“He’s probably just as dangerous, too,” she said underneath her breath. Best to stay far, far away from Lillian’s. She didn’t need the extra calories from their sinfully tempting desserts, and she most certainly did not need the devastating Carter laying on the heavy charm.
Lorraine arrived at the garage where she’d parked her car and took the elevator to the fifth level. Even though she lived within walking distance, she’d driven to the bakery because Lillian’s was just the first stop on a slew of errands she had to run for the shower preparations.
It had practically taken an act of Congress to convince the family driver, Bradford, that she didn’t need to be chauffeured today. Driving her own car was one freedom that Lorraine refused to relinquish. It gave her the illusion that she had some control over her own life; it was hard to keep a low profile when you were driven around in a gleaming pearl-white Bentley. She had a hard enough time distancing herself from her famous last name; she didn’t need the “look at me” car attracting the curious gazes of onlookers.
Lorraine was convinced that her name had had nothing to do with the attention Carter had given her. Oh, he’d flirted—she had pegged him as a natural-born player from the minute he’d sidled up to the counter—but it wasn’t because he’d recognized her as a Hawthorne-Hayes.
It had been...nice. Refreshing.
She’d spent her entire twenty-five years bearing that name, and although being an heir to one of the wealthiest families in Chicago had its perks, it was definitely not all it was cracked up to be.
Lorraine slipped behind the wheel of her Jaguar. She loved this car. It was luxurious, but not overly so. It certainly didn’t raise as many eyebrows as the Bentley did.
She turned over the ignition, then immediately shut the car off.
“What were you thinking ordering an under-the-sea cake?” she asked herself. “Abigail will have a fit!”
She opened the door, preparing to return to Lillian’s and order a nice, normal cake with roses made out of icing and pearls looping along the edges.
“But Trina will love that under-the-sea cake,” she told herself in the rearview mirror.
Lorraine could just imagine the look on her sister’s face when she walked into the Drake and saw it.
She closed the door and started the car again.
Her eyes slid shut and she leaned forward, resting her head on the steering wheel as the idling engine purred. What mattered more? Making sure her mother didn’t have a stroke over a cake, or her sister’s happiness?
In any normal family it wouldn’t even be a question, but no one would dare call her family normal. The owners of Hawthorne-Hayes Jewelers? The very pillars of Chicago’s elite? Normal?
“Anything but,” Lorraine said with a tortured sigh.
Her mother had instilled in her children that to be a Hawthorne-Hayes was to be dignified, distinguished and, above all, the consummate model of decorum. An elegant, sensible cake with delicate, sugared flowers and icing made to look like lace was dignified. It was the kind of cake her mother would approve of. The kind Abigail Hawthorne-Hayes would demand.
For that reason alone, Lorraine put the car in Reverse and backed out of the parking space.
To hell with what Abigail wanted. This bridal shower wasn’t about her mother; she was doing this for her sister.
Lorraine exited the garage and turned right. As she approached the intersection at Michigan Avenue and East Delaware Place, a thought occurred to her. If she was going to incur her mother’s wrath, she might as well make it worth it. She flipped on her right blinker and drove down a block, turned left and then made another left, pulling her car up to the valet at the Drake.
Her mother had insisted on elegance and refinement when it came to the bridal shower, but she could save that for the wedding. As maid of honor, Lorraine was in charge of shower preparations, and she would give her sister something that fit her personality. That cake she’d ordered at Lillian’s was just the start.
Lorraine walked up the carpeted steps leading to the landmark hotel’s lobby. As she entered, her eyes were instantly drawn to the enormous flower arrangement in the center of the room, sitting just below the signature crystal chandelier. Opulence oozed from every square inch of the place.
Lorraine met with the hotel’s special events coordinator. As she described her new vision for Trina’s bridal shower, she had a hard time containing her amusement at the way the woman’s face transformed from gleeful to completely horrified. The coordinator’s penciled-in eyebrows formed perfect peaks as Lorraine explained that she wanted the calla lily centerpieces replaced with seashells and coral on a bed of soft white sand. She wanted the walls draped in flowing light blue silk, mimicking the waves of the ocean.
The woman cleared her throat. “This all sounds lovely, Ms. Hawthorne-Hayes. However, are you sure we shouldn’t discuss this with Mrs. Hawthorne-Hayes before making such drastic changes?”
“No,” Lorraine said. “I’m the one in charge of my sister’s wedding shower. I have the last word. I will browse the web for some ideas and email them to you. Feel free to do the same.”
Her mother would have a fit, but Lorraine would deal with it. For once, Abigail Hawthorne-Hayes was not getting her way.
* * *
Carter leaned back in the chair and crossed his feet on top of his desk. He used a stylus to make notations on the inventory list he kept stored in his electronic tablet. Ever since they were featured at a Chicago Bulls pregame event, Lillian’s red velvet cupcakes with dark chocolate and cream cheese frosting, designed in the team’s colors of black and red, were flying out the door. Carter needed to increase the order of cupcake holders to keep up with the significant spike in sales.
There was a knock on the door. He looked up to find his cousin Monica. “Carter, were you supposed to have a cake for Maria Salazar ready for today?”
He frowned. “No, that isn’t until Thursday.”
“Well, she’s in the showroom right now to pick up her cake.”
Rising from his chair, Carter switched to the app that he used to keep track of his cake orders. He had a cake for an Arabian Nights–themed quinceañera scheduled for pick up on Thursday by Maria Salazar.
He turned the screen so Monica could see for herself. “She’s not supposed to pick it up until Thursday.”
“Well, somebody got their dates crossed. You need to go out there and talk to her.”
“I didn’t take the order,” he said. “It was probably Drake. I think he was working the retail store that morning.”
“You’re the one listed as the baker. You were specifically requested,” she pointed out. Carter didn’t miss the smug undertone of his cousin’s voice.
The Drayson grandchildren got along well enough, but in jockeying for position in the bakery, Carter definitely had a target on his back. Both their grandparents and his aunt and uncle had taken notice when customers started requesting Carter by name, and so had his cousins.
That wasn’t his problem. If the rest of the Drayson clan wanted to stand out, they needed to step up their games.
What was his problem was this mix-up with Mrs. Salazar’s cake order. It didn’t matter who had caused it. As Monica had just pointed out, he was the head baker on the project, which meant he was ultimately responsible for the customer’s one hundred percent satisfaction.
Carter entered the showroom, his eyes roaming around for Drake. Of course, his cousin was nowhere to be found. He was probably in one of the back offices