Despite my assurances, Eli hovers outside the bakery as I step inside, phone in hand and eyes on me.

I shut the door, inhaling for a crumb of peace, and am immediately hit with the hypnotic scent of sugar. Like that, all my irritated thoughts disappear.

This place is perfect.

It’s large, chic, and gleaming. The centerpiece is a display case stacked with immaculately decorated cakes and artisanal sweets, and the walls are a spotless white, the floors a pale marble so polished I can practically see my own reflection. The door behind the counter is painted the green of new growth, matching the crawling rose bush that takes up half the white stucco wall just outside.

“Welcome in!”

The Indian woman who greets me looks like a baker from the movies, with dark twinkling eyes and a bright smile glowing against golden brown skin, her black hair pulled into a perky ponytail.

This is the woman who spooked Adam? She looks like she should have cupcake emojis perpetually swirling over her head. She looks like my next best friend.

“Hey there,” I reply with equal enthusiasm. “I’m here for—”

The green door swings open and a storm cloud of a human hustles out.

Her lightning-strike eyes zero in on me.

“You’re late,” she barks, wiping her hands on the black apron tied around her waist. She’s a tiny white woman, five feet if she’s lying, with curly gray hair. She could be anywhere from fifty to seventy-five, based on her lemon-sucking expression.

I split a look between my new friend and this other woman who could take me in a street fight. “I—no?”

“You’re my 12:30, right?”

I smile in relief. “Yes.”

“Then you’re late.” She points to the clock on the wall. “It’s 12:32.” “Oh, but she got here at 12:30,” the other woman says. I throw her a

grateful look.

“If you’re early, you’re on time, and if you’re on time, you’re late,” the baker states, eyeing me from head to toe. She looks wholly unimpressed and I get it: I’m wearing a cropped black linen tank top and matching shorts, but clearly I should’ve shown up wrapped in tinfoil, because I’m getting grilled.

I scramble for something that will appease her. “I will…definitely write that down for the future. Uh, I appreciate your wisdom.”

“This is Margot,” the younger woman says. “And I’m Sarika. We didn’t get your name.”

I paste on my HR smile. “I’m Georgia. I really appreciate you taking us on last min—”

“Who’s us?” Margot interrupts, pointing out the window. “Are you with him? Because he’s taking off.”

I turn to see Eli pacing down the sidewalk, phone pressed to his ear, mouth moving quickly. “Oh. He’s with me, but he’s not coming to the appointment. He’s got a thing.”

Her eyes narrow. “A thing?”

“A thing?” Sarika echoes, disappointed.

I wave a hand in the air. “A thing. It’s fine, I can do it on my own.”

Margot huffs out, “The point of a wedding is to do it together. No offense, but your fiancé doesn’t understand the concept.”

It’s a truth universally acknowledged that people who use the phrase no offense, but are the most offensive people on the planet. More than that, I’m sure Margot does mean offense.

And then I realize what she’s called him. “Oh, god no, he’s not—”

“No need to defend him,” she mutters. “I’m not going to believe you anyway.”

“Well, I saw the way he was looking at you when you came in.” Sarika shoots me an encouraging smile. “It was like you were the only person on the planet.”

My heart skips a beat, imagining that. Remembering the way he looked at me in the car.

When he was Ambien Eli, I remind myself. “There’s a bit of a mix-up here—”

“He abandoned her for a ‘thing.’ He was all over the place on the phone, too,” Margot says, shaking her head. “I don’t understand you kids these days. You’ll settle for crumbs.”

Oh god, I haven’t had a situation run away from me like this since spring break my freshman year of college.

Margot clearly misunderstood Adam when he called to set up the appointment, thinking Eli and I were the couple she’d be seeing. She loathes Eli for being an absentee fiancé and me for accepting it, which actually couldn’t be further from the truth. I didn’t.

Adrenaline hits me like a Mack truck. “He’s not my fiancé. We’re not in love. We’re just the best woman and best man and our best friends’ wedding venue burned down and we’re replanning the whole thing and the bride desperately wants one of your cakes and I’m very sorry for being on time and also somehow late, but this is extremely important to her, which means it’s extremely important to me, so if we could just get started, that would be fantastic.”

I’m embarrassingly out of breath by the time I finish. Sarika has taken to dusting the immaculate countertop, eyes pinned to Margot.

If my speech moves Margot, she doesn’t show it. I bet she kills it in poker. “I appreciate your friends’ unfortunate issue. God knows every local has a soft spot for people impacted by fire. It’s the reason I took this appointment. But my time is precious and I’m very discerning.” Her gaze flicks down, then back up again. “So far, I’m not convinced.”

Panic could easily overtake me right now, but I’ll make this work, because I always make things work. And I’ll do it alone, because I always do it alone.

“Can I have the opportunity to convince you?” I ask. “My friends deserve the best cake they can get, especially after what they’ve gone through. As far as I’m concerned, that’s yours.”

She tilts her head, and maybe I’m hallucinating, but I swear I see the faintest glimmer of satisfaction.

“All right,” she sighs. “Come into the back. Let’s get started.” I beam at her. “Perfect.”

And then I text Eli: Do NOT come in here. I’ll meet you at the car.

I settle into my chair in the tasting area, eyeing the spread in front of me. A tall, chic bottle of Italian spring water sits with two glasses, and Sarika’s just set a tray of dainty cake slices in front of me.

My heart sings as I snap a few pictures and shoot them off to the group thread. About to pick out your cake!

“Okay,” Sarika says cheerfully, sliding into the seat next to Margot, who’s across from me wearing an inscrutable expression. “There are six options, and each slice has a card in front of it with the flavor descriptions.”

I lean forward, taking in the beautiful handwritten placards with delicious-sounding combinations. “They look amazing.”

“Do you know your friends’ preferences?” Margot asks. “Sarika emailed them a list of our options yesterday, but we didn’t hear back. These are our most popular flavors.”

My heart drops at how deeply unimpressed she looks, and how unprepared I am to change her mind. I have zero idea what Grace and Adam want.

“That is,” I say as I pick my phone up from my lap and start to sightlessly text a lowkey SOS beneath the table, “such a smart, great question.”

“Start with the vanilla buttercream,” Margot demands, pointing at the plate. “Everyone likes vanilla.”

Does pregnant Grace like vanilla? I have no idea and don’t want to be the one to send her stomach into turmoil. The fetus she’s growing seems extraordinarily picky.

But I also don’t want to say no to Margot, even though the exception to her declaration is sitting right in front of her, distress-sweating through her top.

With a fortifying breath, I pick up my fork and cut off a chunk, then shove it into my mouth. The familiar nausea that hits me whenever I taste anything intensely vanilla blooms, and my tongue goes Sahara-dry.

I block my mouth with my hand, croaking out, “It’s delicious. A great option.”

Maybe I’m a good actress when it comes to anything Eli related, but I’m clearly a terrible one when it comes to my vanilla aversion. Margot’s expression turns to stone.

“Are you sick?” Oh my god. “N—”

“Sorry I’m late,” comes a deep voice from the doorway.

The silence is immediate and absolute as Sarika and Margot’s attention flies over my shoulder. Margot’s eyes narrow in irritation. Sarika’s widen in awe.

I whirl in my seat, my gaze colliding with Eli’s. And yeah, I get it. He’s fairly awe-inspiring standing in the doorway, his minky hair cresting into anxious-finger waves, his eyes dark like the richest chocolate ganache. He’s leaning an obscenely broad shoulder against the doorframe, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone.

He’s beautiful. And I’m going to strangle him.

“What are you doing here?” I blurt, cake hitting my stomach like a rock. “We’re in the middle of our appointment.” Margot sighs. “If you can call

it that.”

“I apologize for interrupting.” Eli directs that at Margot before turning his attention to me. “My call ended early. Thankfully.”

My smile is so plastic it cracks. “Love that, but I told you I had it.”

“You definitely had something,” he mutters, tilting his phone screen my way as he slides into the seat next to mine. I nearly swallow my tongue at the text there—mine, from a few minutes ago.

WHAT CAKE FLAV DO U WAN??1 I NEED TO KOW RN LLOK AT THE LIST

All right. Not as lowkey as I thought.

His voice drops to a reassuring caress. “Thought you could use some backup.”

My emotions tangle at Mach speed: irritation that he reacted to that text instead of the one telling him not to come in; confusion that he’s here at all; and most distressing, relief that I’m not doing this alone. That he showed up. It’s a tiny dust mote of an emotion.

I mentally blow it away. It matters least—it’s the first one I need to focus on, because he didn’t listen.

She is a beast, I transmit silently. You just undid all of the goodwill I built.

What goodwill? He flits a look at Margot, who’s watching us with her arms crossed. She looks like she’s about to eat you.

Then his eyes slide to the tray of cake, straight to the slice that’s been touched. He frowns. “Did you eat the van—”

My hand slams down on his thigh. On instinct, I slide up to squeeze the thick, hard arch of muscle. My animal brain remembers exactly what kind of touch robs him of speech and I need him to shut. Up.

But my animal brain forgot why it robs him of speech, and so my heart leaps into my throat when his pupils blow wide with shock and heat, when his palm covers the back of my hand, fingers wrapping around mine. He holds us there for an unbearable smattering of seconds, his jaw flexing. And then he moves my hand down to his knee; it’s a slow scrape until I hit the warm skin just below his gray shorts.

Goose bumps explode over every square inch of my body.

“The vanilla is very good,” I say hoarsely, adding a silent, she can’t know vanilla makes me sick, we are ruining this. “You should try it, too.”

“Right.” It’s a wisp of a word before Eli seems to gather himself, turning back to Margot and Sarika. I yank my hand back, curling it into a fist in my lap. “Grace, the bride, loves tropical flavors like passion fruit. Do you have anything like that?”

Margot stares at him, her lip curling up. “I—”

“Wait, how do you know that?” I interrupt. Did they talk about it after I left last night?

He glances at me. “It’s on our lists.”

“It’s not on my list. Is it on the full list you have?” “I put it on your list, too.”

“You did not.”

“Excuse me,” Margot huffs out, stepping forward.

“Georgia,” Eli says, nodding his chin to my phone. “Check your list. It’s there.”

“This is why I need the full list,” I tell him as I pull up his text, scrolling down impatiently. “See, it’s not on—”

Cake flavors: passion fruit, orange, pineapple, chocolate with raspberry or other tart, vanilla

Well. Okay, so she does like vanilla.

“I told you we’d do fifty-fifty,” Eli says quietly. “Everything you need to know is there. But if you want it all, I’ll give it to you.”

“Excuse me.”

I rip myself away from the clutch of Eli’s attention to find Margot standing at her full height. She looks seven feet tall.

She addresses Eli first. “Young man, this is not a Burger King. You can’t just order what you want and expect me to whip it up. My assistant, Sarika, sent your friends a list so they could give us notice of their preferences, which they didn’t do. Between that, the lateness”—at this, her gaze lands on me—“and whatever lovers’ spat this is, you’ve wasted my time.”

Eli starts to speak, but I rush out, “It’s not a lo— Margot, I’m very sorry for this mix-up, but—”

She holds up her hand, silencing me. Beside me, Eli stiffens. When I spare him a look, he’s watching Margot with a stony expression that rivals her own.

She smooths down her apron, then drops her chin to level me with a look. “Sorry or not, this isn’t going to work. You’ll have to find someone else to bake your friends’ wedding cake. It’s not going to be me.”

An apparition of the cake of Adam and Grace’s dreams grows wings and flies away. Somewhere, that old Sarah McLachlan song starts to play. And the check mark I’d already mentally placed alongside our very first item on the Fix Adam and Grace’s Wedding list?

Erased.