The Baker (15 page)

“I’m so sorry, Aileen.” Ian seemed to deflate in his seat.

“Hey, it’s not your fault he’s a bigoted you-know-what. I told him I didn’t agree with what he’d done and that I would support you any way I can. He didn’t like that and started ranting about family loyalty and how Jamie was going to inherit the bakery now that you had proven your inability to continue the family line.” Aileen snorted. “How ridiculous is that? Do we live in the Middle Ages? No, it’s the twenty-first century, and I told him to go get a clue. God, I was so mad.”

“What did he say to that?” Ian leaned forward.

“He said it didn’t matter, as long as I raised Jamie right and let him spend time in the bakery so he could learn the business.” Aileen huffed. “As if that’s going to happen.”

“You told him no?” Ian looked impressed.

“I certainly did. I told him Jamie will only spend time in that bakery over my dead body, and if he ever sets foot within three hundred feet of my children again, I’d get a restraining order faster than he could ice a muffin.” Aileen grinned. “He told me muffins weren’t iced, and I responded that I cared even less than what he did with his bakery. None of my family members will ever have anything to do with it, and he could take that to the bank.”

Ian laughed, and Cameron joined him. He was glad he was on Aileen’s good side! She would make an excellent defense attorney, or public prosecutor for that matter.

“So, do you know what you’ll do, Ian?” Tom looked at Cameron, then back at Ian. “You know we’ll help if you let us, right?”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll be fine.” Ian proceeded to tell them about his upcoming stint as in-house donut supplier for the police, to Aileen’s and Tom’s great amusement. “Their enthusiasm might be a professional condition, but I’ve been thinking. If I can make that a success, maybe I could start my own bakery one day? I’ve always wondered why my father didn’t want a few tables and chairs, sell some coffee, and have people eat our stuff in the shop? It would be good advertising for people walking by to see how good it all tastes. And anyway, a café is a social place, and I’d like working there.”

“That’s a brilliant idea.” Cameron hugged Ian. “I love it! And so will all my colleagues. I bet they alone could keep your business afloat. Between them and all the word-of-mouth advertising they’re capable of, you’ll need to expand before you know it.”

“There is one problem.” Ian looked at the floor. “I don’t have much in savings, and I don’t have a clue about starting a business. So it’ll take a while for me to save up enough for some sort of deposit and to learn what I need to do.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Cameron saw Aileen give Tom a significant look and a little shove in the side. Tom grinned and turned to Ian.

“Actually, I can help with that.”

“You can?” Ian looked up. “Well, yes, of course you can, you’re a businessman. But I can’t afford to pay you or anything.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Tom shook his head. “You’re family, of course I’ll help you for free. Well, almost for free.”

“Don’t tell me you want donuts too.” Ian laughed.

“No, but I love those black buns you make….” Tom licked his lips. “No, seriously. I know how hard you work and how talented you are. I’ll help you with the business plan, and I’ll also invest to help you get started.”

Ian’s mouth dropped open.

“So will I.” Cameron had been looking for a worthwhile investment for a while. “I’ve been looking to invest some of my money, but I don’t trust those bankers and financial guys that promise you the sky and then run off with your money. No offense, Tom.”

“None taken.” Tom grinned. “You’re right not to trust most of them.”

“But I trust you and your dedication, Ian, and I want to help as much as I can.” Cameron took Ian’s hand. “Will you think about it?”

“Yeah, I will.” Ian had tears in his eyes. “I’d be stupid not to accept all of your help. Thank you.”

Aileen smiled at Ian as she leaned into Tom’s embrace. “Have you thought about a name?”

“Yes, actually, I have.” Ian grinned. “What about the Scottish Café?”

“I love it!” Cameron definitely approved.

Just over two and a half months later….

IAN STOOD
in front of the full-length mirror at the back of the wardrobe door, trying to adjust his bow tie and failing miserably. The big day, the first ever Tartan Day celebration in Casper, Wyoming, had finally arrived. But he so wasn’t ready for it, and not just because he apparently couldn’t tie a fucking bow tie on himself. He didn’t know if wearing this… outfit… was the right choice. And then there was the whole competition thing. Yes, he’d prepared for it as best he could, trying out recipes, making changes, hounding family and friends alike with trying some of his experiments, and finding some really interesting new angles on traditional baked goods that he hoped would be appreciated by the panel of judges.

But when it came right down to it, he was going to put himself in direct competition with his father. And as civilized as this “fight” might be, it being about who made the best Scottish cakes, cookies, and scones—the three categories of the baking contest Ian had entered—it remained a fight. Ian knew it, and his father damn well knew it. The little information Aileen had managed to get out of Senga, who was still working for their father, had confirmed it.

“Damn, that looks better on you than I imagined.” Cameron’s voice from the entrance to their bedroom made Ian smile, and he turned to face his partner.

“You like what you see?” Ian had donned his winter kilt, the heavy woolen one for maximum protection against the still-chilly temperatures of early April. He’d combined it with a red waistcoat, a white shirt, and the damned tartan-colored bow tie. His matching kilt jacket, also in the clan colors, hung over a chair, waiting to be donned when they left their home. His legs were covered up to the knee by black kilt hose, or thick socks to his American friends. He’d shined his black Ghillie Brogues, heavy leather shoes with the tongue removed, to mirror quality, and they were in the downstairs wardrobe.

“I never thought the tartan 3M uses on their Scotch brand packaging tape would look so sexy when turned into clothing.” Cameron lifted his hand and made a twirl that prompted Ian to turn full circle. “Damn, that looks good from every angle. Red and black with thin yellow stripes—who would have thought.”

“It’s the clan colors, called Wallace Red. There’s also a green variation, called Wallace Green. There are a few others, but they are not officially recognized.” Ian smiled as he watched Cameron’s increasingly lustful expression. Cameron had bugged him for weeks to don his kilt, but Ian had wanted the first time to be a special occasion. “I’m wearing it to honor my great-grandfather, not my more, um, immediate ancestor.”

“I get that.” Cameron came closer, a sexy grin accompanying his clear interest as his gaze caressed Ian’s legs and farther up. “But I am a little worried.”

“You are?” If Ian were a betting man, he’d put the, by now not inconsiderable, weekly income of the Scottish Café on the table to back his expectation of what Cameron’s worry was all about.

“Hmmm, yes.” Cameron stroked Ian’s ass, but Ian knew the thick fabric, pleated on top of its heavy thread, would prevent Cameron from knowing for sure—one way or the other. “You know what they say about the proper attire for under a kilt?”

“I have no idea.” Ian batted his eyelashes at Cameron in an exaggerated way and made him laugh.

“Well, then, I’ll have to find out for myself.” Cameron slid his hand lower and began to lift the fabric.

“Uh-uh.” Ian playfully slapped Cameron’s wandering hand. His partner’s clear interest was very flattering, and Ian felt the response having an effect on his cock. He was glad he already wore the sporran, since the Scottish version of a “man purse” strategically covered his more-than-normally exposed groin area. “There’ll be no shenanigans until after the celebrations.”

“Shenanigans?” Cameron’s lips twitched.

Ian smiled.

“None?” Cameron stepped back and pouted, making Ian laugh.

“Man, that is so not your look.” Ian grinned. He loved their shared sense of humor and penchant for pretending to be overly dramatic when the occasion called for it. “But I’ll tell you what. If you behave yourself, I’ll make it worth your while.”

“You’ll reveal all?” Cameron leered at Ian’s crotch.

“I promise.” Ian smiled and patted Cameron’s shoulder. “Now, will you
please
help me wrestle this fucking bow tie into submission?”

Cameron threw back his head and laughed.

IAN ENJOYED
the morning events with their parade of pipe bands, demonstrations of Highland dancing and Highland games, singers, and even some whisky sampling and tasting out of a few distiller-sponsored vans. Everything was centered around City Park, and it seemed the entire town was there despite the fact that it was a Monday and people should have been at work. Nobody seemed to care though, except for the businesses in the vicinity; those must have been making money hand over fist.

In the afternoon the focus of events moved to East Collins Drive, where the farmers’ market normally took place, for the cooking and baking competitions. The judges were making their rounds, eagerly sampling everything on offer, and scribbling their thoughts and comments onto evaluation sheets pinned to clipboards. There were about twenty judges, ten each for baking and cooking, and Ian made sure he spoke to each of them as they came to his stand to try his entries.

The apple butterscotch pie, entered in the “cakes and pies” category, went down well. It was one of Cameron’s favorites, and Ian’s secret was a touch of plum liqueur added after baking the pastry topped with apples and butterscotch and before topping it with the meringue mixture. It didn’t exactly make the pie childproof, but the judges certainly seemed to appreciate the extra flavor. The black buns, his second entry offered in bite-size portions akin to petits fours, flew off the table faster than he could get them replaced.

His viennese whirls, entered in the “cookies and pastries” category, seemed to be another big success. He’d made a few varieties, but the orange marmalade and chocolate ones seemed most popular. Judging by the fact that two of the judges had sneaked back for a second tasting, pretending they hadn’t been there before, he had their votes. Ian hid his smile, as did Cameron, who was helping with keeping the table stocked and cleaning the dishes. Ian also suspected the two somewhat older ladies appreciated his kilt, at least if their not-so-well disguised glances were any indication.

His “muffins and scones” entries were also doing well, even though chocolate-chip scones weren’t exactly traditional. That was a comment he’d heard from a few people, judges included. He wasn’t sure if lack of traditionalism was going to be a problem or not. All the rules said was the recipes had to be based on traditional Scottish food, but that modern “interpretations” of the recipes would be welcome.

“Don’t worry about it. You’ll do fine.” Cameron stood right behind him but didn’t touch him.

“I’m not so sure.” Ian frowned over in the direction of his father’s stand, the Scottish Bakehouse sign bringing back some bittersweet memories he quickly suppressed. “If traditionalism is important, I don’t stand a chance.”

“Are any of the judges experts in what ‘traditional’ dishes should taste like?” Cameron stepped to Ian’s side so they could look at each other.

“I’m not sure. They might be. Just… I don’t know most of them, so they could be?” Ian hated feeling so insecure. His inner voice told him he had to at least win one of the categories to show his father that he wasn’t as worthless as the man had told him he was. And even though he knew that was nonsense, that the huge success of the Scottish Café only six weeks after opening more than told the story, he wanted to win, damn it.

“Sweetheart.” Cameron’s voice was low enough for only the two of them to hear over the chattering voices around them. “I’m telling you, even if they are, how could they not like your stuff more? It’s too amazing to ignore.”

“Thanks for saying that.” Ian smiled. “But could it be you’re a tiny bit biased?”

“Yeah, me and the majority of the cops in this city are
totally
biased—and proud of it too.” Cameron winked. “Seriously, you’ll do fine.”

By 5:00 p.m. Ian would find out if “fine” was good enough to show his father what an idiot he’d been to disown Ian. Well, maybe not quite all of that, but a little officially endorsed needling would make Ian very happy.

When everyone assembled in front of the small stage sitting all the judges, as well as a few city dignitaries, Ian was so nervous he was about to jump out of his skin. All four local TV stations had sent crews, as well as two from Cheyenne. Radio stations and newspapers were well represented, and the Wyoming Highlanders had sent one of their board members all the way from Jackson to observe.

A few speeches Ian couldn’t have remembered for the life of him were followed by a listing of the baking contest categories. Then the mayor stepped up, and someone handed him a folded sheet.

“I’m going to announce the winners in reverse order, starting with third place. First up is breads and rolls.” The mayor looked up as if to confirm he had everyone’s attention.

One of the city’s bakeries got third place, an older woman won second, and Ian’s father managed to snag first place for his famous white rolls. Ian gritted his teeth and refused to look at his father. He’d expected it, but knowing how much it would please his father to gloat, he couldn’t deal with it.

“Cakes and pies are next, and I have to say, from the judges’ reports, we’ve had some very interesting and innovative entries here.” The mayor grinned and proceeded to name a small bakery as third place, and one of the bigger cafés, not even a Scottish-themed one, got second. Ian’s heart sank. Damn, he’d really thought he stood a chance in this one. “But the real surprise is the winner of first place. I’m delighted to announce Ian Wallace, owner of the new and vastly popular Scottish Café, took the cake, so to speak, with his amazing black bun petits fours.”