Page 17 of Cakes for the Grump

“Yes, it is.” My fingers apply more pressure. “Since nothing about you is subpar, the desserts you serve should remain elegantly whole until everyone is ready to eat.”

“How unnecessary of you to worry.”

“No. You are the one who istookind.”

“Andyouare a most gentle person,” says Luke with the cheer of a person complimenting under threat of a firearm.

“Go on,” I urge with a saccharine voice. “What else do you think of me?”

“That’s not?—”

“Can’t think of more?”

“Or I don’t want to encourage someone who is so clearly starved for compliments!”

We both know I’m delaying Luke so he doesn’t taste my cake, although for me it’s no longer just about protecting him from tasting a cake below my usual baking standards, but also about winning this tête-à-tête.

I want him to give up, however that happens, because although this is only our second physical meeting, I’ve never known another person who can inflame me into nonsense and argument so successfully. It feels like this is Luke’s secret, hidden, villainous talent.

He actually makes me forget the stakes and difficulties of my real life, and somehow compels me not togrin and bear it, but to attempt clawing back. And unlike under Janice’s treatment, I’m not ground into silence, but properly and vocally incensed by him.

In the honeyed air of a kitchen recently used and the setting light of an evening starting, it’s ridiculous to me that I debate stepping on Luke’s foot to stop him from shaking me off.

As he casually steps back (taking me easily with him), I also realize with a shock that he’s had the strength to disengage our contact any time. Why hasn’t he pried my fingers off?

Instead, Luke jostles his elbow as an indicator I should let go. It’s a surprisingly gentle approach, and while it doesn’t have the force to actually work, there is enough movement to bring the shoulder strap of my top down.

I tilt my chin in a way that draws Luke’s attention to the area as well.

I’m wearing a gingham patterned apron that my friends have jokingly implied looks like a maid’s uniform. As a person prone to overheating in the kitchen, I also pair my apron with a camisole tank. That means my arms are always bare, but right now they seeminappropriatelybare since the strap of my camisole tank wilts down by my armpit. Any further drooping and I risk top breast exposure.

Luke says nothing, but we spontaneously spring apart. Hurriedly, I correct the modest wardrobe malfunction by tugging my strap back up over my shoulder. Quietly, he clears his throat.

“We should—” I start.

“Yes,” Luke agrees promptly without knowing what he is agreeing to.

“Don’t eat this cake,” I find myself saying. “Eat the next one I make for you.”

“Fine. Yes. Sure.”

A swell of guilt washes over me as Luke puts away the knife. Today, I put my own interests above the job I’ve been hired to do. The chiffon cake wasn’t my first priority, and the end result shows. It’s not fair to any employer to half-ass my efforts, even an employer like LukeAbbot.

I make a mental promise to work twice as hard on the next dessert. I also pray that—if chosen to continue in the contest (fingers crossed!)—the timing of the challenges come over the weekend or in a way where I don’t have to pick between myself and work again. A moral dilemma I’ve got no idea how to face.

Luke is about to say something when the kitchen door opens again.

The man who enters is visibly old with thinning white hair, a white goatee, and deepened wrinkles, but everything about him emanates sprucely energy. His gaze is measured and hawkish as it rakes over both Luke and I, the craggy lines of his cheeks unmoving as he neither smiles nor frowns. He seems the sort of person who makes snap judgements about the worth of those around him, then gambles on those assumptions, and then wins big on their accuracy.

He is close to my height (five feet, four inches) and carries his weight at the waist where a buttoned dress shirt strains hardest to stay closed. He wears not a suit jacket but an oversized cashmere cardigan. The buttons shine as if gold-plated, a fat Rolex sits on his wrist, and the leather of his boots looks to be from a protected species.

“I didn’t expect you until later, Mr. Duncan,” says Luke, straightening immediately.

“I had time free up,” says Mr. Duncan. “And since we are meeting about chasing a white whale behind the backs of your investors, I didn’t think you would mind me showing up.”

“Let’s move to the dining room and I’ll get dinner arranged for us—” Luke glances at the chiffon cake as if wondering whether to include it on the menu.

Then he glances at me.