Page 102 of Merry Fake Bride

“Mmhmm. Back when you were about ye high.”

He attempts to indicate with one hand. “A few frivolous lawsuits from unhappy customers back in his ice hockey days.”

“He never said anything.”

“It was a long time ago. But we have two minutes if you think you can run to the bar and back in time.”

His warm smile grows, and it’s difficult not to be affected.

“No. It’s alright. I’ll be fine. I think,” I say as my phone vibrates against my hip.

Pulling it free, several texts from Kairo and Martin light up the screen.

[KAIRO] Knock ‘em dead.

[KAIRO] Only not literally.

[KAIRO] Although could you?

[KAIRO] Death by cake has to be a valid way to deal with something like this.

[KAIRO] and if they eat the evidence, is it really a crime?

[KAIRO] I’d still visit you in prison.

[KAIRO] In all seriousness, I believe in you. You have a great case.

[MARTIN] Please text him as soon as it’s over because he won’t stop talking about ways to deal with the judge if this fails, and I’m not sure of the rules on reporting one’s employer for planned manslaughter.

There are a few texts from my parents and even my friends, which all lift my spirits until my name is called by a pursed-lip woman in a grey pencil skirt and more wrinkles than a ruffle cake.

My heart plummets into my gut.

Showtime.

Inside the courtroom is nothing like I expect.

I spent all night worrying about rows of people staring at me, jurors who would judge me for how I looked or how I spoke, even people being health fanatics and deciding cakes are too unhealthy, so who cares about a bakery?

It’s nothing like that at all.

The judge still sits up on the altar like any courtroom, but there’s no crowd and no jury.

Only two small, square tables are present, with my lawyer standing at one and the other remaining vacant.

Several officers of the court linger near the doors and one stands between the tables and the judge.

All in all, it’s much smaller and more intimate than I feared.

“Please state your name for the court,” says the officer standing at my table.

“Devon Miller.”

“Augustus Cardiff.”

“Who are we waiting for?” says the judge without looking up.

“A representative from Silver Canopy, your honor,” pipes up a stressed-looking man in a slightly rumpled black suit.