Chapter Text
He loved cakes.
He loved strawberry cakes smoothed over in cream cheese frosting and textured with fresh fruit.
He loved pineapple cakes with buttery crusts.
He loved mocha chocolate cakes smothered in whipped espresso buttercream and sprinkled with toasted almond slivers.
He loved spongey, lightly-sweetened fruit cream cakes perfected with seasonal berries, mangos, and whipped cream.
He loved almond cakes and carrot cakes and red velvet cakes and basbousa. He loved raspberry glaze and caramel sauce and dark chocolate shavings and sprinkles. He loved ice cream cake, coffee cake, black forest cake, and flourless chocolate domes.
He loved other pastries, too. His bakery bragged every breadlike item. Whenever someone stepped inside, he could see them stagger, hit and nearly knocked over by the overwhelming but lovely stench of an oven that never rested and the stacks of still-hot loaves waiting to be devoured. He offered a comfort for every mouth and an invitation to every fork. It wasn’t a large establishment, but two tiny tables lined the back wall, opposite of him, in case anyone wanted to dig in the second the cash register beeped.
The cash register was just done beeping when an unfamiliar client rushed in, bell atop the door ringing, someone so keen to his mission he barely staggered against the aromatic wall that made all others pause. He didn’t linger at the display cases or even hunt for something specific. He beelined right to Brett, and within a breath, was asking help.
“I need a cake. Last-minute,” he said.
“Okay,” said Brett. “Ah. Yeah. Um. What flavor?”
He was trying to lock in on the mission, get straight to the point. But he had to admit... this man was cute. Brett didn’t know if it was the man’s beglassed stare, deeper and more intense than an extra dark roast, or his off-kilter mussed-up hair that made him disconcertingly cute, but of the two people here, one was flustered, and it wasn’t the guy in a hurry.
Brett’s head flew side-to-side, seeking solutions, or perhaps just an escape from that stare.
“I don’t care. It needs to feed people.”
“All cakes f—”
“Can you decorate? On the spot?”
“Like a polka dot?”
“No like—”
Oh my god. He was misunderstanding basic questions. “Uh, yeah, I suppose.” His squashed-up, smitten-soaked, over-rushing poor excuse of a brain couldn’t keep pace with disorderly requests and a stare that burrowed through souls. “What’s it for?”
“A party. Let’s just say I forgot I was supposed to get a cake.”
“Cake coming right up.” Brett’s hands flailed at a row in the display case. “Which one?” The man tapped on the glass towards a basic vanilla. “When’s the party?”
“It started. An hour ago. I’m late.”
That probably explained why his hairstyle was less style and more a demonstration against gravity.
“Oh geez!” Brett grabbed the wrong cake. He put it back. He grabbed that cake again. He put it back. He fumbled and half-dropped the plate of that very same cake. He put it back. What the heck. He never handled goods this clumsily. Brett managed to set the cake on the counter and reached for his piping bags. It was still the wrong cake.
“So I don’t need anything fancy on it,” that damn cute man with the deep roast eyes said, looking twice at his watch and once more at the clock on Brett’s back wall. “Just text. It can say ‘Congratulations’.”
“I can do that,” said Brett. He needed to block out the cute man’s stare from his peripheral vision. He could. If Brett stared through his glasses, the client in the corner blurred to a vague chocolate-topped shape. “What color do you want the text?”
“Whatever you have on hand.”
“Got it. White.”
Wait, crap. That’s the wrong cake.
He pointed at the cake. “This is chocolate. You wanted vanilla. With white frosting...” Haha! Success! He could play it off as intentional!
“Oh yeah yeah. Chocolate’s fine, too. That way you can read the words. Word. Singular.”
“‘Congratulations’?”
“Right.”
Brett’s piping bag whisked over the surface of the cake. Writing was easy, but it always took concentration to keep the letter spacing consistent. The mark of a professional was neatness, nothing jumbled, nothing crammed, perfectly aligned and planted exactly as intended. He could still do it fast. He could crank this out, and have his client leaving in no t—
A cell phone buzzed, and his customer hurriedly yanked it up to his ear.
“Hey yeah sorry. I promise I’m on my way.”
C - O - N - G - R -
“No no no really. I’m on my way now. I’m almost there.”
Brett whipped the cake around.
His client’s smile went to war with itself, as if he was both trying to force a smile but repress it from stretching too wide. For a second, Brett saw widened eyes, stretched eyebrows, true glee, and something else, before the man tamped it down to a normal expression and a normal acceptive nod. Odd reaction. Too enthusiastic for a cake. Even a salvation cake overdue by an hour.
The man hung up his phone without any form of farewell.
“That’ll be $68.50,” said Brett.
“Okay,” said the man. “Thank you,” said the man, a bit slowly.
“Enjoy the party!”
He took it. He let out a laugh. It must have been a laugh of relief.
It was only as the client was juggling with the door, stepping outside, that Brett noticed.
He’d
written
Congrataloins.