“Okay.” My breath hitches in my lungs, but I draw in a lungful of air and try to steady myself. “The first thing we—” The “we” slips out before I can stop it, but with two hours and fifteen minutes to go I don’t have time to do anything but notice the flash of a smile on Adam’s face as I flick my eyes from the cake on the table over to him, then back again. “The first thing we need to do is make the frosting for the decorations.”

He turns away from me, somehow knowing exactly which bowl I prefer to mix everything while I flit around the kitchen, gathering together the ingredients. It’s a simple buttercream with the perfect ratio of edible glitter to give it that sparkle and shine. My clients love it.

At the thought my heart picks up speed. The clients that will drop me like a hot potato if word gets out that I ruined Penelope Chadbourne’s wedding.

I shake my head a little as I run the mixer through the bowl one final time. That kind of thinking is ridiculous. If she’s really so fragile that a tiny mishap with the cake could derail her entire day, she has some serious reevaluation to do.

“Done.” I scoop a generous portion of the frosting into a brand-new piping bag, seal it off, and lay it on the table. “Oh—”

Somehow, Adam has read my mind. The two layers are on two different rotating cake stands, ready to go.

“I found them while you were mixing. I hope that’s okay that I moved the cake.”

“Yeah, I just—” He’s even slipped on a pair of gloves, which he peels off and throws in the garbage. Then he heads back to the sink to wash his hands.

I confront the cake.

I’ll start with the lattice pattern on the third layer.

The moment I start to pipe on the frosting, my nerves settle and my shoulders relax down into their sockets. This is what I’ve always loved—this detail, the tiny movements that create beauty.

Down, down, down. The lines come easily now, after having done so many. One inch apart, even as can be, all the way around the cake.

I reach the end and then start back in the opposite direction.

“Hey.”

His voice is warm and deep but rises slowly, like he’s trying his best not to startle me.

“Yeah?”

I don’t take my eyes off the cake, but I feel him standing close by.

“This other layer—it’s got little dots on it. You have to put all those on once you’re done with this?”

I can’t help the tiniest sigh.

“Yeah. I do.”

“I can do that.”

I pull the piping bag away from the cake and look him in the eyes. They glitter in the light of the kitchen but his mouth is set, serious.

“You know cake decorating?”

“I’m a fast learner.” The corner of his mouth quirks in a smile that makes me want to lean in and press my lips against his, the hell with this cake.

I put my own piping bag down with a smile I can’t hide and go over to the widest, longest drawer in the kitchen, pulling out a smaller piping bag with a connector and a number one decorating tip with a round end.

I fill the bag, connect it, and present it to Adam with both hands.

He takes it into his big hands and tests it on a scrap of cardboard I was using earlier to get some cupcake decorations just right.

“And these are just…dots where the line intersects?”

“Yes, but—”

His laugh is a low rumble, but he lets me put my hands over his, demonstrating the right size for the dots, the right pressure, the right motion.

Where our skin touches is like a pleasant fire, and I can feel him pressing his hand against mine just a little more than absolutely necessary. Something deep in my core goes to liquid heat, and I bite my lip.

“Are you okay?”

“What?”

I jerk my hand away from his, then bring it to my face, stopping just inches before I touch my skin.

“You stopped moving.”

“Oh—you’ve got it.” My cheeks go bright red again, and I snatch my own piping bag up from the table and turn my body toward the cake.

Then Adam is next to me, closer than before, and it takes me three steadying breaths before I can go back to drawing the lattices.

I can feel the heat radiating off his body—or is it mine?—as he reaches toward the cake with his piping bag, then starts making the Swiss dots where the lines intersect.

He follows along behind me, the only sound in the kitchen our breathing. Mine is shallower. His is deep and steady.

I finish before him and move across to the second layer, but before I refill the piping bag I take another look at him. His head is bowed. He’s concentrating hard on every single dot, his arms flexing beneath his black t-shirt.

God, I want him so much.

I just have one question that I can’t bring myself to speak out loud: why is he here?