Have Your Cake

  Have Your Cake

  Elise K. Ackers

  romance.com.au/escapepublishing/

  Have Your Cake

  Elise K. Ackers

  Can she have it all? Or will starting over leave a bad taste in her mouth?

  Abigail Mullins is in the business of happy ever afters. Owner of a London boutique cake shop, she caters to brides wishing to express themselves in unusual ways, and relishes her small, creative life.

  That quiet life is disturbed when intriguing, albeit lonely, socialite Dillon Wheeler literally crashes into her life, and one of her clever cake concepts becomes an overnight sensation. Now the media is asking questions about the woman behind the cake. Not only does this new-found popularity threaten the anonymous life she’s created, but it brings in a customer who might otherwise never have found her. A customer from Abigail’s life before London, who knows what Abigail did to escape it, and who could ruin everything.

  For who’s going to trust her with their happy-ever-after once they know what she did to sabotage her own?

  A compelling contemporary romance that touches on issues of domestic violence and substance abuse, Have Your Cake is about a woman’s self-reinvention, determination against all odds, and ultimately, her way back in to love.

  About the author

  ELISE K. ACKERS is a freelance editor and award-winning fiction author based in Victoria, Australia.

  Elise has completed undergraduate studies in Psychology and Communications, and post-graduate studies in Professional Publication and Editing. She’s been writing since she could hold a crayon and telling stories all her life. She’s a magnet for unusual accidents, a laser tag enthusiast, and an animal adoption advocate. Elise travels wherever she can, whenever she can.

  Website: https://www.elisekackers.net/

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Elise-K-Ackers/145929782088997

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/EliseKAckers

  Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/elisekackers/

  For my daughter, and everything we will create together.

  Contents

  About the Author

  Chapter 1: Break and make

  Chapter 2: Amazing amazing

  Chapter 3: Choose your own tablecloth

  Chapter 4: The cupcake bride

  Chapter 5: Jo Average

  Chapter 6: Trending

  Chapter 7: Star performer

  Chapter 8: The past, present and future

  Chapter 9: Plaid picnic

  Chapter 10: Treasure hunt

  Chapter 11: Magic number

  Chapter 12: From ear to ear

  Chapter 13: Satisfaction

  Chapter 14: Batman and Tolkien

  Chapter 15: Mother dearest

  Chapter 16: Dill’s mills

  Chapter 17: Dill and Dom

  Chapter 18: The Beaucake

  Chapter 19: Man of the hour

  Chapter 20: The only spot of colour

  Chapter 21: The Veneno Roadster

  Chapter 22: Overnight bag

  Chapter 23: The humble bouquet

  Chapter 24: The best for the worst

  Chapter 25: Comparisons and imitations

  Chapter 26: Return

  Chapter 27: The villain

  Chapter 28: Reputation

  Chapter 29: Burn

  Chapter 30: Phoenix

  Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing...

  Chapter 1

  Break and make

  Abigail didn’t have time to fight for her life. She was on a critical deadline, so critical injuries had to wait.

  Even so, the world took a sharp step to the left.

  She curled over the steering wheel and closed her eyes. Crushed them shut as glass shattered and metal screamed. The impact was a full, many-faced sound that came at her from all directions. Car against car, then precious cargo against the floor of the van. The sudden hold of the seatbelt and the mushroom of air from her lungs. Then another impact, this time on the left.

  Another collision, another hit.

  The world jumped a fraction to the right, then steadied.

  Her body didn’t uncoil at once. She stayed still, spine curved, head pillowed in the bend of her arm, fingers painfully tight on the steering wheel, until the white noise cleared and she could make out the individual sounds of shocked pedestrians, whirring engines, and general city life.

  There was nothing general about this morning, not anymore.

  She looked into the cargo area before she thought to look at herself. Within the small space of purpose-designed racks was utter devastation. Quite possibly a total loss, she would have to get back there to know for sure.

  Which meant unfastening the seatbelt that was determined to hold her in the moment. It retracted with a brisk whir, but the door wasn’t so obliging. It opened a fraction then something cracked. She gave it a futile push, then saw through the window that she was parallel to a building; clear off the road, across the pavement, and flush against a rendered brick wall.

  Abigail turned in her seat just as a face appeared in the passenger window. She registered the countless pieces of glass before she registered the man’s shock. She’d be finding pieces for weeks. She’d be … late.

  Her hands started to shake. She held them up to watch them, and felt strangely disconnected from her body. Her mind was screaming. Late late late.

  ‘You’re okay,’ the man said, except his words were more question than reassurance. He sounded far away. ‘I’m going to get you out, okay?’ His face disappeared.

  She could see a wedge of his shoulder—his suit jacket folding and straining as he pulled at the door. Then his face reappeared. There was so little colour in it. His eyes were red and his pupils were dilated. His hair was wild. There was a small piece of glass tangled in the hair above his right ear and a line of blood between his nostril and top lip.

  ‘It’s stuck,’ he said. ‘It’s …’

  Broken. Crushed. Inoperable. In short, not her way out.

  He eyed the window. ‘I can lift you through—’

  ‘No. I’ll go through the back.’ She gripped the steering wheel and half-turned in her seat to check her legs still worked before she committed her weight to them.

  ‘Of course.’ The man’s face was the kind of desperate she associated with a long-awaited reunion. His eyes were pinched and his mouth was open in wordless wanting. His anxiety made her heart trip. How bad did she look that he watched her that way? She didn’t feel hurt, but shock could be a mask. She knew this better than most.

  She’d check herself over on the street. Get him to stop looking at her like that.

  She swung her feet into the narrow passage between the front seats, pushed herself up, and, bent at the waist, eased herself through.

  It was a disaster movie. A battlefield of bodies. It was Gotham in the battle between Superman and General Zod: a scene of utter, senseless destruction. Nothing had been spared. Days of work had been lost. The boxes had split open and the contents had toppled free. There was cake and frosting everywhere, like spilled blood. Four centrepieces and three bouquets irreparably damaged. A mess of parts and smeared imagination.

  Abigail thought of the bride and felt sick.

  The back doors of the van opened and the white-faced man was there again. His owl-like eyes followed her as she stepped over the carnage, then his hands were holding her, helping her down. She wobbled after the step down to the road and he steadied her, but then she thought she might wobble again when she saw the crowd. Dozens of people had gathered around the back of the van. Some of them watched her with concern, others with interest. Some took photos, others seemed to be recording the moment.

  She turned away from the voyeurs, and saw the cause of i
t all for the first time.

  A Humvee. An enormous, sand-coloured military truck, half buried in the side of her van, which had warped around it to absorb the impact. Only the Humvee’s back tyres were still on the road. The front tyres were in a parking space that had been blessedly empty, whereas all four of the van’s tyres were on the footpath.

  ‘Oh my god.’ A terrible, choking thought occurred to her as she looked at the side of the van flush against the wall. ‘Was anyone—?’

  ‘Just you,’ the man said quickly, anticipating her question. ‘There was no-one there. But you’re hurt. You’re bleeding. You’re shaking.’ He let go of her to drag his arms free of his suit jacket. He put it around her, over the pale pink dress she’d worn just for this delivery, that she’d thought might delight the bride because it matched her bouquets. She lifted her still shaking hands to hold the jacket in place.

  Without his suit jacket, the man’s appearance was changed. Gone was the businessman. He’d been wearing a collarless V-neck T-shirt beneath the formal jacket, crumpled and stained near the hip. She realised now that he wore jeans, dark denim that at a glance could be mistaken for suit trousers. There was such earnestness in his face, such complete absorption in her well-being, that he had to be the other driver.

  ‘You hit me,’ she said. She touched a tender spot at her temple. It was unexpectedly slick. She looked at her fingers—at the blood—and couldn’t remember what she’d just said.

  ‘Yes.’ He sounded agonised. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.’

  They both looked at the van. At the customised marmalade yellow paintwork that could be seen from two blocks away, that she’d chosen for its presence. She glanced back at him and he hung his head.

  Very slowly, giving her legs time to steady, she inched around the back to better see the impact.

  The metal looked so soft and pliable, bent around the other car the way it was. Glass was everywhere. The tinted windows had shattered, in effect halving her company logo. Only the bottom left corner of the image was distinguishable in the snarl. Her eyes followed the curving font, the lower part of the B that should have blended perfectly with the image to its right—but there was a headlight lodged there instead.

  The crunch of glass made her turn.

  A woman was picking her way towards her, placing the heels of her stilettos carefully between the small piles of glass. She wore a power suit; a beautiful pencil skirt and matching jacket, with a temper-red ruffled blouse to break up the black. ‘I saw everything,’ she said. She held out a business card. Her name, Joanna Maison, was embossed gold beneath the logo of a legal firm. She was a senior partner. ‘You weren’t at fault. I’ve written down all the details and I called the police, they’re on their way.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Abigail’s response was automatic, as was lifting her hand to accept the card being passed to her. She wasn’t in this moment. She was in another one. In a moment that was coming, that would begin the second this woman stopped talking to her.

  ‘Are you all right? I could call an ambulance too.’

  ‘I don’t need an ambulance.’

  ‘Once the shock wears off you may feel differently.’ Joanna angled her head and regarded her. ‘I know your company; I saw it on Instagram.’

  Abigail smiled distractedly.

  ‘Sorry, not relevant. Listen, I have to go, but like I said; I’ve written down all the details you need. Get your insurance company to call me. Call me yourself if you need anything cleared up. Joanna.’

  Abigail hastened to shake Joanna’s offered hand. ‘Abigail Mullins.’

  ‘I’m sorry this happened to you.’

  When Joanna left, Abigail looked back at the portion of her logo. She pulled her phone from her pocket, checked the time then began taking pictures. Once she’d documented everything, she called Brittany.

  Her apprentice answered on the third ring. ‘Hey, boss.’

  ‘It’s all gone.’

  ‘Did they love it? Did she cry?’ Brit loved when brides cried, she considered it part of the payment package.

  ‘Not gone delivered—’ Abigail glanced at the skin of frosting on her shoe, ‘—gone destroyed. So’s the van.’

  ‘Holy shit. But you’re okay?’

  ‘I’m fine, but we have to start again. I don’t know when I’ll be back there, but I need you to drop what you’re doing and—’

  ‘I’ve got it. I’ll pull the extras from the front and get started on more.’ She was talking fast, hastening from one place to another. ‘But I can’t be in two places at once.’

  ‘Close up. Post something online. A free cupcake to anyone who takes a picture of themselves in front of the closed sign. They can collect when they next come in.’

  ‘I wish I could think like you in a crisis.’

  ‘Don’t say it.’

  ‘You’re my hero.’

  Abigail closed her eyes. A smile teased the corner of her mouth but didn’t amount to anything. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  ‘O-cake.’

  Abigail ended the call, then immediately called her insurance provider. She was on hold long enough to climb back into the van, stumble through the mess and retrieve her handbag from the floor in front of the passenger seat. When an operator answered, Abigail gave her details and requested a tow truck.

  The man’s face appeared in the passenger window again. ‘I’m so sorry.’ He’d smeared the blood between his nose and lip.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ she asked, shouldering her bag and turning back to the cargo hold.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘At least I don’t think so.’

  ‘Good. Then help me with this.’

  There was no response, but a moment later he appeared at the back.

  Abigail reached into the crushed sponge cake and withdrew a long plastic stand. She handed it to him, not bothering to wipe it down. Pink and yellow was everywhere, and in some places blended together, making a pale orange. It was on the floor and walls, on her hands and feet, and now it was on his hands and shirtfront. She plunged into the second mess and withdrew a second cake stand. She handed this to the man too.

  ‘You were … delivering these?’ He sounded like he didn’t want the answer.

  ‘Yes. Now I’ll deliver others.’ She thrust a third cake stand into his arms.

  His expression brightened. ‘You have more?’

  ‘No.’

  His hopeful smile slipped.

  ‘What’s your name?’ She dropped to her haunches to tear a bouquet handle free from the mess. Something was building inside of her. Something Brittany would call resourcefulness, but Abigail considered basic survival. She was pulling strength from the air and solutions from her blood. She was still in control of the outcome, that wasn’t lost to her yet.

  ‘Dillon.’

  ‘And what do you do, Dillon? Are you in the military?’

  Why else would he be driving a camouflaged tank-like thing on the streets of London?

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I do cars.’

  She looked up at him. ‘How ironic. Dillon, you’re about to branch out.’

  He shuffled the cake stands so he could take the handle she held out to him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean you’re going to help me get all of this back to my shop, and you’re going to help me get all of the replacements to the wedding.’

  His mouth popped open.

  ‘Don’t you even dare,’ she cautioned. ‘You’ve totalled my work van, totalled my product, and now my reputation’s on the line. If you “do cars”, as you say, get on your phone and get one to my shop.’ She looked up. Pulled a handle from a foam ball as if she were pulling a knife from a man’s back. ‘A big car. Send it to Neal’s Yard in Camden Park.’

  She lifted a plastic bag full of piping bags off the floor and hooked the handles over his fingers.

  Wonder? No, obedience. And surprise. This man, this … Dillon, had crashed into a woman’s life and now she was crashing into his, giving him or
ders. She’d laugh but her sense of humour had taken a hit too. It was somewhere in here amongst her broken creations and cupcake wrappers, mangled and bruised.

  The police arrived when Dillon was on the phone. Abigail gave a quick statement, supplied her details, then slammed the back doors shut as Dillon was approached to give the same. She locked up despite the missing windows, then ducked into a corner store and bought a roll of garbage bags.

  Back on the street she tore one free and dumped the roll into her handbag. She thumbed open the plastic, waved air into the bag to open it, then strode over to Dillon and the police officers. She held the mouth of the bag open beneath Dillon’s loaded arms. He glanced at her uncertainly, then let it all go. The cake stands and handles toppled noisily inside.

  She took a photo of the destroyed stock—another insurance claim—and had a taxi waiting when Dillon was finished giving his statement.

  He lowered himself onto the backseat slower than someone his age typically might do.

  ‘Are you sure you’re not hurt?’ she asked, handing him his suit jacket when he was settled. She shoved the large black bag between her feet.

  The taxi driver glanced in his rear-view mirror.

  ‘I’m fine.’ Dillon said this on a wheeze. He leaned towards the driver. ‘Neal’s Yard, Camden Park.’

  ‘Right-o.’ The driver checked over his shoulder, then the car began to move.

  Abigail and Dillon both stared out the left window as they pulled away from the scene of the crash, each of them cataloguing the destruction.

  ‘When’s the wedding?’

  ‘Four.’ She reached into her handbag and handed him a tissue.

  He stared at her, confused. She touched the skin between her nose and mouth and nodded when he wiped the blood away. She pressed another tissue to her temple.

  Dillon checked his watch. Rose gold encircling multiple time-zones. Expensive. Beautiful. He whistled through his teeth, something Abigail had never managed to learn. ‘Tight.’

  ‘And it’s across town. Cazenove.’

  ‘Too tight. You want me to just buy you something to replace all that stuff?’ He pointed his thumb towards the back window, at the wreck that would soon be towed and the crushed food that would soon spoil.