expression.

“What’s wrong?” I asked immediately, half-expecting her to tell me Crazy Lady died of a broken rib or something.

“There’s this woman out there. She was banging on the glass, insisting I let her in even though we’re closed, and so I went to see what she wanted because I thought, well, maybe she had an emergency or something. But she didn’t. Instead, she wants a rather large custom order for tomorrow.”

Relief replaced my fear, and I let out a shaky laugh, high from the adrenaline rush. “We don’t do custom orders on this short notice. Tell her to call and put in an order tomorrow. We can do a week out, tops, and even that’s being nice.” I bent over the cake again and continued spreading.

“I did, but she won’t take no for an answer, and you know me, I . . .” Penelope trailed off, her tone apologetic.

When she continued hovering over me, I glanced up to the worry in her expression and took pity on her. She’d come a long way from her extreme introversion since the start of the school year and snagging the most wanted boy at school, but she still had a way to go. Confrontation was not her strong suit. Me, on the other hand? I didn’t have that problem. Speaking my mind was second nature.

“Okay, fine. I’ll go.” I stuck the spatula back in the frosting and wiped my hands on my apron before pushing through the heavy double doors that led to the front of the shop.

A burst of cooler air greeted me and the music nearly vanished as the doors swung closed behind me with a whoosh. In front of the counter, a woman in her twenties with auburn hair and worry lines paced. Even from where I stood, I could tell she had money from her clothing alone. And not Lakeview money, but the kind of money that went beyond the bounds of what the people from our affluent suburb were used to. Money that screamed House of Bijan in Beverly Hills.

My eyes made swift work of her as my gaze slid from head to toe, absorbing every detail. She carried herself with an air of importance, I realized, and it wasn’t just the money but something else entirely. Maybe it was the Dolce & Gabbana shades propped on the top of her head or the Louis Vuitton handbag or the Jimmy Choos on her feet that made her seem so tall, so confident and assured. Regardless, the set of my spine stiffened because I had a feeling this was a woman unused to taking no for an answer.

“Can I help you?” I asked as I approached.

The woman turned, seemingly startled by my presence as she pressed her fingers to her ear and her lips moved. For a moment, I worried Cranky Lady had been replaced with Crazy Lady until I realized she had an earpiece in, and I waited for her to finish speaking with whomever she was murmuring to on the other line.

She removed it and stepped forward, greeting me with a broad smile. The air of entitlement drifted toward me on the wings of her Chanel perfume. But she could smile all she wanted. Whoever she was, I wasn’t in the mood.

“My friend said you’re looking to place a custom order, but I’m sorry to inform you we can’t do them on this short of notice. We need two weeks, but depending on the order, we might make an exception at one week out.”

“No, I’m afraid that won’t do. I need them tomorrow.”

A laugh rose from the bowels of my chest.Crazy, indeed.“Tomorrow? There’s no way—”

“I’ll take a couple dozen of your famous Belgium chocolate chunk cookies,” she said, stepping forward and eyeing the case. “The handcrafted sugar and ten dozen cupcakes. We were thinking half princess or unicorn-themed and half superhero.”

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