Cakespell Read online

  A SWEET NOVEL

  GABY TRIANA

  Copyright © 2018 Gaby Triana

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  ISBN: 9781980775980 (Paperback Edition)

  ASIN: B07C1DXYH7 (eBook Edition)

  Characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by author.

  Proofread by Bette Bourgeois

  Book cover and interior design by Curtis Sponsler

  Printed and bound in the United States of America

  First printing April 2018

  Published by Alienhead Press

  www.alienheadpress.com

  Miami, FL 33186

  Visit Gaby Triana at www.gabytriana.com

  Dedication

  For Curtis -- may the lemon cupcakes that started it all

  make their magic forever <3

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Author Links

  Also by Gaby Triana

  A Note to My Readers

  One

  “Rose, where do you want this fondant bucket?”

  Sabrina helps me put away my baking things while also watching my back. Watching my window, actually, to warn me, in case Lovely Mother comes home unexpectedly. If she does, the plan is to barricade the door, scramble, and panic.

  It hasn’t happened in the week since she banned me from baking, but that’s not the point of emergency prep. The point is to be ready in case it does.

  What my mother doesn’t understand is that you can’t stop someone from doing what they love. For me, that’s dabbling in the “dark sugar arts,” as she calls it while watching old movies. So, my mission is to get this two-tiered baby shower cake finished and ready for pickup within the next hour, along with the entire kitchen cleaned up, all before LM returns from work.

  Tall order, but I have to do this.

  Customers are depending on me—they don’t care if I’m grounded.

  “Right on the counter,” I tell Sabrina. Sixty minutes ‘til the devil returns. I shift into full-steam-ahead mode. Let’s do this.

  It’s not my fault that I love baking. Or that baking loves me. Or that people die of happiness when they taste my desserts. Or that I bake while watching classic black-and-white films, listening to old-timey music, and dressing up in 1940’s fashion. I can’t help it—it’s fun and I’m an old soul.

  But Lovely Mother insists that baking isn’t my future—a career in STEM is.

  Then why do I suck at math and science so much?

  I stack the cake tiers and sharpen the dowel rod that will skewer through the middle of them. It’s a skill I learned on YouTube to keep the cake tiers from sliding all over the place during a wild car ride. And that’s my other problem: delivery guy/neighbor (and unbeknownst to him—my future husband), Caleb, doesn’t always drive smoothly. I’ve told him a hundred times he needs to take those corners sloowww, but hey, he’s getting better.

  I’m about to skewer the cake when one of the best scenes in Casablanca starts. Mallet in hand, I pause to watch. As usual during my favorite flicks, I begin zoning out. It’s fun to imagine myself dressed as these characters, though in my daydreams, sometimes things go different…

  Casablanca—1941.

  A sultry moon hangs in the melancholy air. A wedding starts in five minutes. If my delivery man doesn’t get here quick, this buttercream dream is going to melt in the Mediterranean heat. The bride and groom will be doomed to a lifetime of unhappiness. And whose fault will it be for the rest of my life? Mine.

  No pressure, Rose.

  The lovely French couple chose moi, so I cannot—will not—disappoint them. Covered in scroll piping and Swiss dots, this cake is the cat’s meow, the prettiest thing I’ve ever made—a confection of love, a dreamboat dessert.

  But where, oh where, is my lover, er, delivery man? Gosh, I hope he hasn’t crashed out on these cobblestone streets. Just how did I become Casablanca’s premier cake designer when I’m only fifteen? Shh, it’s my daydream.

  Plunky notes float into the kitchen from the piano here at Rick’s Café Americain. Moonlight and love songs, never out of date… I gaze out the window. A box truck rounds the corner, rumbling up the street. Jeepers, it’s about time! I shake powdered sugar out of my Veronica Lake hairdo, rip off my pastry jacket to reveal a long, satin gown.

  The door flies open. A chorus of violins sing.

  “Rose.” Caleb’s chest heaves. Fog swirls around him.

  “Caleb…” I ache at the space between us. “My sweet man with a driver’s license.”

  He removes his flat cap, presses it to his chest. “I’m so sorry I’m late, Rose. Will you ever forgive me?”

  “All is swell, darling.” I swoon at his eyes twinkling like silver diamonds. “The bride and groom can wait. Our love is more important.”

  The violins grow louder. “What? I can’t hear you.”

  The violins quiet down. “I said—”

  “Never mind.” He envelops my hands in his. “My love.”

  “My sweet.”

  “Do you have any—”

  “Shh.” I press a glossy fingernail to his lips. “Leftovers?” I finish his sentence, for we are star-crossed lovers, and I can read his mind.

  “Shucks, Rose. It’s like you know my every thought. I’d do anything for your cake. I must say, I have never, ever…” He leans into me. I crane my neck all the way back to gaze at him. “Tasted one like yours in my life.”

  “Oh, Caleb!” I reach into the scrap bowl for a chunk of vanilla genoise with almond buttercream and bring it to his lips. “For you, my love.”

  “Rose, how you tempt me.” He takes the morsel into his mouth, silky lips wrapping around the cake, his willpower succumbing to my irresistible delights. The piano notes plunk… You must remember this…a kiss is still a kiss. His mouth lowers onto mine, and we—

  “Rose?”

  Lovely, sweet, perfect.

  “Hello?”

  A sigh is just a sigh…

  “Hmm? Yes?” I look up.

  Sabrina waves at me from her window post. “I said your leading man is here? Caleb? Are you even listening?”

  I blink. Sharpened dowel rod in one hand, rubber mallet in the other. What was I doing again? Ah, yes, murdering a cake. “Yes. Okay, good, let him in.” I hammer the stake through the top tier, two separator boards, down to the drum, daydream fizzling away. Whew, that was a good one!

  Sabrina runs up to me and brushes flour off my face. “You know, Rose, when you’ve got your head in the clouds like that, it worries me.”

  “It’s nothing. I was just watching the movie.”

  “Are you done with the cake?”

  I snip off the excess dowel rod and secure
the light pink baby booties I made out of gum paste right on top. Perfect. “Yep.” I check the time. Not a minute to spare. “He has to leave now, or this puppy’s going to be late! Do I look okay?”

  “Perfect. Just…shake that flour from your face.” She heads for the door. “And the flower…fix your flower.” She points to her hair.

  “Oh.” My rose hair clip. I’ve been trying on more classic looks lately, not only because 1940’s fashion is so pin-uppy beautiful, but because Caleb might see me as more than his little neighbor if I did. I pinch my cheeks to bring out the rosiness. They do that in the old movies. “Okay, ready.”

  “Here we go…” Sabrina opens the door to reveal the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen. Even across the living room and hallway, I smile at Caleb’s floppy brown hair, green eyes, ear bud wires hanging down the sides of his beautiful, angular face…heaven.

  Caleb—so tall, so seventeen. “What’s up, cake girls, girls with cake…” He comes up to the counter and plucks something out of my hair. “Girls wearing cake.”

  Sigh. He touched me.

  “You’re late, Caleb,” Sabrina says. “You’ve got Rose on edge over here.”

  Caleb looks at me. “I’m only five minutes late, Rosie.”

  I try to speak, but Caleb is pure kryptonite. But today will be different. Today, I will use big words! “It’s fine, but you do have to leave now. The cake needs to be there by five. Drive like your life depends on it. But not too fast.”

  Caleb gives me a surprised smile. “Don’t I always?”

  “No, you cause cracks in her fondant like with the last customer.” Sabrina folds her arms over her chest indignantly.

  Caleb stares at her perfect boobs for a whole second then shifts his gaze to the cake. “I told you that was an accident. Hey, do you have any scraps before I go? I’m starving.”

  Free cake is the main reason Caleb does this job. I would rather he do it to help me out, but beggars can’t be choosers. “Yes,” I squeak then clear my throat. “Yes.” I shove the bowl with cut crowns at him.

  He fishes around for a chunky piece.

  Sabrina and I exchange glances. Yes, I know he only wants me for my cake. Yes, I’m too nice to him. It’s a start, he’s a free delivery guy, and who knows? He might one day see past the fluffy girl who feeds him. It could happen.

  As the scrap moves from the bowl to his lips, I realize something is missing. “Wait!” But it’s too late. He pops the piece into his mouth without the icing. Sacrilege! Nobody—I repeat, nobody—eats cake in my kitchen without the perfect, accompanying buttercream. Cake and frosting go together!

  “Open…” I hover my piping bag over Caleb’s mouth.

  Sabrina’s eyes widen at me.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Caleb laughs, opening his mouth full of half-chewed cake.

  I squeeze a perfect swirl of almond buttercream right into his mouth and watch his eyeballs roll into the back of his head. I’ve got you now, Caleb Anthony.

  A crooked smile spreads across Sabrina’s lips. “Say it…”

  He savors the bite of heaven. “Oh, man. That is good stuff, Rosie.”

  I’ve made Caleb happy—my heart is full.

  “It’s better than stuff. It’s mad delicious, sinfully sweet. You need Rose in your life. Don’t you, Caleb?” She winks at me. I love my wing-woman.

  “Hell, yeah, I do. Rosie, you make the best damn cake.” He tugs on the base, sliding the whole thing towards him, ready to lift it.

  “Wait! One more thing!”

  Caleb and Sabrina both groan.

  I open my pouch of edible dusts and glitter and pull out a tiny jar of baby pink. Twisting open the lid, I sprinkle some all over the cake then blow on my fingers to release it all. Magic! The whole thing comes to life with a sparkly sheen. Sabrina stands behind me and takes pics of my creation on her phone.

  There’s a moment of silence, as we stare at the cake before we never see it again. Even Caleb gives it a sad smile. I’m glad the cake amazes him. I just wish, for once, that I’d amaze him.

  “You know, Rosie…” He faces me suddenly with smoldering eyes. “At some point…” Caleb takes slow steps toward me. I can almost see the fog curling around him. Is he going to kiss me? Here, now, with Sabrina watching? I never imagined it would be like this, but okay!

  “Yes?” My voice shakes.

  “I’m going to need more than buttercream.” He stares into my eyes, and I’ll be damned—his have golden flecks in them. Swoon. “At some point…you’re going to have to pay me with actual money.”

  Money?

  Right.

  My heart explodes into a field of scattered stars. I hold onto the granite countertop to steady myself. Wow. Stupid me. His smile fades. Everything returns to normal. On second thought, I don’t think I was ready to kiss Caleb anyway.

  Sabrina gives me a sympathetic smirk. I know she wishes I’d reply with some witty comeback, but I can’t. It’s not me. Sabrina strolls up to him. “You know, Caleb, Alexandre said he’d do the same job just for the chance to be near Rose, so if money is what you need…”

  “Alexandre?” Caleb scoffs. “I don’t think so.”

  He has a point. Though my other best friend has never confirmed being gay, we all sort of know he is, just like we know the sun will rise, the moon will shine, and I will never learn to speak for myself.

  “Besides, that dude doesn’t even have a car.” Caleb carries my cake toward the door.

  “He would walk to deliver Rosie’s cake.” Sabrina cocks an eyebrow. “Miles, actually. Everyone is replaceable, Caleb.”

  “Fine, just don’t give Alexandre my cake scraps. Cake scraps are mine. Promise me, Rosie.”

  My mouth opens but nothing comes out, so Sabrina takes over, “Hmm, I don’t think Rose would be amenable to—”

  “I promise,” I interrupt.

  Sabrina gawks at me with huge blue eyes full of guilt trippiness.

  Ugh, so I gave in. Leave me alone. I toss a filled pastry bag, paintbrush, and tiny ball of fondant into a Ziploc bag and follow Caleb out the door. Sabrina gestures for me to put the bag in his back pocket.

  I shake my head. I can’t touch his butt!

  Her mouth is a thin line. Do it!

  Fine! I catch up to him, pull back on his jeans’ pocket, and shove the bag in.

  “Whoa, thanks for that.” He laughs. “What is it?”

  “Emergency repair kit. If you see any cracks, wet the fondant with a little water and press it into the crack. Then use the brush to smooth it out. Like caulking.”

  Caleb’s eyes widen. “Okay, then.”

  I cut him off at the pass and open the hatchback of his beat-up Honda. As he stands there, I arrange towels in the back into a nice cushiony pad next to his guitar case. Sigh, he even plays guitar. “I’ll text you the address. It’s five minutes from here. And here’s gas money.” I slide a five-dollar bill into his hand

  He looks straight into my soul. “Don’t worry, Rosie. I got this.”

  As much as I love making cakes, I hate the stress of delivering them. And despite the cracks, Caleb has done a pretty good job so far of getting them there safely. “I trust you.”

  He closes the hatchback and heads to the driver’s seat. “I’ll text you when I get there.”

  I open my mouth to say thank you, I love you, please marry me…

  “And I’ll let you know if everyone liked it.”

  You’re my true love, Caleb. One day you’ll realize…

  “And I won’t forget your money this time. Yes, I’ll patch it up if anything happens. God, Rosie, stop telling me what to do!” He laughs and slams the door. “Bye, Sabrina,” he calls just before his window shuts completely.

  Sabs clings to the door frame in an effortless pose. “What do you see in that guy?”

  “He’s perfect.”

  “He’s going to ruin your stellar reputation with his driving.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You’re hopeless.”
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  We watch him back out of the driveway, as my gaze scans the street for signs of my mother. Alexandre Bourret arrives, crossing the street, dark blond hair needing a trim, laptop bag strapped across his back. He pushes his nerdy glasses up with his free hand, swerving out of Caleb’s way just in time.

  Caleb rolls down the window. “You—computer kid…you’re not taking my cake scraps.”

  “Crétin.” Alexandre sneers before heading up my walkway in a bouncy mood. “Good afternoon, mademoiselles.” While he and Sabrina enter the house, I watch Caleb’s car disappear down the street.

  One day, I’ll have the courage to tell him a million things. How I adore him. How three out of every four men end up marrying the girl next door, so he’s bound by statistics to be my husband, how we’ll have three children, live off the French coast with a dog named Chichi, and how he’ll love every inch of me happily ever after.

  I haven’t told him yet. But I will. I totally will.

  “Rose?” Sabrina croaks.

  “Hmm?” I turn and immediately see the problem.

  “Your mom’s home.”

  Two

  The engine sound of LM’s BMW groans into our driveway before I can close the front door. “Crap!”

  “Crap!” Sabrina jumps into action. “I’ll barricade the door. You and Alex start cleaning. Go, go, go!”

  Alex and I bolt into the kitchen, as Sabrina opens the foyer closet door so it smashes up against the front door. This is a good strategy since my mother has always hated that flaw in our house’s design. We throw ourselves onto counters, wiping powdered bits of excess fondant into the trash, scooping rolling pins, shape cutters, flower tools, scissors, pizza cutters, and tossing them all into a plastic bag to hide in my room.

  Ugh, why did I spend so much time trying to flirt with Caleb?

  Keys jingle at the front door. It opens but hits foyer closet. “Rose? You left the…door open…again.” She fumbles with the barricade.

  “Crap.”

  “Crap.”

  “Merde.”

  “Sorry, Mom! Be right there!” Rags fly across the kitchen, dirty pans go airborne, clanging on the floor. There’s only so much we can do in ten seconds. We’re almost done getting rid of the last cake stuff, but she frees the door herself.