“No problem,” had been Belinda Drayson-Jones’s immediate response. What else was she going to say? This was her job and she was expected to be perfect at her job as well as everywhere else.

And just to make it interesting, the request was for five different flavors: chocolate-vanilla, classic vanilla, red velvet, triple chocolate and her absolute favorite, dark chocolate vanilla. One hundred of each. Again, no problem.

She’d premixed all her batter so that now it was just a matter of the baking and icing and finishing with crystalized sugar that sparkled with cheerfulness and always went on each cupcake she prepared. It was her signature, one she was more than proud of.

Her kitchen was meticulous, she thought, looking around at the work space on the twelve-foot stainless steel counter. There were three counters lining the baking room of the renowned Lillian’s Bakery. Twelve-foot-long shelves—fully stocked with every ingredient they needed for all the recipes prepared at Lillian’s—obediently against one wall. Professional ovens on another.

The aroma sifted through the room and her stomach growled but there was no time for food. She only had time to work. “Twenty more minutes,” she whispered to herself. The cupcakes were ready to come out. Ten minutes to cool and another ten minutes for icing—and that all boiled down to five hundred cupcakes in fifty minutes.

“No problem,” she repeated, slipping on her oven mitts and heading to the ovens.

She took out the first tray so fast she didn’t even look at the cupcakes. It was when she pulled out the second tray and turned to place it on the table that she saw the jiggle. One triple chocolate wasn’t completely done. Not a problem, she could put back in this tray. She still had time. Except when she reached for the next tray, the vanilla batter wasn’t all the way cooked either, because there were big bubbles erupting from each cupcake.

A frown, then a silent curse, and Belinda pulled out another tray to have a closer look. The oven was blazing hot so she knew that wasn’t the problem. And before she could give the problem closer scrutiny, there was a popping sound like an explosion, and red velvet batter splattered all over Belinda’s face, running down her cheeks and dripping on the black-and-white Betty Boop apron.

A scream bubbled in her throat and died there because Belinda would not succumb to useless reaction. It wasn’t her style.

There was a sound behind her and for a quick second Belinda was afraid to turn around. When she did, disregarding that particular emotion she despised almost as much as creamed spinach, it was to see cake batter dripping from every surface in the kitchen. The once pristine countertop she’d been working at was now full of gushing vanilla cake batter. From the supply shelves dark chocolate batter dripped slowly, hitting the floor with a sickening splat.

On instinct Belinda looked at her watch to see the time. Four minutes left.

No prob— She paused before finishing that statement because now the dripping batter was like a hailstorm, the sound loud and resounding, matching the quick pitter-patter of her heart. Her fingers shook; sweat beaded her brow. And then it began, the panic attack that had her bending over quickly trying to catch her breath.

“No. No. No,” she repeated over and over, while the scent of cake batter permeated her nose and the sound of loud ticking echoed in her ears. It was a clock and it was ticking down the time. Time, Belinda thought dismally. She was running out of time.

Chapter 1

“Pretty,” Belinda said quietly to herself as she stood in front of the flawlessly shined window of Lillian’s Bakery.

The legendary upscale bakery occupied half the lower level of a building on Chicago’s famed Magnificent Mile, likewise owned by Lillian and Henry Drayson, Belinda’s grandparents and two of the most inspiring people in her life. Lillian Reynolds-Drayson had begun testing her baking recipes on the customers of Woolworth’s cafeteria in the 1950s back when she was still Lillian Reynolds. Demand quickly grew for her delicious cakes and pies, which was a godsend, as she’d recently become widowed and had a son to take care of on her own. Through her unwavering faith and plenty of elbow grease (as Lillian would advise seriously), she was able to save up enough to rent space and open her own bakery. Eventually Lillian’s sweets lured in more than just customers, as she met her second husband, Henry Drayson, in 1960 and went on to have two more children. It was the beginning of a legacy, one Lillian had no idea would be born but now cherished with every breath she took.

And that was the number-one reason that Belinda Drayson-Jones worked as hard as she did. If her grandmother, a woman of small stature but big personality, could build this empire from nothing, then Belinda could certainly do her part to make sure the name and the quality it was known for carried on. Even if it meant losing sleep thanks to that awful five-hundred-cupcakes-in-fifty-minutes nightmare she kept having.

Pretty in Pink was the theme of the front window and it was deliciously gorgeous. White netting lined the bottom of the window while pink confetti sparkled among its sheerness. On white pedestals stood three perfectly decorated wedding cakes, each six tiers. One was pink, the other two white. The pink one had been lavishly decorated with cherry blossoms while one of the white ones displayed perfect blush roses in between each tier. The final white cake was one of her cousin Carter’s masterpieces with pink satin ribbons and an intricate lace design that covered the entire cake. It was gorgeous and, since the unveiling of the new window design two weeks ago, they’d already received seven orders for that exact cake, to be made by the fabulous Carter Drayson, of course.

With a satisfied smile Belinda made her way into the bakery, letting the stately and elegant decor—complete with its fresh-cut-flower arrangements that were a must as far as Lillian was concerned—welcome her like a second home. Yes, she could come through the back with the rest of the staff, considering they all parked in the same garage just off North Michigan Avenue, but admiring the window and witnessing passersby as they did the same boosted Belinda’s pride and gave her that extra push she needed too much recently.

Amber Mitchell, one of the baker’s assistants—who also did double duty as the receptionist when Nichelle, the part-time college student, wasn’t in—was standing behind the counter flipping through papers in a loose-leaf binder.

“Twelve deliveries and six pickups today,” Belinda told her. “The last delivery is the baby-carriage cake going to Congressman Delaney at his condo, and make sure it stays completely covered. He doesn’t want his wife to see it,” she said, removing the black tailored jacket she wore with black straight-legged pants and a lavender top.

“You memorize every day’s orders, don’t you?” Amber asked, her doelike eyes intense with curiosity.

“I like to know what’s on the agenda. СКАЧАТЬ

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