“Sit, sit,” Marta encouraged, gesturing at the near-empty kitchen. A fleet of cake pans was laid out on the main stainless steel table, and flour seemed to be everywhere.
There was no escaping. Steeling herself, Greer pasted an “everything’s totally fine and I wasn’t just making out with the guy that got me pregnant” smile on her face and headed in. “Working late?”
“The engagement party is tomorrow night,” Marta said, scraping a wooden spoon on one of the batter bowls. “I have to get these cakes ready for icing in the morning.” She set down the bowl and then bustled over to the refrigerator. “I made you some tarts, as well. You need to eat more.”
“I don’t want to bother you—”
The cook tsked and pulled out a foil-covered tray, unwrapping it and setting it in front of Greer. “You eat those and I’ll get you some milk. You need to feed that baby.”
The pile of apple tarts did look awfully appetizing. Each one was made with a distinctive flower-shape cut into the dough, and gooey frosting had been drizzled on the tops. She picked one up and took a bite—the crust melted into her mouth, and she wanted to moan with pleasure. Maybe she could steal Marta away from her father and drag her back to New York. “This is wonderful,” Greer told her, wiping away a mouthful of crumbs.
Marta placed a tall glass of milk in front of Greer, beaming. “Gotta figure out something to keep food down in that belly of yours.” As Greer began to drink, Marta patted her on the shoulder and then bustled back to her cake batter. “Once you’ve finished eating, maybe you can tell me what you’re doing sneaking in so late?”
Greer froze. She took another sip of milk, and pretended to keep drinking.
“Come on, mamacita. I know you better than your father does.” Scrape, scrape went the spoon. “Put down that milk and tell me who you’re seeing. You’ve got a guilty look in your eyes.”
She put down the glass and picked up another tart. “Would you believe me if I said it was nobody important? Just business?”
“I would,” Marta agreed, “If it wasn’t for the fact that you’ve got stubble burn all over your cheeks.”
Oh, mercy. Greer felt a flush heat her face. “Busted.”
“Busted indeed.” Marta put the bowl aside and picked up a round cake pan, tapping the side of it with the flat of her hand to get the bubbles out. “You need to think about that baby, Miss Greer. Your mother, god bless her, was not much of a thinker and you need to be different. That baby needs its mama.”
She knew. “I promise it’s no one important. Just . . .” Oh, goodness. How could she possibly explain? It’s the father of the baby and we’re just practicing kissing together like two teenagers instead of grown adults. That would not fly. “Just trust me when I say I have it all under control.”
“Mmm.”
Great, now she felt like a guilty kid. “I promise I’m being smart, Marta.”
The cook sighed and put the cake pan down. She shook her head at Greer, and for a moment looked so sad that it made Greer’s heart ache. “I know you’re smart, baby girl. I just . . . I worry. Since you arrived on the doorstep, eight years old and no mama, I worried about you. Your father . . .” She rolled her eyes and wiped her hands on her apron. “Your father is good with business and terrible with family.”
“I know.”
“I know you know. But that’s why I look out for you, Greer. I think of you like one of my daughters.”
Tears blurred Greer’s eyes. She got up from her seat and went to hug the cook. “I’m so stealing you when I go back to New York.”
“Pssssht.” Marta hugged her and patted Greer’s back. “Your father would riot if he didn’t have my pancakes every morning.”
“I’ll pay more than him.”
“It’s not always about money,” Marta said, beaming at Greer. She tucked a lock of hair behind Greer’s ear. “You’re not the only one I have to look after here.” For a moment, she looked sad. “Your father . . . he did not think about those three girls when he decided to put together this wedding.”
Guilt surged through Greer. The tabloids were not getting kinder with every day that passed. “You noticed?”
Marta shook her head. “Like I said, your father. Good with business, not good with family. He should be nicer to those girls. They adore him and he treats them . . . well, like they’re servants.” She raised an eyebrow at Greer. “Dirty servants, but still servants.”
“Now there’s a visual,” Greer murmured.
The cook patted her on the shoulder again. “I just don’t want you finding yourself making a mistake you can’t escape, Miss Greer. Look at those three girls. One of them is going to marry your father. The other two are going to . . . what? Have a career in porn once he’s done with them?”
Greer flinched. Her mother had done porn once she’d broken up with Stijn. It had not turned out well.
Marta clucked. “I didn’t mean it like that, baby girl. I’m just running my mouth. Go sit, eat.” She put her hands on Greer’s shoulders and turned her back toward the table. “I just like to worry over everyone under my roof.”
As Greer sat down and dutifully took a bite out of a third tart, Marta placed cake pans in the oven. She wasn’t wrong, though, Greer thought. One of those girls was going to marry her father and the other two would . . . what? End up the laughingstock of the Internet? Hide away until the furor went down? Start a life in porn like her mother did?