Double Icing by Tulip Keegan
Synopsis
Marlon, a financial consultant serving a wedding shop run by Chelsea and Rebecca, ladies who seem to have a thing for him, is torn by crumbling guilt and has to make a tough choice after an incidental night of intense pleasure with both women separately.
Out of His League
Buttercream Dreams, Brooklyn’s trendiest wedding cake boutique, smells like vanilla and cream. The walls are a pastel of pink, green and cream. Hardcover cookbooks and three miniature potted plants sit on cute shelves on adjacent walls. The morning rush has died down, leaving flour dust sparkling in the sunlight.
Marlon Weston walked in, his hair is ruffled, beards appeared trimmed and brushed. He is welcomed by the wall-to-wall glass countertop holding a flamboyant display of cake samples. His eyes darted quickly from the display to Chelsea who was coming at him with quick steps.
Chelsea is halfway out the door, oversized sunglasses perched on her head, her phone pressed to her ear. “No, I told you I can’t just ‘swing by’ your gig tonight, we have the Lawson wedding tasting…” She pauses, listening, then groans. “Ugh, fine. Text me the address.” She flings a distracted wave toward Marlon without making eye contact. “Hey, numbers guy.”
The door jingles shut behind her.
Becca leans against the counter, arms crossed, a smirk playing on her lips. “Tell me how you do it, do you get here some minutes before four then sit in your car for a bit so you can walk in exactly on the dot or you happen to have a clock mind like a robot.”
Marlon grinned, “A bit of both.”
“Uhn uhn?”
“I always leave my office by three forty, the drive takes fifteen minutes give or take two. The walk from the car is about a minute. I slow it down or speed it up depending on how much time I have left.”
“It’s an inside joke between Chelsea and I how you always open that door right on the hour.”
“Speaking of Chelsea, is she alright?”
Becca raised an inquiring eyebrow at him.
He glanced back at the door, “She did seem, I don’t know…”
“You should grow some courage and ask her out already.”
Marlon, mid-unpacking his ledger, freezes. “What? That’s so random.”
“Is it?” she raised the eyebrows again.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Becca.”
“The way you were watching her leave? Pathetic.” Becca tosses a dish towel over her shoulder. “Also, you memorized her coffee order. Also, you ‘accidentally’ scheduled audits on her baking days.”
Marlon grinned and started rubbing a finger on his forehead. “I…that’s just a random coincidence.”
“You can’t deny you like her.”
He threw up his arms, “I don’t even, come on.”
“You realize I know you so well.”
“Okay. I do. I think she’s okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah, I mean…”
“Come on. She’s an easy eight on a normal day. Nine when she puts any effort. I don’t know, maybe a ten even.”
“Come on…”
“What? Are you gonna argue that with me? My girl Chels is the IT girl.”
“No, totally. I agree.”
“So, what’s stopping you?”
“Will you slow down?”
“She’s way out of your league, huh?”
He scoffs, but it’s weak. “Chelsea’s not even interested in me.”
“So, you have thought about it.”
A second passed. He deflates, rubbing his neck. “Okay, yes. She’s glitter. I’m graph paper. But it’s not just that, she’s got that boyfriend, the one who ‘forgets’ his wallet every time they go out.”
Becca snorts. “Yet you’re the one who’s hopeless.” She slides the receipts toward him. “Just saying. Glitter needs glue.”
Marlon blinks. “Is that a baking metaphor?”
“No, it’s a get your act together metaphor.” She flicks a sugar crystal at him. “Now focus. Our buttercream budget is not romantic.”
They dive into the books, but Marlon keeps sneaking glances at the door.
The bakery’s industrial mixer hummed in the background as Marlon and Becca hunched over the quarterly reports, their elbows brushing against scattered invoices. The air was thick with the scent of burnt caramel, a failed experiment from earlier, and something unspoken.
Becca tapped her pen against the ledger. “So.”
Marlon didn’t look up. “So.”
“Chelsea’s boyfriend thinks she’s cheating with you.”
His head snapped up. “What?”
“At least he believes she has a thing for you.” Becca rolled her eyes. “Which makes zero sense, since you two have never even, you know. But apparently, she talks about you enough that Mr. Musician noticed.” She smirked. “Guess glitter does stick to graph paper after all.”
Marlon’s jaw tightened. “That’s insane. We’ve never even…”
“…had coffee alone, yeah, I know.” Becca leaned in, lowering her voice even though the shop was empty. “But from experience? When a man’s that paranoid, it’s usually because he’s the one with something to hide. Or because she’s comparing them subconsciously. Or because he has actually seen obvious reasons to be worried from the way she probably talks about you to him.” She paused. “Or because you’ve got that whole…thing.”
“What thing?”
“The ‘I’d actually show up to a birthday party’ thing. It’s unsettling.”
Marlon groaned, rubbing his temples. “And that’s why she’s been bolting on Thursdays the past three weeks?”
“Bingo. Boyfriend suddenly insists on ‘date nights’ right during your audits. Real subtle.” Becca scoffed. “She told me they had a screaming match about it last night. He called you a ‘corporate creep.’”
Marlon’s laugh was dry. “I’m a freelance accountant who wears sneakers, Rebecca.”
“Yeah, well. Insecure men don’t need facts.” She nudged the plate between them, a slice of chocolate-orange torte, his favourite. “Eat. You look like you’re about to audit someone’s soul.”
He took a forkful, chewing slowly. “She deserves better.”
Becca studied him. The way his thumb brushed the fork’s edge, the quiet certainty in his voice. For the first time, she didn’t tease. “Yeah. She does.”
They lapsed into silence, the only sounds, the scratch of Marlon’s pen and the distant clatter of pans from the kitchen.
Then shortly afterwards.
The door burst open. Chelsea stood in the doorway, her cheeks flushed, mascara smudged. “You will not believe what just… She froze, spotting Marlon. “Oh. Hi.”
Becca raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Date night was cancelled?”
Chelsea’s gaze darted between them. “Something like that.” She walked past them, heading for the kitchen.
“Are you alright, Chels?”
No response. Just hasty footsteps.
“Do you need me in there?” Becca asked with a raised voice.
Silence.
“Did you guys have another fight?”
Becca watched Marlon’s fingers drum against the counter, a nervous staccato, as Chelsea’s voice carried from the kitchen, sharp and brittle.
“Just leave it, Becca!” A bowl clattered into the sink.
Becca turned back to Marlon and nudged his shoulder with hers. “Go talk to her.”
Marlon stiffened. “Not a good idea.”
“Because?”
“Because she’s angry, and I’m not her therapist. Or her boyfriend.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “And because you’re really bad at subtlety.”
Becca rolled her eyes. “Fine. Then make yourself useful.” She tossed him her keys. “Pick up Brandon from my ex’s. His building’s that ugly high-rise on Flatbush, you remember.”
Marlon blinked. “Right now?”
“Unless you’d rather stay here and not talk to Chelsea while she mutters about ‘worthless men’ into the buttercream?”
He pocketed the keys and sighed. “Text me the apartment number.”
Becca surprised them both by pulling him into a quick hug. “Thanks.” She felt him tense, then relax, just for a second, before he ducked out the door.
The kitchen was a disaster. Chelsea stood amid a snowdrift of powdered sugar, aggressively piping rosettes onto a cupcake like it had personally offended her.
Becca leaned against the doorway. “So. Date night?”
Chelsea’s grip on the piping bag tightened. “Cancelled.”
“Ah.”
“He forgot. Again.” She stabbed another cupcake. “Then had the nerve to ask if I was sure I wasn’t just working late with Marlon…”
“He got what he wanted after all.”
“Which is?”
“To get you out of the office while Marlon was here.”
Chelsea picked up a baking tray and started cleaning it mindlessly.
Becca grabbed a spatula and started scraping batter off the counter. “You want me to trash-talk him, or just stand here and let you vent?”
Chelsea’s shoulders sagged. “Just stand there.”
“Oh,” Becca gasped.
“What?”
“I wanted to trash-talk.”
Chelsea’s lips curved into a faint smile that soon spread across her cheeks. Then she giggled when she saw Becca make a face.
Both women laughed for a second.
“How else am I supposed to prove to him I have nothing for Marlon, hmm?”
“Have you tried actually having nothing for Marlon such that it is noticeable by a barely sober Jake?”
“What’s this trash you’re talking about?”
Becca raised her hands, “I’m just saying, perhaps the truth is easier to emb…”
“Now you’re trash-talking me.”
“I do not mean to…”
“Please stop talking. You’re going to get me upset.”
Silence settled, broken only by the whisk’s rhythmic scrape against metal. After a minute, Becca slid a fresh cup of coffee toward her.
Chelsea took it, their fingers brushing. “Thanks.”
Becca nodded. No pushing. No probing.
Just sugar and quiet.
