Becca was trying to be provocative and flirty. Maybe Becca saw dollar signs when she looked at him as Cassandra had. Maybe Becca didn’t want him to object to her involvement with Gertie. His grandmother had to be the mark here, not him.
“The cake is delicious. Moist,” he said. “The frosting has the right amount of sweetness.”
Eyes bright, Grams leaned forward over the table. “I’m so happy you like it. I’ve been working hard on the recipe.”
With a sweet grin that made him think of cotton candy, Becca motioned to her plate. Only half the slice remained. “I think you’ve perfected it.”
Grams chuckled. “Took me enough attempts.”
“I’ve enjoyed each and every slice.” Becca patted her trim waistline. “As you can tell.”
“Nonsense,” Grams said. “You have a lovely figure. Besides, a few slices of cake never hurt anybody. Men like curves, isn’t that right, Caleb?”
He choked on the cake in his mouth. Becca’s curves were the last thing he should be looking at right now. Not that he hadn’t checked them out before. “Mmmm-hmmm.”
“See,” Grams said lightheartedly.
Warm affection filled Becca’s eyes. “I’m sold.”
Caleb’s gaze darted between the two women. Grams treated Becca more like a friend than an employee. That was typical of his grandmother’s interactions with her staff, including the dowdy Mrs. Harrison, a fortysomething widow who preferred to go by her last name.
Still, Grams and Becca’s familiarity added to his suspicions given the differences in their social status, personalities and ages. His grandmother always took in strays and treated them well. Becca seemed to be playing along with her role in that scenario, but adding a twist by making sure she was becoming indispensable and irreplaceable.
Something was definitely off here. “Grams is an excellent baker.”
“You should have been here on Monday,” Becca said. “Gertie knocked it out of the park with her Black Forest cake. Seriously to-die-for.”
“Black Forest cake?” he asked.
Grams nodded with a knowing gleam in her eyes. “Your favorite.”
That had been only three days ago. Caleb stared at his plate.
Carrot cake was Courtney’s favorite. Grams had made his favorite earlier in the week. Puzzle pieces fell into place like colored blocks on a Rubick’s Cube. A seven-layer lead weight settled in the pit of Caleb’s stomach. “How many cakes do you bake a week?”
“It depends on how long it takes us to eat one,” she answered.
The question ricocheted through him, as if he were swinging wildly and hitting only air. “Us?”
“Becca. The estate staff. My lab assistants. Whoever else happens to be working here,” Grams explained. “Sometimes Becca takes the leftovers to the vet clinic when she covers shifts there.”
Wait a minute. He assumed his grandmother paid Becca well and allowed her to live in the guest cottage rent-free. Why would Becca work at a vet clinic, too? Especially if she was running a con?
“Sounds like a lot of cake.” Caleb tried to reconcile what he was learning about Becca as well as Grams’s cake. “I didn’t realize you enjoyed baking so much.”
Grams raised a shoulder, but there was nothing casual or indifferent in the movement. “Can’t have one of my grandchildren stop by and not have any cake to eat.”
But I also think she wants me here because she’s lonely.
Damn. His chest tightened. Becca was right. Grams was lonely. Regret slithered through him.
Thinking about the number of cakes being baked with anticipation and love and a big dose of hope made it hard to breathe. He figured Grams would be out and about doing whatever women of her age did to pass the time. Lunches, museums, fundraisers. He’d never thought she would go to so much trouble or imagined she would be sitting at home and waiting for her grandchildren to stop by.
His promise and his efforts blew up like a fifty-megaton bomb.
So much for taking care of Grams. He’d failed. He hadn’t taken care of her. He’d let her down.
Just like his … dad.
Guilt churned in Caleb’s gut. He opened his mouth to speak, but wasn’t sure what to say. “I’m sorry” wasn’t enough. He pressed his lips together.
“Did you have something you wanted to say?” Grams asked.
Caleb looked up. His grandmother was speaking to Becca.
Of course that woman would have something to say, a smug remark or a smart-aleck comment to expose his failure aloud. Anything so she could rub a ten-pound bag of salt into the gaping hole over his heart.
“No,” Becca said, but that didn’t soothe him, because she had an I-told-you-so smile plastered on her face. She looked pleased, almost giddy that she’d been proven correct.
How deeply had she ingrained herself in Grams’s life? He was concerned how well Becca could read his family. He needed to find his grandmother a new consultant, one with a better education, wardrobe and manners. One he trusted.
Becca’s silly, sheep-eating grin made the Cheshire cat look as if he were frowning. She raised a forkful of cake to her mouth. Each movement seemed exaggerated, almost slow motion as if she knew he was waiting for her to make the next move and she wanted to make him suffer.
Good luck with that.
Caleb couldn’t feel any worse than he was feeling. He had to do something to make this up to Grams.
“You can have another slice after you finish yours,” Grams said.
“One is enough for today,” he said. “But let me know when you bake another Black Forest cake, and I’ll stop by.”
A dazzling smile on his grandmother’s face, the kind that could power a city for a day, reaffirmed how lonely she must be in spite of her money and friends. That loneliness made her vulnerable to people who wanted to take advantage of her, people like Becca.
“I’ll do that,” Grams said.
He ground the toe of his running shoe against the tile.
In spite of his thinking he’d been a doting grandson, his phone calls, text messages and brunch on Sunday hadn’t been enough. Grams wanted to spend face-to-face time with her grandchildren, to chat with them and to feed them.
Caleb’s overbooked calendar flashed in his mind. His arm and shoulder muscles bunched, as if he’d done one too many Burpees at the gym.
He was so screwed.
No, that wasn’t right.
This was his grandmother, not some stranger.
