Читать книгу Delectable Desire - Farrah Rochon - Страница 11

Chapter 2

As she exited the bakery, Lorraine slipped on her Roberto Cavalli sunglasses and headed up Michigan Avenue. She couldn’t risk walking any faster than a casual stroll; her heart was already beating triple time.

She had not been prepared for the likes of Carter Drayson.

Her hand still tingled from their parting handshake. His fingers were long, the skin slightly rough, with a couple of darker spots, as if he’d been burned by a hot cake pan a time or two.

And he was gorgeous. Seriously, unquestionably gorgeous.

From the moment he’d stepped up to the counter and introduced himself, Lorraine had been aware of every breath that had left her lungs, because it had been just that hard to breathe around him. It wasn’t the first time she’d been immediately bowled over by a charming guy, but it had never been that intense. His silky voice, vibrant smile and overpowering charisma had hit her like a Midwestern tornado in the middle of the active season.

“He’s probably just as dangerous, too,” she said underneath her breath. Best to stay far, far away from Lillian’s. She didn’t need the extra calories from their sinfully tempting desserts, and she most certainly did not need the devastating Carter laying on the heavy charm.

Lorraine arrived at the garage where she’d parked her car and took the elevator to the fifth level. Even though she lived within walking distance, she’d driven to the bakery because Lillian’s was just the first stop on a slew of errands she had to run for the shower preparations.

It had practically taken an act of Congress to convince the family driver, Bradford, that she didn’t need to be chauffeured today. Driving her own car was one freedom that Lorraine refused to relinquish. It gave her the illusion that she had some control over her own life; it was hard to keep a low profile when you were driven around in a gleaming pearl-white Bentley. She had a hard enough time distancing herself from her famous last name; she didn’t need the “look at me” car attracting the curious gazes of onlookers.

Lorraine was convinced that her name had had nothing to do with the attention Carter had given her. Oh, he’d flirted—she had pegged him as a natural-born player from the minute he’d sidled up to the counter—but it wasn’t because he’d recognized her as a Hawthorne-Hayes.

It had been...nice. Refreshing.

She’d spent her entire twenty-five years bearing that name, and although being an heir to one of the wealthiest families in Chicago had its perks, it was definitely not all it was cracked up to be.

Lorraine slipped behind the wheel of her Jaguar. She loved this car. It was luxurious, but not overly so. It certainly didn’t raise as many eyebrows as the Bentley did.

She turned over the ignition, then immediately shut the car off.

“What were you thinking ordering an under-the-sea cake?” she asked herself. “Abigail will have a fit!”

She opened the door, preparing to return to Lillian’s and order a nice, normal cake with roses made out of icing and pearls looping along the edges.

“But Trina will love that under-the-sea cake,” she told herself in the rearview mirror.

Lorraine could just imagine the look on her sister’s face when she walked into the Drake and saw it.

She closed the door and started the car again.

Her eyes slid shut and she leaned forward, resting her head on the steering wheel as the idling engine purred. What mattered more? Making sure her mother didn’t have a stroke over a cake, or her sister’s happiness?

In any normal family it wouldn’t even be a question, but no one would dare call her family normal. The owners of Hawthorne-Hayes Jewelers? The very pillars of Chicago’s elite? Normal?

“Anything but,” Lorraine said with a tortured sigh.

Her mother had instilled in her children that to be a Hawthorne-Hayes was to be dignified, distinguished and, above all, the consummate model of decorum. An elegant, sensible cake with delicate, sugared flowers and icing made to look like lace was dignified. It was the kind of cake her mother would approve of. The kind Abigail Hawthorne-Hayes would demand.

For that reason alone, Lorraine put the car in Reverse and backed out of the parking space.

To hell with what Abigail wanted. This bridal shower wasn’t about her mother; she was doing this for her sister.

Lorraine exited the garage and turned right. As she approached the intersection at Michigan Avenue and East Delaware Place, a thought occurred to her. If she was going to incur her mother’s wrath, she might as well make it worth it. She flipped on her right blinker and drove down a block, turned left and then made another left, pulling her car up to the valet at the Drake.

Her mother had insisted on elegance and refinement when it came to the bridal shower, but she could save that for the wedding. As maid of honor, Lorraine was in charge of shower preparations, and she would give her sister something that fit her personality. That cake she’d ordered at Lillian’s was just the start.

Lorraine walked up the carpeted steps leading to the landmark hotel’s lobby. As she entered, her eyes were instantly drawn to the enormous flower arrangement in the center of the room, sitting just below the signature crystal chandelier. Opulence oozed from every square inch of the place.

Lorraine met with the hotel’s special events coordinator. As she described her new vision for Trina’s bridal shower, she had a hard time containing her amusement at the way the woman’s face transformed from gleeful to completely horrified. The coordinator’s penciled-in eyebrows formed perfect peaks as Lorraine explained that she wanted the calla lily centerpieces replaced with seashells and coral on a bed of soft white sand. She wanted the walls draped in flowing light blue silk, mimicking the waves of the ocean.

The woman cleared her throat. “This all sounds lovely, Ms. Hawthorne-Hayes. However, are you sure we shouldn’t discuss this with Mrs. Hawthorne-Hayes before making such drastic changes?”

“No,” Lorraine said. “I’m the one in charge of my sister’s wedding shower. I have the last word. I will browse the web for some ideas and email them to you. Feel free to do the same.”

Her mother would have a fit, but Lorraine would deal with it. For once, Abigail Hawthorne-Hayes was not getting her way.

* * *

Carter leaned back in the chair and crossed his feet on top of his desk. He used a stylus to make notations on the inventory list he kept stored in his electronic tablet. Ever since they were featured at a Chicago Bulls pregame event, Lillian’s red velvet cupcakes with dark chocolate and cream cheese frosting, designed in the team’s colors of black and red, were flying out the door. Carter needed to increase the order of cupcake holders to keep up with the significant spike in sales.

There was a knock on the door. He looked up to find his cousin Monica. “Carter, were you supposed to have a cake for Maria Salazar ready for today?”

He frowned. “No, that isn’t until Thursday.”

“Well, she’s in the showroom right now to pick up her cake.”

Rising from his chair, Carter switched to the app that he used to keep track of his cake orders. He had a cake for an Arabian Nights–themed quinceañera scheduled for pick up on Thursday by Maria Salazar.

He turned the screen so Monica could see for herself. “She’s not supposed to pick it up until Thursday.”

“Well, somebody got their dates crossed. You need to go out there and talk to her.”

“I didn’t take the order,” he said. “It was probably Drake. I think he was working the retail store that morning.”

“You’re the one listed as the baker. You were specifically requested,” she pointed out. Carter didn’t miss the smug undertone of his cousin’s voice.

The Drayson grandchildren got along well enough, but in jockeying for position in the bakery, Carter definitely had a target on his back. Both their grandparents and his aunt and uncle had taken notice when customers started requesting Carter by name, and so had his cousins.

That wasn’t his problem. If the rest of the Drayson clan wanted to stand out, they needed to step up their games.

What was his problem was this mix-up with Mrs. Salazar’s cake order. It didn’t matter who had caused it. As Monica had just pointed out, he was the head baker on the project, which meant he was ultimately responsible for the customer’s one hundred percent satisfaction.

Carter entered the showroom, his eyes roaming around for Drake. Of course, his cousin was nowhere to be found. He was probably in one of the back offices playing around on Facebook or Twitter. Somebody needed to remind him that the same social networking he used to tout Lillian’s qualities could be used by unhappy customers to eviscerate the company’s good name if there were too many mix-ups like the one that had apparently taken place with the Salazar cake.

Carter walked up to the woman who was standing in front of the counter. “Mrs. Salazar, how are you?” he greeted.

“Where is my cake?”

“I don’t have you scheduled until Thursday to pick up the cake.”

“No, the quinceañera is tonight. I was told the cake would be ready by noon.” Her elevated voice caused several shoppers to turn their heads.

“Why don’t we move over here?” Carter said, gesturing for her to follow him to the rear left side of the showroom, which had been converted into a coffee bar. “Can I offer you something to drink? A latte? Cappuccino?”

“I want my cake,” Mrs. Salazar said.

“I found the original order form.” Monica came up to them. “It has Thursday marked off, but today’s date is written on it.”

Great. Carter bit back a curse.

“So I will have no cake for my daughter’s quinceañera? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Not to worry,” Carter said. “Just tell me where it is being held and I’ll have your cake delivered by five o’clock.”

“Carter,” Monica warned in a low tone.

He held a hand up to his cousin, keeping his full attention on Mrs. Salazar. “You’ll have the cake you ordered. I will see to it personally,” Carter assured her.

The worry lines creasing the woman’s forehead lessened, and a cautious smile relaxed the corners of her mouth.

“Thank you,” she said. She held up her checkbook. “I still need to pay the balance on the cake.”

“No, you don’t. It’s on us.”

“Carter!” Monica sputtered.

“I’m very sorry for the mix-up,” Carter said, putting an arm around the woman’s shoulder and guiding her to the door. “And tell your daughter happy birthday.”

The woman thanked him profusely as she exited the bakery. After she left, he turned and stalked straight to the kitchen, with Monica hot on his heels.

“Do you want to explain to me what just happened there?” she asked him.

Ignoring her, Carter sought out one of the assistant bakers. “Jason, have you baked the cake for the Richardsons’ fiftieth wedding anniversary?”

“Yep, it’s in the cooler,” Jason Parker answered.

“Good. I’m going to have to use it. Can you set it up in my normal work area? And I’m going to need to make spun sugar for the decorations, so can you get me the light corn syrup, too?”

“Would you stop ignoring me?” Monica said. “Now, what happened with Mrs. Salazar’s order?”

Carter whirled around. “You know what happened,” he said, trying to keep his frustration in check. “Somebody dropped the ball, and now I’ve got to clean up the mess. Thankfully, the Richardson event isn’t until tomorrow night. Their cake is the same size and flavor as the Salazar cake.”

“And what about forgiving the balance on her order?”

Carter gritted his teeth. “It’s called keeping the customer happy, Monica. I don’t know who made the mistake here, but someone had to make it right. Now, can you please get out of my way? I’ve got a cake for three hundred that I need to construct and replacement cakes that I’ll have to stay here for hours baking tonight.”

“This should never have happened,” she said.

“Damn right, it shouldn’t have happened, but it did. Now move out of my way so I can fix it.”

Carter tore past her and headed for the cooler, pissed that someone else’s incompetence was now on his head. And would he get any thanks for correcting the situation?

“Not in this lifetime,” Carter snorted.

He was so tired of dealing with this crap. He busted his ass in this kitchen, but did he get any thanks for the extra effort he put in?

It was time he faced facts. Nothing he did would ever measure up. He was fighting a losing battle. His cousins would always have a leg up on him.

Carter backed up against the wall of the walk-in cooler and closed his eyes tight.

“Why in the hell am I even doing this?”

Why did he keep coming back for more, like a boxer who kept getting up from the mat after every knockdown, too stupid to leave the ring? It was a question he’d asked himself more than once; he had yet to come up with an answer that made sense.