I frowned even as my mouth watered, because—intricate or not—it smelled like cake. “You made this?”
“Yes.” The hint of uncertainty in her tone drew my attention to her face. She looked regretful as she sat across from me and I couldn’t figure out why.
This woman is magical. Why would she regret her own magic?
“I . . .” I huffed a laugh. “You decorate cakes on the side or something?”
“No.” She shook her head, not smiling, her eyes watchful and wide. Even in the dim light I could see she was blushing.
“This is—I mean, this is the most amazing cake I’ve ever seen. It’s unbelievable. I feel like I need to take a picture. Are we allowed to eat it?”
“I’m sorry, it’s too much.” She twisted her fingers, two wrinkles appearing between her eyebrows. “I thought I’d try—I’m sorry.”
“Hey. No. No way. Never apologize for being amazing, otherwise I suspect you’d be apologizing all the time. Although, if it tastes as good as it looks—even one tenth as good as it looks—I might die. You might murder me with happiness.”
A tentative smile brightened her face. “Murder you with happiness?”
“Cake is my favorite. I’d eat it for every meal if I could and not get the diabetes.”
“The diabetes?” Her mouth kicked up.
I reached for the cake and the knife she’d brought over; it might be the world’s most impressive looking cake, but it was still cake. What good was a cake if you didn’t eat it?
“My Uncle Kip has the diabetes, almost lost his leg a year ago.”
“Kip? I thought his name was Zip.”
“No. Zip is a different uncle.” I sliced into the cake, dishing her out a piece first. “Zip has the metal plate in his head and his cellar smells suspicious.”
“Suspicious?”
“Vinegar and chili or something.” Passing her the slice, I admired her cake’s intricate interior. The bottom half was chocolate and had the consistency of a brownie; the top half looked to be vanilla; and she’d put raspberry jam—or something that looked, smelled, and tasted like raspberry jam—between the two layers. “He was in the hospital for over a month. And you know what my aunt did when he was discharged?”
“Zip?”
“Kip. With the diabetes.”
“Got it. What did she do?”
“She baked him a cake.” I glanced to the ceiling, appealing to heaven for patience. “My Aunt Sheila means well, but she’s dumb as paint.”
Kat chuckled a little, but when I looked back to her, she was shaking her head at me. “That’s not nice.”
“Sometimes the truth isn’t nice, but that doesn’t make it any less of a truth. If people stop telling the truth just because it might hurt someone’s feelings, what good does that do? I’d rather have a painful truth than a cushy bed inflated by lies. Besides, Aunt Sheila made her husband a cake after he’d been hospitalized for eating too many cakes. She’s either working a long game, trying to murder him with vanilla frosting, or she’s two sandwiches short of a picnic.”
Careful to get the brownie layer, raspberry jam, vanilla cake, and blue frosting all at the same time, I shoveled a piece of the cake into my mouth while she laughed.
And then I moaned.
“This is the best fucking cake in the history of cakes,” I spoke around the bite, wanting her to know as soon as possible. I motioned with a wave of my hand to the piece on my plate, the Tupperware, to her. “Magical.”
She laughed again, more like a giggle this time, shaking her head as she watched me. I watched her right back, because she was licking frosting off her fork, her tongue a shade of blue from the confectionary night sky.
“I’m glad you like it.”
Swallowing, I lifted an eyebrow at her. “Like it? I love it. I’d marry it, but I’m already married to you.”
That made her laugh anew and she took a sip of water, watching me eat over her glass’s rim.
I was almost finished inhaling my first slice when she asked, “What were you going to say?”
“Uh, more cake please?”
Grinning at me, she shook her head and served me another slice anyway. “No. Before that. You said you had something to tell me. What did you need to tell me?”
“Oh. Right. That.” Damn.
Rip the Band-Aid off, Daniel. Rip it off.
I set my fork back on the table next to the new piece of cake and I cleared my throat. “When we were driving to your place, before I left for Australia, while what I said about Wally was true—that I could use your help—I said it hoping it would push—or rather, guilt—you into accepting my offer to move in. It worked, and I’m glad it did, but I wanted to be honest about my intentions. So. There you go.” I crossed my arms over my chest, bracing for her reaction.