Page 193 of Sweet Ruin

Or at least the cakes and cookies do.

But as of 3:45 A.M. on the morning of Valentine’s Day, I’m losing the war, I’m behind in the race, and neither I nor the heart-shaped cannolis I’m currently piping look particularly pretty.

I pause for a second to let the carpal tunnel in my hand recede. While I shake out my wrists, I look around to see how far we’ve come and how far we have left to go.

Unfortunately, the latter category is much, much bigger than the former.

We have nine hundred heart cookies to flood, four hundred of which have to say something in cursive, and my carpal tunnel isn’t getting any better.

Priya is at the mixer with two pounds of freeze-dried raspberry powder going into buttercream, which turns the whole kitchen the color of a really gory crime scene.

Cameron is running boxes and sweating profusely.

Jolene is on the phone telling a customer that no, we cannot fit a message longer than eleven characters on a three-inch heart, and that “I’M SORRY FOR EVERYTHING I DID IN JANUARY” is, generously, thirty-six.

The upside of working like a dog is I don’t have time to think about anything else.

I don’t want to think about my mom’s demand that I give a speech. Or the glistening engagement ring on Vivian’s finger.

I don’t want to think about Connor hissing, Ask him why he choose me.

And I especially, most of all, do not want to think about Kane’s sinful mouth sinking between my thighs and forever ruining that bathroom sink for me. I’ll never be able to wash my hands there again without getting a little weak in the knees.

This is mine to give and yours to receive.

That sentence is probably going to live rent-free in my head for the rest of my life.

I shudder, shake it all off, and get back to work.

A little while later, I’ve piped custom phrases on sixty-eight red velvet cakes, filled one hundred and twelve heart-shaped tart shelves, and I look up to see Kane Makov standing at my back door.

One of those things was not on the production schedule.

I unlock the door and let him inside.

“What are you doing here?” I ask in confusion.

He steps in and shuts the door behind him. He’s got no coat on over his sweater, which means he came from a car that’s parked close.

“Josef called me,” he says.

I frown. “As in Stalin? I thought he was dead.”

“The man standing guard on your back door in the mornings.” He looks past me at the kitchen, eyes passing over the trays stacked four high on every rack, Priya’s crime-scene mixer, and Cameron wobbling by with a tower of boxes hugged to his chest. “He said you looked overwhelmed. I think he might’ve undersold it.”

“We’re fine.”

Right on cue, Cameron drops half the boxes. Frosting goes everywhere. He sinks to his knees and starts to sob.

Priya, who has been pretending to work while clearly eavesdropping on this entire conversation, rushes over to help poor Cam. She mouths to me, Ignore us! and flaps her hands to turn me back toward Kane.

Kane, obviously, sees all of that. “I don’t think you and I have the same definition of ‘fine.’“

“Okay,” I confess, cheeks reddening, “we’re a little behind. But it’s nothing we haven’t dealt with before.”

Behind Kane, Priya coughs into her hand with obvious fakeness and adds, “Please help, dear God!”

I roll my eyes. What a drama queen.