Reese especially. Lord, was she cranky around him. Threatening his manhood with notes she made Pete deliver. Swearing up and down that she was not having any more kids.

And now look at her. Kid number three on the way. Reese pushing for more. They’re both gluttons for punishment, in my opinion.

I knock on the door at the top of the stairs. Dylan mumbles something from behind it, and I twist the knob, swinging it open and stepping into her loft.

“Oh, now it’s unlocked. I see how it is,” Joey spits behind me.

Dylan lifts her head from the magazine she’s reading.

She’s in what looks to be one of Reeses’ shirts, a baggy University of Chicago tee that stretches across her belly. Her back is against the headboard of her bed. Her feet still under the covers.

Huh. Maybe she is opting for lazy mornings around here. But shouldn’t she be asleep?

“What’s up, cupcake?” Joey leans his back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. He jerks his head. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

“What’s the point?” Dylan quietly asks, pinching her eyes shut through a slow shake of her head. She looks between the two of us. “I’ve been ordered to stay off my feet. Permanently.”

“What?” I move closer to the bed. My bag of clothes hits the floor. “What do you mean, stay off your feet permanently? You aren’t allowed to come downstairs at all?”

“Seriously?” Joey questions behind me.

How can she stay off her feet? She runs the bakery. She’s Dylan, of Dylan’s Sweet Tooth. She does all the wedding cakes and every other awesome thing we produce.

Oh, no. This won’t work at all.

“Nope. I’m stuck in this bed for the next two weeks. I can only get up to pee.” She tosses the magazine beside her, dropping her head back with an annoyed grunt. “The doctor is concerned about my blood pressure spiking the way it is. He said Blake is fine, but apparently keeping to a stool most of the day isn’t doing enough. I have to be completely off my feet. That means no baking, no coffee time with you two, nothing. I’m going to go crazy up here.”

“Aw, cupcake. It won’t be so bad.” Joey walks over and sits on the edge of the bed. He takes Dylan’s hand. “It’s only for two weeks. The shop will be fine. You know Brooke and I can handle things. And I’ll load you up with gossip magazines and your favorite snacks. Don’t worry.”

Dylan weakly smiles. “I know you two can handle everything. I’m not worried about that. I’ll just be bored up here and missing out on all the fun.”

Handle everything? Everything? Is she insane?

I move to the foot of the bed so they both can see me. My hands squeezing my hips. My face pinched in disbelief.

“Excuse me? You’re not worried? Why not? You should be worried. What about the wedding cake scheduled for next weekend? Now that poor bride is going to have to find someone to fit her in on short notice. That’s not happening. The only person around here who does that is you. She won’t have a cake. And you know she’ll tell all her friends about the bakery that canceled on her last minute. We’ll be ruined.”

Dylan looks from Joey, back to me. Not a trace of anxiety in her casually amused smile. “She could have a cake.”

Joey nods in agreement.

What? WHAT?

My mouth falls open. “Oh, really? Is Ryan making it? Did you pass all your stellar decorating genes down to her?”

“Brooke, come on.” Joey angles his body so he’s facing me. “You’re fabulous at baking. You can totally knock out a wedding cake by yourself. There’s no need to cancel.”

“Are you both out of your mind?”

They must be. There is no way I can tackle a wedding cake by myself. Nor do I want to. I can’t imagine disappointing someone on the day most girls dream about. I’ll be heartbroken if they hate it.

“You make cakes all the time.” Joey waves his hand. “This one will just be taller and with more flare. I don’t see the big deal.”

I glare at him. His blue eyes widen.

“I make birthday cakes, Joey. Farm animal ones, with fat ass pigs and cows with cute little faces. I don’t do shit like you’d see on The Knot. I can’t do spun sugar and delicate piping. Christ, all the edible flowers I’ve ever made, Dylan has gone behind me and redone.”

“That’s only because you get frustrated with yourself and eat them.”

I turn my attention to Dylan after she speaks. My teeth clenching. “Because they look horrible!”

“You are seriously overreacting.” Joey stands from the bed and winks at Dylan. “I’m heading downstairs to open. If you need anything, text me. Don’t get up.” He motions in my direction. “And calm her ass down please. She played the crazy card yesterday and cussed out a bunch of kids at Grinders. We don’t need a replay of that.”

I scoff and stare at the wall. “I wasn’t directing it at them.”

I would never do that. Not unless they were really pissing me the fuck off.

The loft door squeaks open, followed by the sound of Joey’s heavy footsteps trailing off.

With a closed fist, I press against my forehead, my eyes shutting as I remember how amazing this morning started out. Stress-free and filled with mine and Mason’s hungry moans.

Now I’m so anxious I’m ready to chew my fingers off. Awesome.

“All right. If you don’t think you can do it, then I guess we’ll have to cancel,” Dylan says, staring at me with her eyebrow raised.

My stomach tightens and drops. I lower my arm to my side but keep the fist.

“But, I personally don’t think we need to. I know you can do this, Brooke. I’ve seen some of the cakes you’ve created, and your detail work is beautiful. Joey’s right. You are a fabulous baker. You’re just nervous.”

“I’m more than nervous.”

Tasting bile in my throat, I begin pacing the room, feeling Dylan’s eyes on me as I wring my hands out.

I’m a fabulous baker. My detail work is beautiful. I can do this.

I swallow thickly and repeat her words in my head like a mantra, hoping for confidence but only butting against my own self-doubt.

This is insane. How can this be happening? How can either one of them think I can handle this? I’m not Dylan.

I am not Dylan.

I think about the bride on her big day, without a cake. I imagine her disappointment and her anger, her sadness and the memories I’m keeping from her with just a simple phone call and some regretful words.

“We’re so sorry,” I will say. “We just can’t do it. Medical reasons. It’s just not possible. Please don’t hate me.”

She’ll cry into my ear or curse me out. Maybe both. Probably both.

I continue to pace, my eyes losing focus somewhere on the floor passing under my feet. “God, I can’t cancel on her. I can’t. It’s her wedding day. I would feel awful.” I rub at my chest, pressing my palm against my heart. It flutters wildly.

“Brooke.”

I can’t cancel. There it is. My decision made, and one that comes with a mound of stress, knowing how easily I can still end up ruining this woman’s wedding day by screwing up this cake. But canceling? I just . . . I can’t do that. I will never do that to someone.