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You couldn’t stop staring at it.
No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from it.
It was like a horrific accident on the freeway; it stopped everything in its tracks, causing traffic to come to a standstill because hardly anyone could believe tragedy when it unfolded before their very eyes.
A cake.
A store-bought cake.
A store-bought ice cream cake. In the middle of a sweltering Delacroix afternoon, with no icebox in sight. On your dessert table.
Tragedy.
“Miss Mable…” you said when you finally found your voice, barely containing the grief-stricken wobble in your throat.
The older woman looked up from the pecan pie she had been slicing, frowning up at you with concern. “Yes, baby? Everything alright?”
You slowly lifted a hand, pointing an unsteady finger at the offending thing that barely passed as a confection, taking a sharp inhale. “Who put that on my table?”
Miss Mable followed the path of your finger, her face slackening into a grim expression as her eyes caught sight of the Thing, her lips pursing in that way that told you she was holding back her tongue. “I don’t know, baby, but I bet we can salvage it…”
“Now don’t lie to her, Mable,” Miss Constance chimed in from her spot down the table, dusting some more sugar on the beignets you had carefully arranged earlier. “It was that James Dean-looking white man over there. Sam’s little sidekick,” she said, nodding her head and clicking her tongue at some point behind you.
You turned swiftly, your eyes scanning the crowd until you found the man in question. He wasn’t hard to spot; he was tall, broad-backed, and you begrudgingly noted that he could, in fact, give James Dean a run for his money. But that was beside the point.
You could feel your grief melt into rage as you looked upon this newcomer, this stranger who dared to defile your sacred dessert arrangement and this entire hallowed cookout with this egregious, plastic-wrapped, sinful abomination. You turned back to the table to glare at it, your hands balling into fists as fiery emotion threatened to bubble forth out of you. You swore flames lapped at your ears.
“Now baby, he’s a guest. He doesn’t know better,” Miss Mable appealed to you, but you were having none of it.
You grabbed the abomination, the cheap plastic shell crunching under your fierce grip, the sound of Mable’s calls and Constance’s cheers melting away as you marched your way through innocent partygoers, your eyes trained directly on Value Brand Marlon Brando where he stood with Sam and the rest of his family.
Sarah was the first to notice you coming, her eyes widening, tapping Sam on the shoulder and pointing your way. Sam only had to look at you for a second before he grabbed his friend, trying to shuttle him away from danger, but it was too late.
You walked right up to him, barely an inch separating your chests, your nostrils flaring dangerously. The sidekick looked rightfully shocked and alarmed at your presence, his eyes going wide, the blues of his irises reminding you of those summers where your uncle would take you out fishing on the bay, nothing but calm waters and peaceful quiet surrounding you as you read a book or two under the warm sun…
Anyway.
You held up the container for him to see, clearly see, the mess he brought upon this unsuspecting party.
“What is this?” You asked sharply, your gaze unwavering, full of challenge.
“Y/n, blame me,” Sam interjected, trying to get in between you and his friend. “I’m the one who told him he should bring somethi—”
You help your free hand up, silencing the captain immediately, all without batting an eye at the malefactor in front of you.
“What. Is. This,” you asked again slowly, so he could truly comprehend, lifting the abomination higher so that it was right under his chin.
He looked down at it, then back up at you, those cerulean waves taking on a new glint that you definitely did not like.
“Well, doll, it looks like a cake,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, as if he were telling you a salacious secret, the corner of his mouth lifting up.
Your heart stuttered strangely, probably because of the burning anger coursing through you, your breath hitching ever so slightly at the gall this man had. It definitely wasn’t because of the way he was looking at you, or how soft and inviting his hair looked. Not at all.
“The fact that you think this is a cake almost makes me want to feel sorry for you,” you said firmly, giving him your best glare. He seemed unaffected though, the other corner of his mouth lifting into a wry grin. You wanted to kiss—SLAP it off his face.
“This is not a cake,” you continued, stepping even closer to him. “A cake takes skill, precision, time, and energy. This is a slab of ice cream that was cut into the shape of an overgrown hockey puck, with sandwich cookies thrown on top to make it look edible.” As if to punctuate the point, one of the cookies slid off the top of the cake and down its already drooping façade, making a sad, lackluster landing at the bottom of the container. “Ice cream? In the middle of a Louisiana spring? Do they not teach you thermodynamics up in Yankee Town?”
There was a snort of laughter from Sam, and you turned your glare on him. He held up his hands in surrender, taking a large step back from you.
“You got something against ice cream, doll?”
Your gaze snapped back to the miscreant, that infuriating grin still there, crinkles just beginning to form at the corners of his eyes. For some reason, you were rendered speechless, a gasp caught in the back of your throat at his brazen mocking.
“You know what? You can keep this,” you said, shoving the container against his broad, broad chest until he grabbed it from you, that freaking grin never wavering, those crystalline blue eyes shining like stars that had lost their way from the heavens. “Out of respect for Sam, and Sam only, I won’t throw that thing off the dock, but you better keep it away from my dessert table. Do I make myself clear?” you said crossing your arms tightly across your chest so he knew you meant business.
“Loud and clear, ma’am,” he said, his smile widening, an odd warmth spreading through you at the sight. You chalked it up to the balmy weather. “How about we grab a coffee, so I can make it up to you? My treat, doll.”
You blinked. “What.”
“Coffee?” he repeated, tilting his head amusingly at you. “It’s a drink. Dark. A little bitter. Goes real well with most desserts, too. Or, we can do dinner. That’ll really teach me a lesson, don’t you think?” he added, having the absolute nerve to wink at you.
You masked the hitch in your breath with an empty chuckle, giving him the once over with an eyebrow raised. “Tell you what, hotshot. I’ll go out to dinner with you when your cake survives a day in hell. Stay away from my dessert table!”
With that, you turned promptly, marching your way back to your precious sweets without another glance in his direction.
Bucky looked on after you, still admiring the way the afternoon sun illuminated your skin, the way your sundress swished with every angry step you took away from him, the way you commandeered those desserts like you a general in the midst of battle.
Damn, you were beautiful.
“Sam…” he said, completely unable to keep the wistful note out of his tone.
“Hey Buck, I’m sorry about her,” Sam said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “She owns a bakery in town, and ever since we were little, she’s been weirdly defensive about baked goods. She didn’t mean any harm.”
Bucky shook his head slowly, the goofy smile on his face only getting bigger as he watched you carefully adjust a few cupcakes on their stand. “Sam. I think I just met the woman I’m gonna marry.”
Sam doubled over with laughter, joined by Sarah, AJ, and Cass, taking the cake from him and setting it down on the table nearby.
As if you could sense his gaze still on you, you glanced over your shoulder, your eyes locking with his, an adorable scowl forming on your face when you saw him. He didn’t miss the way your movements faltered when you turned away again, the way you smoothed your skirt, and fiddled with your hair a little.
Oh, there was not a doubt in Bucky Barnes’ mind that he was completely, utterly, and hopelessly in love.