Her Gentle Gangster by Carolyn Faulkner
Chapter Three
Michael
I’ve bittenoff more than I can chew.
All the cake zombies who were lined up down the street are now lined up down my front walk.
What the hell did I do?
Cara sees me peeking through the blinds, and she’s standing there with one hand on her jutted-out hip, looking slightly sassy and amused.
I’ve known this girl since she was a baby—when Bill, Corrina, and I started college together. Bill’s second-oldest daughter hasn’t lived with Bill and Corrina since she went off to college herself. Now, she’s back home, and I’m going get us both in trouble.
The universe is playing some sick joke on me as punishment for not putting myself out there in the dating world. I was engaged once upon a time, and after that disaster, I’ve only had more disasters because of…some particular needs.
And now, my self-imposed drought is causing me to look at someone I know in a very different light, and that’s not fair to her.
It’s my fault for not keeping closer tabs on these girls. If I’d socialized more, paid more attention to my friends, I wouldn’t be lusting after a woman half my age.
Against all my judgment, I open the door. They might as well have pitchforks and torches, the way they’re looking at me. “How can I help you folks?”
“We wanted to buy those cakes.”
Diana pushes past them with a rolling cart full of pastry boxes.
The man at the front of the line says, “We heard Phillip Wildwood himself donated these cakes.” The name rings a bell, and then I realize that’s the famous British baker who married Bill’s oldest daughter last year. I recall having my assistant pick out a gift from the registry and ship it. The thank you card with the wedding photo is on my fridge. Perfect exchange of pleasantries for me. I didn’t have to attend a wedding, and they got a set of high thread-count sheets.
“How badly do you want ‘em?” I ask the man as Diana wheels the cakes into my kitchen and begins unloading. Cara follows behind her with another cart packed full of cake boxes.
“What?”
“How much will you pay for one of those cakes?” I ask the man at the head of the crowd.
“What are you going to do, price gouge us?” he asks.
“No, but you came here to buy cakes. Anything you want to pay me to get a cake, I’ll donate back to the school.”
And that’s how I spent the rest of my Saturday morning: selling cakes out of my damn house in my pajama pants.
This is a punishment from the universe for lusting after my best friend’s 23-year-old daughter.