From Cleaving 8.  Spoilers ahead.

Wedding planning had gone remarkably smoothly, all things considered.  It was no doubt a combination of having Helen, a consummate professional, a “flexible” (i.e. as large as it needed to be) budget, and a time constraint that basically forced Zach to let go of details he might have otherwise obsessed over for the better part of a year.  He had every faith that it was going to come together and be beautiful… he just didn’t know all of the details of exactly how  it would be beautiful.  Part of him was irked by that, but a larger part was profoundly relieved, because he knew in his heart of hearts that given the opportunity he could have given any “bridezilla” a run for her money.  With the time limitations, he was forced to take Chris’ more Zen approach. 

The one detail Zach couldn’t seem to let go of, though, was the cake of all things.  It seemed like such an important symbol, but the high-end bakeries in town were booked out, and Zach was mortified by the second-tier bakeries and their butter-cream-rose-infested monstrosities.  And he and Chris both hated buttercream frosting.  In a fit of desperation, after visiting five bakeries and seeing the patience on Helen’s face start to crack, he called an old friend in New York who made what were essentially sculptures out of cake and fondant.  Marco had always said he’d wanted dibs on making Zach’s wedding cake, but that was before Nathan.  And there wasn’t time for one of his works of art, anyway.  And he was booked New Years Eve, Zach learned.  Still, once he’d recovered from his shock that Zach was getting married in four days and was considering getting a box cupcakes with dinosaurs on them, because at least then Nathan would be happy, Marco had sprung into action.

“I’ve worked it out,” he’d said when he called about an hour after Zach’s desperate plea for advice.

“Worked what out?  You found a bakery?”

“I found a pastry chef in Pittsburgh who’s going to bake the cakes for me and let me into his kitchen to construct and decorate.  You have your choice of lemon almond cake or olive-oil rosemary.  He works in an Italian restaurant and those are his specialties.”

Zach had been stunned.  “Those both sound amazing.  Lemon will probably appeal to more people.  How are you going to have time to—”

“What do you know about the naked cake movement?”

“Uh, nothing?  Though I guess maybe I’ve seen things in magazines that could be considered naked cakes… sort of rustic looking?”

“They can be like that, but they can also be quite elegant, especially if just a bit of frosting is used to smooth out the colors and shape.  But the underlying cake shows through a bit, making it reminiscent of wood.  I think it would work with what you’ve described from your wedding, and I can dress it with flowers from your florist.  A cake for 35 made like that, I have time for.  I promise, Zach, it will look exquisite and unique and as masculine as wedding cakes get, and it will not have an ounce of dreaded buttercream frosting.  I just need your florist’s information and your trust.”