Chapter One
It was the cupcakes that saved her. Leilani Trusdale thought
about that as she carefully extracted the center from the
final black forest cupcake, then set the corer aside and
picked up the pastry bag of raspberry truffle filling. She
breathed in the mingled scents of dark chocolate and sweet
berries. It was inspiring, really, how much power a single,
sweet cup of baked deliciousness could wield. Cupcake
salvation.
Lani shifted the tip into position. "So, it's all on you, my
tasty little friends. Work your magic. Heal me now." She
focused intently—fiercely, even—on her way to
piping the precise amount of filling into each and every one
of the one hundred and fifty-six cupcakes that lined the
racks on the stainless steel worktable in front of
her—which was totally unnecessary. The fierce
focusing, not the filling. She could fill a table of
cupcakes blindfolded. In her sleep. With one hand tied
behind her back. Possibly on one foot. She'd never done it,
but she'd take the bet.
Of course, there were other things she'd never done
before— big things, important things—that she'd
also taken the bet on. And those bets had all paid off.
Every last one. So, she should feel confident, right? About
this most recent bet. This huge, ridiculous gamble that kept
her awake every night, wondering what in the hell she'd been
thinking.
Had she been completely insane, walking away from the career
she'd slaved actual blood, sweat, and many, many tears to
construct in New York City, to start over on little
Sugarberry Island and open her own shop?
Who did that?
"I did," she said out loud, rather defiantly, hoping the
statement alone would inspire confidence. It wasn't like she
couldn't go back to New York if all else failed. She hadn't
hated her life there. Exactly. So, she had a backup plan . .
. if absolutely necessary.
Her cell phone buzzed in her chef's jacket pocket. Frowning,
she set the pastry bag down and wiped her hands before
digging it out. Only one person would be calling her at the
crack of dawn. She hit the mute button on the stereo remote,
silencing the cantina band from the Star Wars
soundtrack—everyone had their own mix tape, hers just
happened to be made up of her favorite movie theme song
hits—then touched SPEAKERPHONE before propping it on
the worktable. "Hey, Charlotte," Lani said in greeting.
"What's up, besides us pastry chefs?" She picked up the bag
again and went back to work, too antsy to stand still and chat.
Antsy, and angry.
"You sound awake," Charlotte said, "which means you're in
the kitchen."
"Where else would I be?"
"You live in Georgia now—where even pastry chefs
probably sleep past five AM."
"Not if they want to get their product baked and frosted
before opening, they don't."
"You're not in Atlanta. How many cupcakes could the entire
island of Sugarberry consume in a day?"
"Char—"
"Answer me this. How many racks of cupcakes are in front of
you right now?"
Lani didn't answer. On the grounds that the truth would
totally incriminate her. Friends could, occasionally, be a
pain in the butt. Especially best friends. They knew too much.
"Chocolate?" Charlotte prodded.
Lani sighed. "One hundred fifty-six. Black forest." At
Charlotte's continued silence, she sighed again. "Okay,
okay. With raspberry truffle filling. And Dutched chocolate
ganache frosting."
"Oh no, I'm too late! You already heard."
"I have to make these." Lani tried not to sound defensive,
knowing she failed even as she said the words. "They're for
the Kiwanis Club."
"What on earth is a Kiwanis?" Charlotte asked. "Never mind.
I don't think I want to know. Much less why they're
congregating in clubs."
"It's all part of the annual fall festival here," Lani
explained. "It starts with a huge community dinner tonight.
The Kiwanis raises money for local civic improvements, so
I'm contributing cupcakes to help the cause."
"Good heavens, Lan, you're working . . . what, bake sales
now? Is it going so badly as all that?" The lilt of
Charlotte's Indian accent came through a little stronger
than usual. It always did whenever she was upset.
"Your confidence is inspiring. It's not like I'm helping the
high school glee club earn money at a table in front of the
local grocery store. I'm doing signature cupcakes in boxed
sets as part of a huge auction they'll hold as a kickoff
event after the dinner. The people here support me. I'm
happy to do it. Plus, it's good marketing. And the Kiwanis
Club I'm sponsoring is going to donate all the money they
earn from their auction entries to expand and improve the
youth and senior centers."
"See, the fact that you need to keep your youths and seniors
in centers is a big part of what concerns me about this
sudden life shift," Charlotte replied. "But we've had that
little talk. As long as you think you need to be on your
little island in the middle of nowhere, you know I am your
biggest cupcake cheerleader."
Lani did know that. Charlotte might not understand, but she
did her best to support. "You really need to come down here,
Char. You'll see. This town is like living inside a
sustained, continual group hug. You can't believe what it's
like to have such loyal support. I mean, I know it's mostly
because I'm a Harper, and my great-grandmother was revered
here, but they're very sincere about it. And it just feels .
. . well, great, actually. Come down. Feel the Sugarberry
love. You'll understand then, I know you will. You never
know, you might even stay." Lani smiled. If you could hear a
person shudder, she was pretty sure she'd heard Charlotte do
just that. "I miss you."
"I miss you, too. At the moment, however, we have more
important things to discuss. I didn't think you'd already
know. That's why I called so early. I wanted to get to you
first. Are you okay?"
Lani squeezed a bit harder on the pastry bag than necessary,
but managed to keep from making a raspberry truffle volcano
out of the next cupcake. She didn't pretend to not know what
Char was talking about. "I'm fine." Total lie, and one
Charlotte wouldn't buy for a second. Especially given the
black forest and Dutched ganache. Dead giveaway, really.
"How in the world do you know? I just read about it in our
little local daily less than an hour ago." Which was why,
less than an hour later, she was filling cupcakes as if her
life depended on it.
"I'm still in New York, remember? We know everything first.
Franco told me this morning when he came in. He's here
helping me with setups. We're catering a champagne gala at
the Lincoln tonight. It's crazed."
"Bon matin, ma chรจre!" came Franco's shout from somewhere in
the distance, via the speakerphone.
The accent affectation never ceased to amuse Lani. Franco
was definitely tall, dark, and swarthy. He was the youngest
from a family of seven with six older sisters, and just
about the best gay boyfriend a girl could hope to have. But
he'd been born Franklin Ricci and raised in the Bronx. He
was about as French as baseball and Mom's apple pie. Still,
he somehow made it work.
"Bonjour, mon ami," Lani said, warmed by his always cheerful
voice, feeling anything but, herself.
"Before you ask," Char said, "Franco got the news last night
from a production assistant on Baxter's show he's been hot
after for a month now. I had to tell you the second I heard.
It's not out for public consumption—yet—so it's
not national news."
"It will be international news when we finally get together,
ma chรจre," Franco crooned. "And we will. Like the finest
Belgian chocolate with French vanilla filling. Mmm mmm. For
private consumption only." His rich laughter echoed into
Lani's kitchen.
"Seriously, Franco," Char scolded him. "No one cares about
your latest conquest. We're in a state of emergency here."
"Almost conquest. And it's true love, this time, chรฉrie,"
Franco said with a wistful, dramatic sigh. "Or could be."
"What else do you know about this?" Lani asked, feeling a
bit sick, along with antsy and angry. "What exactly did you
find out, Franco?"
"Not much," he said, dropping the accent momentarily. "Just
that production is gearing up to start filming the next
season on location in Sugarberry. I made the connection
immediately, of course, but no one else is saying anything
about it. Or you. At least not that I've heard. At the
moment, Baxter's website and the show website are touting
the third season, which launches this week. Baxter is going
around doing all the standard promo for the season premiere,
but it's only a matter of time before he mentions the next
season, since it's going into production this week, too. His
ratings are so high there's a lot of buzz about the major
networks trying to steal him away for his own daytime show.
Apparently, his network execs are pushing like mad to get
him going, filming this next season. They want to get all
the sponsors inked early on, before the rumors get out of
hand." Franco came closer to Charlotte's phone. "Brenton
told me they're going to make a big splash about the season
premiere on the morning talks all this week. Someone will
get him to spill."
"Brenton?" Lani asked. "Really, Franco?"
"It's adorable on him, trust me," he said, all Bronx now.
"Listen, Baxter is supposedly doing a surprise spot on Today
tomorrow. And honey, you know Hoda and Kathy Lee will be all
over him, because—straight or gay—who wouldn't
be? They'll bring up the network rumors, and I wouldn't be
surprised if he mentions that he's already begun the next
season of filming, just to squash the buzz. Word is going to
get out, ma chรจre. Of course they'll make the connection as
it's the only one to make. It's only a matter of time."
Charlotte came back on the line. "We just wanted to give you
a heads-up, Lan. I didn't want you hearing about it from
anyone else. How did it make your little local paper before
making the entertainment news here?"
"Ask Baxter." Lani was certain he was behind the personal
little news bulletin. He was nothing if not a master at
controlling the whims of his own fate. The question she
still had no answer for was why? Why was he doing this? Any
of it? She said as much out loud.
"I don't know," Charlotte responded. "But, like Franco said,
your name hasn't come up in conversation amongst the crew or
production, so I don't think anyone else has made the
connection yet."
"Well, I'm not news, entertainment or otherwise, so why
would anyone on the set care? The only one who will be
bothered by this whole thing is me. I just don't understand
what possible explanation he used for wanting to set his
show here on Sugarberry, of all places."
"Lani," Franco said, butting back in, "you know it's not
coincidence. I don't know what he told his bosses, but they
obviously went for it. There has to be a hook, don't you
think? And the hook has to be you."
"But, why? Just because I worked for him?"
"You know better than that. The world might not care now,
but you know it's only a matter of time before it's all out
there. Any news that includes Chef Hot Cakes being
interested in a woman—particularly one he worked with,
mentored, and handed over the running of his beloved shop to
. . . and about whom there was some pretty juicy gossip back
in the day—is not just going to be any news. It's
going to be the news."
The very suggestion made Lani's stomach sink further. Just
like it had, regularly, "back in the day." Those days had
mercifully ended ten months ago. She wanted to keep it that
way. "There's nothing to get out. Come on, you and Char know
that better than anyone. There was never any substance to
those rumors. Most definitely not from Baxter's perspective.
You two are the only ones who ever knew how I felt, and you
both know I'd kill you in your sleep if you ever breathed a
word."
Charlotte gasped. "You don't think we—"
"No, of course I don't." Charlotte and Franco were the two
people Lani trusted most in the world. They were "her
people," and she was theirs. "It wouldn't have mattered
anyway, even if you had," She went on. "I mean, the world
won't care what I might have felt for him, because Baxter
doesn't care. It's certainly not newsworthy now. Yes, he
made my professional life utter hell for the better part of
three years—which I signed on for—and yes, he
never once stepped up to defend me when the personal gossip
started. Not once. But, though I hated it, and it hurt, it
wasn't exactly a surprise that he didn't. Baxter is
notoriously, completely oblivious to anything not in his own
personal line of interest. So, I'm equally sure he had no
idea what kind of hell my life was then, and I'd certainly
like to believe he doesn't have a single clue about the
hornet's nest he's stirring up coming down here now. I can't
imagine he'd intentionally do something so—"
"Heartless?" Franco said.
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