It’s 3:45 and I’m starving. I didn’t get a chance to break for lunch. If I don’t get something in me, there’s every possibility I’m going to end up a heap on the brick paver floor. I just don’t have time. I have exactly fifteen minutes to finish the last few pieces of foil this cake needs, slice the cooled cakes, fill them with the lemon curd, and then scratch coat them with vanilla buttercream.

I don’t even know if they’re supposed to have vanilla cream as the frosting. Of course, Phil forgot to get that information on the intake order. “Here’s to hoping no one’s allergic to pure vanilla bean,” I muse as I assemble the first layer. Cake, lemon curd, cake. Vanilla buttercream. Push in dowels to stabilize the cake. Begin the next layer. Repeat until the top layer is on.

Ugh.

My mind drifts as I finish the scratch coat. About six months ago, I appeared on the Food Network with Brendan Blake, country music’s hottest star. That day filming was intense. The day before taping, one of the most prestigious chefs on the show came down with the flu. Since it was a baking show, they quickly scouted for local talent who could join the show at a moment’s notice. I happened to fit the bill. A charismatic baker who was local and available.

It was blind luck Brendan and I got along. When we were in the green room before the show, he made me laugh by telling me he was helpless in the kitchen. After I was done laughing at his joke, I asked why he agreed to do the show. Pulling his cell out of his back pocket, he showed me a picture of his nephew who has leukemia. If he won, all of the money from the celebrity Caketastic would go toward a donation to help boost clinical trials at the University of Washington where his nephew was being treated.

My hand clasped his shoulder. “Mr. Blake.”

He gave me a small smile. “Corinna, please. Call me Brendan.”

I smiled back. “How well do you take orders?”

“According to my band, not well at all. Why?”

“Because if you want to win as much as I do, you have to do everything I tell you. And if you don’t understand, say so up front. Because we’re going to win for that little boy.” I nodded toward the phone that displayed the photo still clutched in his hand. “And we’re going to have a blast doing it to show him his uncle’s doing this for him.”

Brendan tipped his head down toward me and said, “You think you can beat the best the Food Network is going to throw at us?” His voice was laced with disbelief.

I tossed my long braid behind my shoulder. “I don’t think it, I know it. And when we win,” I said, putting the emphasis on the word we, “we’ll bake your nephew a cake for you to bring home to celebrate with.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know why I believe you, but I do.”

“Good.”

We shook on the deal. And then we went out there and kicked ass.

We had three rounds to get through. In our first round, I thought Brendan was going to dive into the red velvet cake I made. I had to slap his hands away several times on camera, which the live audience ate up. When we presented to the judges, I renamed the cake Brendan’s Downfall. Laughing hysterically, we accepted our accolades as well as our critique, but we made it through to the next round.

Brendan caught my fire.

The second round, while I was on camera, I engaged Brendan into talking about his girlfriend, Dani. He told me all about their first date and how he’d written most of the songs on his first album for her. When he asked if I was married and I said no, Brendan started trying to negotiate dates for me with men in the audience.

The second cake we presented to the judges was a beautifully decorated cake Brendan helped mix, layer, and do the scratch coat. We named that one Dani’s Desire since it was the same flavors as the lemon and blueberry pie they’d eaten on their first date.

The judges said it was utterly delicious, and we advanced to the finals. And that’s where we both went into overdrive.

I had always planned on making Ali’s chocolate sin cake for round three, which was made up of four different kinds of chocolate. All the chocolate had to be hand chopped and grated before being melted in a double boiler. During our on-air conversation, I found out Brendan’s nephew loved chocolate cake.

Ali’s cake was then renamed Joey’s Justice.

Partway through the round, I thought we were out of it. Brendan’s knife slipped, and he cut himself. I was alone for fifteen minutes of our precious hour, trying to be both head baker and sous chef. When Brendan came back on set, I asked how his hand felt. He shrugged as he held it up. “So I bled for my nephew a little. He’s doing a hell of a lot worse to stay with all of us.”

Brendan and I hugged on TV over the beginning of my dark chocolate buttercream frosting.

When the panel was judging our cake, they asked about the story behind it. He was nervous, but he explained how it was my sister’s favorite cake but I’d rededicated it to his nephew who was fighting for his life. He went on to say that whether I was a celebrity chef or not, I made him feel invincible in the kitchen that day, so regardless if we had won or lost, the University of Washington would receive a donation from him.

The head judge, a snooty French pastry chef, had remarked, “Then I suppose it’s good for them that you just won $50,000, Mr. Blake.”

I’ll never forget the look on Brendan’s face when he turned to me and said, “No, the University of Washington just won $100,000 donated by myself and Ms. Freeman.” He picked me up and swung me around in the air.

I felt unstoppable, like nothing could touch me. Maybe I could tackle my own demons with as much bravery as Joey Blake and as much determination as Brendan Blake. But as the weeks and months passed, and work became my primary focus again, I started to feel like Cinderella after the clock struck midnight. The glass slipper fell off a while ago. Hell, it didn’t fall off—it had shattered.

It’s time to face my reality head-on. And right now, reality involves laying three pieces of ridiculously delicate foil so smoothly, people would think I’d airbrushed it onto the cake.

Picking up the book of 24 karat rose-gold leafing, I match up the edge to the side of the bottom of the layer. Peeling away the delicate leafing, I pull off the paper. Almost perfect. Spinning the cake layer around, I keep going, overlapping just a bit so the lines start to obliterate. Dabbing here and there, my soft brush blends any seams. Over the top, I begin where the edge didn’t quite match the height of the cake and lay the foil so it meets in the center. Using a barely noticeable patch where I know Phil will affix the ornate cake topper, I dab everything down until it’s finished.

Done.

I reach under the cake layer and gently place it on top of the other layers, trying not to disturb them. It’s precisely 3:58. I’m debating if I should sacrifice my time with Em and the girls to make sure this cake arrives safely at the reception, when the door to the kitchen opens and Caleb walks in. He stops dead in his tracks. “Whoa, Cori. That’s…” His words halt.

“I know.” It was a pain in the ass, but it’s absolutely magnificent. “Let me get a picture before I head out with Phil.” I pull my phone from my pocket and start walking around, taking pictures from all angles.

“No,” Caleb replies. “First, you’re due for a shower. Then Em’s waiting on you to transform you into something more beautiful for tonight.”

I snort. “That won’t be too hard.”

He frowns. “’Cause it’s hard to improve on perfection.”

I laugh as I pat his cheek. “You’re sweet, but really, that was funny. I thought I’d go with Phil to make certain nothing happened with the cake.”

Caleb glares at me. “I have my orders. You’re to hit the shower and report to Em’s studio. I’m going to help Phil with the cake.” I start to protest, but Caleb stops me. “Cassidy’s orders.”

I shake my head. “I’d really feel better if—”

“And Cassidy would feel better making some part of this up to you. Should I assume Phil knows how to get it into the van?”

I nod. “We just need to load up from the front.”

Locking the wheeled cart into place, Caleb and I slide the cake over much the same way a patient is transitioned from a hospital bed to a surgical table—carefully. Rolling my hard work down the hallway, I hear an astonished “Holy crap.”

I nod, refusing to acknowledge Colby’s awe more than that before I continue walking backward toward the entrance.

“Let me get the door at least.”

“Appreciate that, Hunt,” Caleb answers, sending me a curious look. I ignore it, as I do most things when it comes to Colby.

Colby follows us out and watches as I give instructions to Phil and Caleb about how to secure the cake and how not to touch the golden foil, and hand them the soft brush in the event they do brush anything. Despite my fury at Phil, I give him a quick kiss when I mutter, “Drive safely,” before I turn to head back into the mansion.

“You’re welcome,” Colby calls from where he stands in the driveway. With a flick of my hand, I walk inside to bask in the warmth of a shower before my sisters descend upon me.

“Christ, Em. That hurt,” I bitch a short while later as my eyebrows are being ripped from my face.

“Do you want to look and feel good?” She’s merciless.

“It’s not like anyone’s going to look twice at me when I’m surrounded by the rest of you, so who the hell cares?” I’m dressed in a black sleeveless top, dark-wash jean shorts, and complementary black Valentino espadrille platform wedges. Okay, I look halfway decent this evening.

Em snickers derisively as she picks up her makeup brush. “Please. I was hoping that top would fit based on how much weight you’ve dropped since your clothes are hanging on you. Did you pick them up at a bargain sale?”

I smile beatifically. “Maybe I did.”

As she dabs the waterproof foundation on my face, she leans in. “Don’t get smart with me, missy. I’ve yet to apply your makeup. You could end up looking like a raccoon.”

“Anything’s better than what you’re starting with.”

“All right, enough. Em, give me a few minutes with Cori,” Ali declares. You’d never know she had a baby less than six months ago, her body’s so damn tight.

“Can it wait thirty seconds while I finish the foundation? Then she has to sit still,” Em grumbles.

Ali impatiently taps her booted foot. Em pushes and pulls my face critically back and forth before muttering, “Sit still.” As she slips into her adjoining office, I’m left to deal with another one of my older sisters. The lawyer, the warrior, the one who has never broken a promise to me.

Including holding my hand through the living nightmare we survived together.

“What is it, baby? Tell me.” Ali crouches down next to me, her cobalt-blue eyes concerned.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” I assure her. Nothing I haven’t handled for the last ten or so years, I remind myself.

“If Colby coming is too much, I’ll have Keene call him out on some bogus work thing,” Ali offers. Keene is Ali’s significant other.

I shake my head. “Trust me. Once we get there, we won’t be seeing the guys for a long while. Well, other than Phil.” My family has no idea what’s in store for them tonight. Brendan promised me tickets people would weep over, and when I found out what they were, I laughed myself sick. Brendan and I have chatted quite a bit since the show just to keep up with each other. When he mentioned he was going to be touring nearby and asked if I wanted to come with my family, I jumped at the chance. Short of singing with the band, I don’t think we have a better view.

“Okay. I know what Phil did was wrong, but even though I can’t bake like you, I’m willing to come in and help prep if you think it would help.”

I squeeze her shoulder. “Thanks, sweets, but no. Your downtime is meant for Keene and Kalie.”

“It’s not your burden to carry alone,” Ali argues.

Oh, if she only knew about the true burdens I carry inside. Instead, I smile at the woman who kept my mind sane for the month we were trapped together in a shipping container, when a drug consortium tried to sell us as sex slaves. We all have our scars from that time in our lives. Ali’s are profound since her father was one of the leaders of the sex trafficking ring. Fortunately, she’s been able to find some peace of mind over the years. Holly’s are vastly different. I admire my baby sister each and every day knowing I couldn’t hold the burdens she carries on my soul. Mine manifest themselves in the dark, where sleep eludes me unless I’m with someone I explicitly trust. And the last time that happened was ten years ago. Now, I don’t find rest unless a light is shining because I’m petrified of the absolute darkness.

Instead, I say, “I know. Now, let’s get Em back in here before we’re late.”

Before she can respond, I call out for our older sister. Soon, we’re caught up in final makeup touch-ups. By 6:00 p.m., a limo arrives at Amaryllis Events to pick up the girls and Phil. The guys will go to will call where the tickets are being held under Keene’s name since we’ll already be backstage with Brendan and his band.

“Hey, Cori. There’s a note for you,” Cassidy says. Even my oldest sister is sporting some short shorts and a low-cut top for the evening. She hands me the note and the bottle of champagne it’s attached to.

Taking both, I open the note up.

I’m singing one for you tonight. Since you deal with crowds so well, I might have you join me for it. See you soon. ~BB

I pass around the note, then work the cork out of the champagne. It bursts with a pop, and I quickly slug the overflowing bubbles. After filling glasses as they’re handed to me, I lift my own in a toast. “Here’s to us!”

Five other glasses touch mine before the champagne disappears.

Finally, Phil can’t take it. “Holy shit! Are we really in a limo on our way to see Brendan Blake live?” He lets out a screech that would do a thirteen-year-old girl proud.

Everyone in the limo cracks up.

Sitting back, I cross my legs. “Just wait, brother. That’s the least of what tonight has to offer.”