Page 17

A Billionaire Who Bakes

ANICA

“ F ive different bakeries have offered me free wedding cakes if I tell them who Callan Burkhardt is marrying,” Mari announced, lounging across my desk like a cat with a lollipop in her mouth.

“One of them said they’d throw in a chocolate fountain if I can get them exclusive rights to your engagement photos. ”

“There is no engagement,” I reminded her for the forty-third time that week. “There is no bride. And there are definitely no photos.”

“Not yet,” Mari said with a wink so exaggerated it was practically a facial spasm. “But I noticed you’re wearing your good bra to a cake tasting. The lacy one with the?—”

“For goodness’ sake, why are the two of you so obsessed with my underthings?

This was the only clean one I had!” I lied, adjusting my blouse for the third time.

Mari had called my wedding dress try-on my “sad attempt at playing dress-up,” but that hadn’t stopped me from overthinking everything about my appearance today.

It had been five days since the tuxedo fiasco, and I still couldn’t shake the image of Callan’s face when he’d seen me in that dress.

The way his eyes had widened, how his usual smirk had fallen away.

It was just a momentary lapse in his annoying persona. Nothing more. Definitely not worth the approximately seventy-four hours I’d spent overthinking it since. seventy-four hours and twenty-three minutes, but who was counting? Not me. Nope.

“I need to go if I’m going to make it to the cake testing on time,” I said, groaning as I pushed myself up from my chair.

“Wouldn’t want him to be there first again.” Mari dangled her lollipop in front of me. “Makes you look bad.”

“It does not.” I swiped at the lollipop, but she moved it too quickly. “Besides, his track record falls more on the side of being late, so I’ll be fine.”

“Whatever you say, darling ,” she imitated a man’s deep voice, but choked on spit.

I flipped her off before leaving.

To my relief, I got to the bakery before Callan. It gave me time to settle and make sure things were in order without the six foot whatever distraction.

“The strawberry champagne is their signature flavor,” the baker, Eloise, explained as she arranged delicate cake samples on the tasting table. “A favorite for summer weddings.”

La Petite Patisserie was exclusive enough that they didn’t advertise.

Their clientele consisted entirely of Manhattan’s elite, who passed the patisserie’s number around like a secret handshake.

Getting this tasting appointment had required three personal favors and promising Mari she could eat the leftovers.

The bakery’s tasting room was intimate, a generous description for what was essentially a closet, with just enough space for a small round table and two chairs.

Two very close chairs. The kind of close where you could tell what brand of cologne your companion wore without having to ask. Callan’s was something expensive that probably had notes of “liquid cash” and “hostile takeover.”

“Everything looks wonderful,” I said, checking my watch again. Callan was only ten minutes late, which for him was practically early. Progress. “My client should be here any?—”

“Sorry I’m late.”

I turned to find Callan filling the doorway, dressed in dark jeans and a light blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. Why did forearms have to be so unnecessarily appealing?

They’re just arms. There was nothing inherently sexual about the radius and ulna bones, yet here I was, staring at them like they were performing an exotic dance with a side of “come hither” thrown in.

My libido needed a serious talking-to later.

“Traffic or ducks?” I asked, managing to drag my gaze upward.

“Traffic, actually.” He looked almost sheepish. “There was a group of protestors blocking Fifth Avenue. Something about tax breaks for the wealthy. I might have been one of the people they were protesting.”

“How inconvenient when the peasants revolt during rush hour,” I said dryly. “Next time maybe check the ‘Eat The Rich’ forecast before leaving home.”

He grinned, unoffended. “I always keep cake-tasting appointments. Priorities. Besides, cake is the one thing Marie Antoinette and I have in common, though I’m hoping for a better outcome.”

“At least your head looks good on your shoulders,” I said, immediately regretting the words.

“Why, Ms. Marcel, was that almost a compliment?”

“It was an anatomical observation,” I corrected. “Like noting that water is wet or that billionaires are chronically late.”

Eloise’s eyes widened as she recognized him. “Mr. Burkhardt! Such an honor. I didn’t realize you were her groom.”

“Not my groom,” I corrected quickly. “Mr. Burkhardt is my client.”

“I’m marrying someone else,” Callan explained. “Ms. Marcel is my wedding planner.”

“Oh!” Eloise looked confused. “I assumed since it was just the two of you...”

“The bride is... busy,” Callan said with a casual wave of his hand.

“She’s got other obligations today,” I clarified. “But she trusts his judgment.”

“She’s a peach,” Callan added cheerfully.

To Eloise’s credit, her professional smile never faltered, though her eyebrows had climbed halfway up her forehead. “How... lovely. Well, shall we begin? I’ve prepared eight flavor combinations for you to consider.”

As Callan took the seat opposite me, I realized just how small the table was.

Our knees bumped, and he murmured an apology as he adjusted his long legs.

The table was clearly designed for couples who enjoyed being close enough to share breath.

Not for wedding planners trying to maintain professional boundaries with irritatingly attractive clients whose cologne smelled like it had been harvested from the garden of Eden and distilled with success.

“Let’s approach this systematically,” I said, perhaps too loudly. “Start with the vanilla baseline, then move to more complex flavors.”

“An excellent strategy,” Eloise agreed, placing two plates before us. “We’ll begin with our classic Tahitian vanilla bean with Swiss meringue buttercream.”

I reached for my cake fork at the exact moment Callan reached for his, our fingers brushing. I jerked my hand back, knocking over my water glass. Water splashed across the table, narrowly missing the cake samples but thoroughly soaking Callan’s sleeve.

“I am so sorry,” I blurted, grabbing napkins to mop up the spill.

“No harm done,” Callan assured me, quickly helping to clean up. “Jumpy today?” he added with a raised eyebrow when I glared at him.

“Adequately caffeinated,” I replied, which wasn’t a lie. I’d had three espressos just to prepare myself for another hour in his presence. “Anything less than four shots of espresso and I might accidentally enjoy your company.”

“I have that effect on people,” he said with a wink. “Fully conscious women find me irresistible.”

“Fully delusional men often think that,” I shot back, finally reclaiming my composure.

Once the mess was cleaned up, we turned our attention to the cakes. I was determined to be nothing but professional, despite the way his knee kept brushing against mine under the tiny table. I took a bite of the vanilla cake, letting the subtle flavors melt on my tongue.

“Perfect proportion of frosting to cake,” I noted, making a mark on my evaluation sheet. I’d created a rating system for each cake with categories for texture, flavor balance, and visual appeal. “Excellent crumb structure.”

Callan took a bite, considering it thoughtfully. “It’s good, but too safe. Wedding cakes should be memorable.”

“Traditional choices are traditional for a reason,” I countered. “Vanilla appeals to most palates.”

“Most boring palates,” he muttered, but his eyes twinkled. “Like missionary position for desserts. Gets the job done but nobody’s writing home about it.”

I choked on my cake and had to take a sip of the champagne. The bubbles didn’t help much. “Please refrain from comparing cake to sexual positions in front of the baker.”

“Would you prefer I compare it to other things?” he asked innocently. “Because we could move to anatomy.”

“No,” I said at the same time Eloise whispered “yes please,” under her breath.

I rolled my eyes. “I’d prefer you focus on selecting a cake flavor rather than creating your next stand-up routine,” I replied licking my fork. His gaze followed the movement.

“Whatever you say, darling.”

I kicked him under the table. “Ms. Marcel.”

With his focus still on my mouth, he responded, “Yes, ma’am.”

Eloise brought over the next sample before I could kick him again. “Lemon cake with lavender buttercream.”

I took a bite. “Interesting combination. The floral notes might be overpowering for some guests.”

“The lavender is too dominant,” Callan agreed. “It should complement the lemon, not overwhelm it. They need to reduce the lavender extract by about a third and increase the lemon zest.”

I stared at him. When had Callan Burkhardt become a cake expert?

Eloise looked equally surprised. “That’s... a very precise observation, Mr. Burkhardt.”

“Try the cardamom-honey next,” he suggested. “I’m curious how it pairs with the different frosting options.”

Eloise brought over two more samples, and Callan sampled each.

“The cardamom-honey pairs better with the rosewater buttercream than the vanilla,” he declared. “The floral notes in the rosewater enhance the honey without competing with the cardamom.”

“How do you know that?” I blurted, unable to contain my confusion. This was like discovering your accountant was secretly a champion bullfighter. A complete identity crisis.

“Know what?”

“About flavor pairing and extract ratios and... all of this.” I gestured to the elaborate notes he’d begun making on a napkin. “I thought your food preferences consisted entirely of ‘expensive’ and ‘more expensive’ with the occasional ‘served on a supermodel’s bare back.’”

He laughed. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Ms. Marcel.”