Cake Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Cake

  Carmen Jenner

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  CAKE

  Prologue | Poppy

  Chapter One | I just hallucinated. Could you repeat that? | Poppy

  Chapter Two | Here comes the maid of honor, all dressed in . . . pavement frosting? | Poppy

  Chapter Three | Sexually frustrated Pop Tart | Poppy

  Chapter Four | The gift that keeps giving. | Poppy

  Chapter Five | Everyone loves anal | Poppy

  Chapter Six | It’s never just a cake | Poppy

  Chapter Seven | The devil made me do it | Poppy

  Chapter Eight | Beating at the meeting | Leo

  Chapter Nine | I love him the way you love a hobo on your stoop | Leo

  Chapter Ten | The preppy pussy pack | Leo

  Chapter Eleven | She’s a scream . . . literally | Leo

  Chapter Twelve | Grumpy cat | Poppy

  Chapter Thirteen | Crazy in spades | Poppy

  Chapter Fourteen | I’ll take a side of Zac Efron, please. | Poppy

  Chapter Fifteen | I got an ouchie | Leo

  Chapter Sixteen | Asshole’s Anonymous | Poppy

  Chapter Seventeen | The enemy of my enemy is my . . . friend? What-the-hell-ever, just hand me the whiskey. | Leo

  Chapter Eighteen | Douchebags who wander | Poppy

  Chapter Nineteen | Pop! Goes the weasel | Poppy

  Chapter Twenty | The moaning after | Poppy

  Chapter Twenty-One | Nope | Poppy

  Chapter Twenty-Two | I might need you to punch someone | Poppy

  Chapter Twenty-Three | Like I eat cake | Poppy

  Chapter Twenty-Four | A truly terrible idea | Poppy

  Chapter Twenty-Five | Say it with me now . . . compartmentalization | Poppy

  Chapter Twenty-Six | Cleavage makes people happy | Poppy

  Chapter Twenty-Seven | How I feel about cake | Six months later | Poppy

  Epilogue | Life is short. Eat the cake | One year later | Poppy

  More from the Author

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  CAKE

  Copyright © 2017 Carmen Jenner

  Published by Carmen Jenner

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the author’s work and not pirating this book. Pirates suck!

  CAKE: © Carmen Jenner February 17th, 2018

  [email protected]

  Editing: Lauren Clarke Editing

  https://www.laurenclarkeediting.com/

  Cover Design: © Be Designs

  http://www.be-designs.com.au/

  Illustrator: © Yehuda Devir

  https://www.yehudadevir.com/

  Prologue

  Poppy

  Do you ever have those moments when the whole world seems to stop? You know what I mean. Something disastrous—and I do mean monumentally, epically disastrous—takes place and time ekes out in front of you. The world ceases moving in slow motion, and instead, it just . . . stops. Pause. Freeze frame.

  If this were a Reese Witherspoon movie, you’d laugh. But this is not a Reese Witherspoon movie. This is real life. My life, and that cake you see careening toward the floor with my ass right behind it? It’s a four-tiered, pink-champagne-with-raspberry-mousse-filling-and-white-chocolate-ganache masterpiece. Or, it was. Now it’s destroyed. Ruined. An unsalvageable pile of mush—much like my dignity. This cake is the last nail in my coffin, and the giant buffoon who I was running from is the one to hammer home the final blow. His full weight rests on top of me while I lie ass-deep in two thousand dollars’ worth of cake and frosting. Along with what’s sure to be the ruin of my career.

  I know what you’re thinking: it’s an accident, they’ll understand. They won’t. Jacinta, my boss and longtime mentor, will never understand. Not if the clients aren’t happy.

  And the clients won’t be happy. You see, the groom, Chase Vanderbilt, is my ex. The bride, Claire Schaefer? My ex-best friend. Do you see a pattern here? Chase will never understand. Claire will never understand. This story will be one they tell their grandchildren. For the rest of my life I’ll be the wicked witch of the Upper East Side, the disgruntled ex-lover who ruined the happiest day of their lives. And not only that, but brides everywhere will shun me. I’m a wedding planner, and not just any wedding planner, but the junior associate to the most sought-after firm in New York. I’m also up for a promotion, but if this gets out, I’m screwed, along with the cake we’re lying on.

  Time snaps back into place like a rubber band from a slingshot. I glance at the ceiling, panicked and praying that this is all just some terrible nightmare. “Oh my God.”

  “Oh, shit.” Leo. Freaking. Nass. The man who’s tormented me since we were kids in high school. The man who drove a wedge between the groom and me. The man who puts the whore in man whore, and who doesn’t believe in marriage, true love, or even a second date leans up on his elbows and looks upon me with the sort of hunger akin to a wild lion’s. Well, Simba be damned. This little lioness is about to show him the meaning of fear.

  “GET. OFF!” I shove at his chest. Leo scrambles to his feet and offers a hand to me. I sit up, slap it away and hiss, “What the hell did you do?”

  “What did I do?” He straightens, and surveys the crime scene around me. “I didn’t do anything. You’re the one laying in five pounds of buttercream.”

  “It’s ganache, you ass.” I shake my head. Leo chuckles. He freaking chuckles. “I’m sorry, but I don’t find any of this funny.”

  “Well that’s because you’re not looking at it from the right angle.” He tilts his head as if he’s trying to get a better look at my lady bits. I snap my knees together so I’m not giving him a show, then—not without a few attempts on the Slip ’N Slide—I finally get to my feet. Frosting flies from my hands all around the small room, as I make like Taylor Swift and shake it off.

  “Oh my
God, I’m ruined. This is . . . I’m never gonna work again. That promotion is going to go right out the window and I’ll have to resign. I’ll wind up alone, a crazy cat lady who ruins weddings.”

  “Okay, Pop Tart, breathe.”

  “Don’t call me Pop Tart,” I shout, then lower my voice so as not to draw any of the revelers from the ballroom. I point my finger in Leo’s face and a chunk of frosting flies off and lands right next to his mouth. His tongue darts out to lick it away, and my breath catches. “This is all your fault.”

  Wait. Back up. Hold on a goddamn minute here. My breath doesn’t catch when I’m with Nass the Ass. It doesn’t ... I don’t ... oh my God. What is he doing?

  Leo takes hold of my hand and sucks my finger into his mouth. I make a sound halfway between a gasp of horror and a moan, and he releases my finger with a pop and leans in.

  For the second time in as many minutes, time slows down. Leo moves in slow motion toward me, and what happens next? Well, I don’t have words for the horror that comes next.

  Chapter One

  I just hallucinated. Could you repeat that?

  Poppy

  I stare down at the vanilla envelope in my hands and tenderly run my fingers over the embossed letters. I’ve always known this day was a possibility. On some far-off indeterminate date, I even expected it to happen. Of course, in my head when this day came I’d be happily married to a successful, gorgeous man, and I’d smile fondly at the envelope and know that this was right. It was good, and it was meant to be.

  None of this is supposed to happen three months after breaking up with my ex. Not when my best friend began dating said ex just a month later, and certainly not while I was still single.

  I hadn’t meant to down half a bottle of wine in my tiny kitchen after I’d walked through the door of my apartment in the West Village. I’d stared at the offending envelope for entirely too long as it lay on my counter, and then I’d started on the rest of the wine before deciding I couldn’t put it off any longer. I’d slipped a letter opener in one corner and yanked the blade through. The heavy paper had opened on a sigh and I’d stared down at the card inside.

  Poppy,

  I can’t say I do without you.

  Be my maid of honor?

  I let the invitation flutter to the ground, and I reach for the bottle. Again. My phone rings, and for a moment I contemplate throwing it out the window, but I just got it. Instead, I glare at it along with the rest of the contents that have spilled from my bag. Breath mints, my planner, a planner with my boss, Jacinta’s, daily schedule, headphones, lipstick, compact, Tampax, candy ... ooh, candy. With fumbling hands, I rip into the York Peppermint Patties and shove a few in my mouth—I always keep a packet of minis in my purse for those brides who like to skip meals and who might need a sugar hit to avoid passing out.

  I pick up my phone, set it down, and then I lift it to my ear and finally hit answer before I can chicken out. I have a mouthful of Pattie all smooshed up around my teeth and gums, so it sounds like Scooby Doo took to answering my calls. “Harrow?”

  “Oh my God, Poppy! I thought you were never going to answer. Did you get it?” The overly excited voice belongs to my best friend, or former best friend. I’m not really sure what we are now considering she’s marrying my ex-fiancé.

  I’m not bitter about it. I mean, I might have been if he’d cheated on me, but Chase and I didn’t end that way. We’d been together so long we finished each other’s sandwiches, but somewhere along the way Chase and I just fell apart. I had a great career, and a great apartment in the city I loved, but a great fiancé? Not so much. If I hadn’t been so focused on my job, if I’d paid more attention to us or if we’d just made more time for one another in our busy schedules, then maybe we’d still be together. Perhaps I just couldn’t give him what he needed.

  “Poppy, are you there?”

  I shoo Castiel—one of my three cats—off the white leather dining chair and sit heavily on the seat. “What?”

  “Did you get it? My invitation?”

  “Er, no. What invitation?” I don’t know why I’m lying through my teeth. The thing was delivered to my workplace, and I had to sign for it, so there’s every chance she already knows I have it.

  “The invitation to be my maid of honor? Are you sure you didn’t get it, because the messenger service said it was delivered.”

  “Oh, that.” I nod as if she can see me, lift the wine bottle to my lips and gulp back more of the refreshing Moscato. “I . . . isn’t it a little . . . soon? I mean, you just started dating Chase a month ago. That’s an awfully big commitment to make in one month.”

  “Two months,” she corrects, and again, I nod. Only when I do the math, that can’t be right. I distinctly remember she told me a month.

  “You said one.”

  She makes a scoffing sound. “Who cares? I’m getting married!” she shrieks. “Poppy, you have to say yes. I can’t get through this without you.”

  “Yes, you can,” I mutter. It seems Claire has done just fine without me.

  “What?”

  “Um, sorry, my head is in the clouds today, but I’m so excited for you. Of course I’ll be your maid of honor. I’m honored. Huh, honor, honored.” I laugh nervously. I think I might pass out, or puke up the sushi I ate for lunch.

  “Great. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

  “Never.”

  “Okay, God, we have so much to organize. So, the wedding is in a month—”

  “A month?” Was she crazy? No one plans the biggest day of their lives in a month. It’s wedding suicide. You can’t even get a decent cake in New York in that time, let alone flowers, invitations, the venue, cars, a dress ... oh my God ... who is she going to wear?

  I tear the wrapper off another Mint Pattie and stuff it in my mouth so I don’t faint, breathing through my nose as calmly and evenly as possible.

  “Yep, one month. I’ll have the planner email you everything you need to know about rehearsals and fittings and—”

  “Planner?” I say, and my voice sounds very far away. The one thing I was put on this earth for. The one thing that I’m successful enough to be up for a promotion as partner for, and she takes it away from me?

  “You hired another wedding planner?”

  “Well, we’re still using your firm, but Jacinta is apparently already working a high-profile wedding that weekend, so ... she mentioned Katherine was going to be our senior planner.”

  “Katherine,” I say in a calm, even tone, but on the inside? I’m plotting all the ways I could fake my own death before the month is out.

  “You’re mad, aren’t you? I told Chase you’d be mad. It’s just with you being in the party, and given that you dated the groom, I didn’t want to make it any more awkward than it already is. It’s not awkward, right?”

  Dated? Dated? I was with him for seven years. I was going to marry the man, and spend the rest of my life with him ... well, before I discovered that I didn’t always like Chase telling me what to do, and the man could throw some Russell Crowe-sized temper tantrums—only without all that rugged facial hair and gruff Australian accent.

  “Poppy?” she prompts.

  “No, it’s not awkward at all.” Not. One. Bit.

  “Oh, I knew you’d understand. It’s going to be amazing, Poppy, just like we talked about as kids. We’re getting married in the Maldives.” My stomach twists with rage and there’s a strange acidic taste in my mouth that wasn’t there before. Breathe, Poppy. In and out. In and out. In and . . . the Maldives? The fucking Maldives. I’m getting married in the Maldives, or at least, I was. That was my dream wedding-cation. Mine.

  Ever so slowly, a ringing starts up in my ears. It’s soft at first, a low hum, and then, as my blood begins to boil, the ringing increases. I drop the phone. Just drop it and walk calmly over to the freezer where I keep a bottle of vodka. I slowly unscrew the cap, lift it to my lips, and guzzle as much as I can without throwing up.

  When I’m done,
I unleash one hell of a scream and circle back to my phone where I proceed to stomp on it in my new Alexander McQueen velvet pumps until the screen dies and gives way to black. I’m not proud of this moment, but sometimes you just have to stand your ground—or stand on your smart phone, as the case may be. I drag the bottle of vodka to my bedroom and lock myself away where not even the judgmental glares from Sam, Dean, and Castiel can find me.

  Chapter Two

  Here comes the maid of honor, all dressed in . . . pavement frosting?

  Poppy

  Two days later, I emerge from my blanket igloo and stumble over to the refrigerator. I’ve watched reruns of Supernatural all weekend, fallen down the rabbit hole of Dean and Cas fanfiction, eaten my weight in Ben and Jerry’s, and ignored the pleas for attention from my cats. I decide the only way I’m going to feel even somewhat normal again is through the divine intervention that only a Magnolia cupcake can provide. Also, I’m out of liquor and surprisingly, getting so schnockered on peach schnapps that I can barely stand is still not drunk enough for Poppy Porter right now.

  The liquor I could get delivered, but sadly, the bakery doesn’t make house calls. Besides, there is nothing on this Earth better than stepping foot inside that door, hearing the little bell jingle and dying a mini death by olfactory overload. Not to mention the visual porn of professional bakers frosting cupcakes, and the cakes, pies, and slices in their little domed display cases. My mouth waters, and I grab my keys, not bothering to change out of my sweats or brush my hair. I hit Magnolia first, since it’s right around the corner and I’m starving. The line is far longer than I’m happy with, but it’s not unusual after ten pm. Thanks to Carrie Bradshaw, it’s still one hell of a tourist trap.

  Once inside, I take a deep inhalation. This place is better for your wellbeing than yoga. If you happen to be a lover of all things cake. If you’re not, then I’m sorry, but I just don’t have room for that kind of negativity in my life. I step up to the counter after perusing it for so long I’m making the other patrons nervous, and possibly annoyed, and I order a coconut cupcake topped with meringue icing and coconut flakes, two vanilla with mint green vanilla buttercream and confetti sprinkles, and a red velvet with cream cheese frosting that I know I’m going to regret in the morning, or on Monday morning—because no way in hell am I hitting the gym with a hangover. I pay the cashier and take my box of goodies outside, then I proceed to inhale one of the vanilla cupcakes. I’m sure my drunk ass is getting sprinkles all over my face, but I’m okay with that. The half block to Imperial Vintner doesn’t take long, and before I know it I’m pulling several bottles of my favorite wine from the shelves and juggling them all the way to the counter.