Making Whoopie (Hot Cakes Book 3)

by Erin Nicholas

  Grant started to protest, but realized that all actually sounded okay. “You haven’t tried her cake or whatever she would be inventing for Hot Cakes.”

  Cam laughed. “I’ve eaten more of Josie’s cakes than you have, my friend.”

  He said it with a tone that had just enough innuendo in it to make Grant grit his teeth.

  Whitney rolled her eyes and said to Grant, “I really like Josie, so I have no problem with this. But she’s known for her decorating and designs. She mostly follows the recipes at the bakery, right? We can’t have her poaching one of Zoe’s recipes for us. Though if Zoe wanted to be involved too, maybe we could include some joint promotion—”

  “No,” Grant said quickly. He could feel himself frowning. He glanced at Cam. Zoe’s brother. “No offense, but I think we leave Zoe out of it. Jocelyn does plenty of baking with her own recipes. She’d be very capable of developing something for us, and I think it would be great for her to have some recognition for something outside of the cake decorating she does at Buttered Up.”

  Cam shrugged. “Okay by me.”

  Whitney nodded. “Fine with me.”

  Grant nodded too. This was really good. It would accomplish all of the objectives.

  Jocelyn would be financially stable without him, on her own merit, with a product she created.

  This was a great plan.

  Now all he had to do was convince her.

  And to sign the divorce papers.

  And then to go out with him on a real date that had nothing to do with his health insurance.

  Jocelyn’s house smelled amazing. She’d baked. Again.

  He figured that was a very typical thing in this house, and he couldn’t deny that was not at all a bad thing to think about coming home to.

  But he’d want to come home to this house, to her, no matter what. Forever.

  So he really needed to get this divorce thing done.

  And yes, he was aware how stupid that sounded.

  The kitchen was empty other than the amazing aroma of freshly baked something—cookies, he thought, but possibly muffins or cake—so he made his way through the house and up the stairs. He heard the television from the bedroom. So she was in the room of the house where he most liked having her. The kitchen a very close second, of course.

  “Hey,” he said from the doorway.

  She gave him a big smile that punched him in the gut. “Hi.”

  He braced his hands on either side of the door and just studied her.

  She was propped up on the bed, her laptop on her thighs. She had her hair up in a messy bun, glasses propped on her nose, and was wearing a thin tank top and shorts. It was clear she was mostly ready for bed.

  Yeah, he wanted her like this every night. This is what he wanted to come home to. Not the expensive furniture and high thread-count sheets. Not the city lights. Not the gourmet food delivery from some of the best restaurants in the country.

  This. This woman. This house. This bedroom. And the smell of cookies. Or cake. Or whatever.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  She pulled her glasses off and met his gaze. “Horny.”

  Grant froze. He blinked at her. “Oh?”

  She nodded. “Yeah.”

  “So… better, then.”

  She smiled. “Yeah. Good, actually. A little tired and like we might have to be careful with our positions so I don’t pull on the sore spot on my side, but mostly I feel good.” She paused. “And I want you.”

  Grant curled his fingers into the wood doorframe. “You’re sure it’s okay?”

  “They said to resume my normal activities as I feel ready.”

  He blew out a breath.

  “Are you going to be okay?” she asked, a smile in her voice.

  “Don’t know,” he said honestly. “I want you too. Always. But I have this insane protective streak where you’re concerned.”

  She nodded. “I know.”

  “I might get partway into it and start to worry.” He was serious about that.

  “Well, I’ve always got my vibrator if I have to finish that way.”

  He huffed out a laugh even as his body heated, and God, I really like her went through his mind at the same time. “I’d kind of like to see that, actually.”

  She grinned. “Then we’re good no matter what. I’ll get the horniness taken care of one way or another, and you won’t be too disappointed no matter how it turns out.”

  He nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

  He started to toe off his shoes and undo his belt.

  “And I have an idea that might make it even more fun and get you out of your head about my surgery,” she said.

  “What you just mentioned sounded pretty fun,” he told her, tossing his belt and kicking his shoes to the side.

  He started for the bed.

  “What if I told you that I wanted to combine the sex and the vibrator with”—she paused dramatically, a mischievous look in her eyes—“spreadsheets.”

  He stopped at the side of the bed. Spreadsheets and sex? Sounded weird. And like combining two of his favorite things. “Go on.”

  She gave him a knowing look. “I thought that might get your attention.”

  He put one knee on the mattress and started unbuttoning his shirt. “You always have my attention, Jocelyn.”

  That made her lips curl into a sweet smile. “So… I’ve been thinking, and I’ve decided that you should teach me a few things about business. And I think we should start with spreadsheets.”

  He lifted a brow. “Tonight? Now?”

  She nodded. “Yes. You teach me something. I try it. When I understand it and do it right, one of us takes a piece of clothing off.”

  He let that sink in. Then laughed. “You have like three pieces of clothing on.”

  She looked down, then up at him with a smirk. “Two, actually.”

  He could see her tank top and shorts. No panties, then. Good to know. He nodded, feeling his blood heating. “So I can teach you two things?”

  “Well—” She looked him up and down. His shirt was hanging open but still technically on. “You have a few things on too.” She leaned to look down at his feet. “I guess it’s your call on if we count the socks as one thing or two.”

  He nodded. “Okay. You have two things on. I have a shirt, pants, underwear, and two socks. So I can teach you seven things before we’re both naked.”

  She shook her head. “The socks are two things, huh? Damn.”

  He laughed. “Two things. But how do you expect us to be concentrating on things in Excel by the time we even have a couple of items off?”

  She shrugged. “I guess you either start with the more difficult stuff and make it get easier as we’re more distracted. Or we start with your socks and leave the more… revealing clothes removal toward the end.”

  Grant had to admit this sounded like fun. A lot of fun. Even if she didn’t learn a damned thing about Excel, this would be fun. And she was willing. That actually made him go a little soft. She didn’t want to learn about spreadsheets. He knew that. But she was making a gesture here.

  “Okay,” he agreed. He buttoned half of his shirt buttons back up. “Let’s do this.”

  She seemed very pleased as he crawled onto the bed beside her. “I’ve already got Excel open and everything,” she said, turning her computer to show him.

  “Good girl.”

  She gave him a saucy smile.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I like that.”

  “Good girl? You like that?”

  She nodded. “Kind of gives you a hot teacher vibe.”

  He gave a little growl. “I can definitely do the hot teacher thing with my favorite student.”

  “Oh, this is going to be so good,” she said, turning her attention back to the screen.

  Grant chuckled. Fun and torturous.

  He moved in behind her, positioning himself so that she could lean back against his chest, and they could both see an
d reach the computer. She settled in against him easily, and he marveled at how amazing she felt in his arms. He took a big, deep, contented breath.

  He moved her hair back from the side of her face and leaned in to put his chin on her shoulder. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

  “Me too.” She sighed. “It’s nice to be home.”

  It was. This wasn’t even his home, and it was very nice to be here.

  “What’s first?” she asked.

  “Okay, well, what do you know?”

  “How to open Excel.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Okay, so this was going to take a few lessons. But that was fine. He liked the idea of having multiple nights ahead that they could spend just like this.

  “First lesson,” he said. “Blank workbook.” He pointed at the screen.

  She clicked and they got started.

  It turned out that she didn’t know much more than how to open Excel—an hour, and two orgasms later.

  They lay with their limbs entwined, sweaty, and panting.

  And Grant decided he didn’t care if Jocelyn ever figured out spreadsheets. He’d do all her spreadsheets for her.

  But they would keep playing strip-spreadsheet-tutoring whenever possible.

  “So that’s how you auto sum a column,” he said, stroking the pads of his fingers up and down her back.

  She giggled against his chest. “That might have been my favorite part.”

  “Yeah? I thought you liked removing duplicates,” he said with a grin.

  She nodded. “That was really good. But that auto summing… wow.”

  He hugged her close. Had he ever been this happy?

  No. It was easy to come up with that answer. He’d never been this happy. Never known that simple stuff like this could make his heart pound and his gut tighten and even his bones feel warm.

  After another couple of minutes, he finally rolled and sat up, taking her with him. They cleaned up, put the computer away, and got under the blankets.

  Jocelyn cuddled up against his side.

  “You sore?” he asked her huskily in the dark.

  “No. You were very careful with me.” She ran her hand back and forth over his chest.

  He’d tried to be. But she hadn’t acted like she needed him to hold back, that was for sure. Still, he’d been happy to do most of the work.

  “Well, you tell me if you feel it tomorrow. I don’t want to push you too hard,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, a smile in her voice. “I promise to let you pamper me and spoil me and protect me as much as you want.”

  His heart thudded. He definitely wanted that. He wasn’t supposed to. His head told him that. He was supposed to encourage her to take care of herself and to not need him.

  But he really wanted to take care of her.

  Was there a way to have both?

  The whoopie pies. Those were the answer. If she had her own thing, something that she was proud of, that was all hers, that would support her and make her happy, then the rest would fall into place.

  The whoopie pies, where he and Jocelyn had essentially started, were the answer to how they could make this last.

  Grant drifted off to sleep thinking about how beautifully poetic that really was.

  18

  Learning about spreadsheets didn’t make him want to stay married to her.

  Josie stared at the papers lying next to the plate of whoopie pies on her kitchen island.

  The kitchen island where she and Grant had first had sex.

  The whoopie pies that she’d been trying to make that first night—that they’d ended up using in the hottest sex of her life.

  That was… horribly ironic. Or something.

  He still wanted a divorce. The papers were right here. He’d brought them over. He’d laid them on this island, next to these whoopie pies, and then he’d come upstairs, and had strip-spreadsheet-sex with her.

  He’d also already signed the papers.

  Along with them were the hospital and doctors’ bills from her surgery—all marked paid—and a contract from Hot Cakes for her to develop their newest snack cake.

  It already had her name and everything filled in. All it needed was her signature.

  Just like the divorce papers.

  It was 5 a.m. Grant was asleep upstairs in her bed. She’d floated down the fucking stairs. Floated.

  Josie worked to breathe. And not cry. Okay, he’d signed the divorce papers. They’d talked about this. This should not be a shock. She’d known this was where he’d thought this was headed from day one. The marriage had been for a specific purpose. That purpose had been fulfilled.

  Grant was nothing if not a very focused, purposeful person.

  She breathed in, then out. She thought about her sister and what Paige had taught her about breathing and centering herself.

  Then she crossed to the drawer that held a collection of things like scissors and tape and notepads and pens. She took a pen out, went back to the divorce papers, and signed her name.

  Okay. She was now divorced.

  Wow, that had been a lot easier than it should have been.

  And it really sucked.

  She eyed the coffeepot. Coffee didn’t actually sound good at the moment. She looked at the fridge. Nothing sounded good to eat. She looked at the back door. She could… go for a run. If she was a runner. But she wasn’t. At all.

  Damn. She had no idea what to do.

  Her sister had a yoga class at five thirty every morning. Maybe she’d do that. She could definitely use some more deep breathing and centering and calming.

  She could also use someone to talk to. Someone who wasn’t in love with one of Grant’s best friends and who wouldn’t freak out about Josie marrying him for health insurance and who wouldn’t freak out about her having her gall bladder removed in Chicago and who wouldn’t be upset with her for baking on the side and… all of the other secrets she’d been keeping.

  Paige didn’t freak out about things. She was the calmest person Josie knew. She was the calmest person most people knew.

  Yeah, Josie wanted to talk to her sister.

  And play with some kittens. She grabbed her keys and started for the door.

  But just as she was pulling it open, she heard footsteps thundering down the staircase from the second level.

  Grant was definitely not floating downstairs this morning.

  She sighed and turned.

  “You’re still here. Thank God,” he said. He looked like he’d vaulted out of bed. He was still wearing only his boxers. His hair was mussed, one side sticking straight up. He had stubble darkening his jaw, and he looked slightly dazed as if he’d just been jolted awake.

  “I was just leaving.”

  He glanced at the center island. Right at the papers that he’d clearly left there last night.

  “Don’t worry. I signed.”

  “You did?” His eyes lit up slightly. “So you like the idea?”

  Did she like the idea of getting divorced? No. Not even a tiny bit. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to admit that to him. She wanted to have a little dignity here, didn’t she? A little pride?

  But she frowned and shook her head. “No, Grant. I don’t like the idea. But it’s what we agreed to, and if it’s what you want I’m not going to fight you.”

  He frowned. “It’s what we agreed to? What do you mean?”

  “We both knew that the marriage was temporary. We agreed that it was for the insurance. Now that the bills are all paid, there’s no reason to stay married.”

  His frown cleared, and he shoved a hand through his hair. “Oh. That.”

  “Yes. That. What did you think I was talking about?”

  “The agreement with Hot Cakes. To make our new snack cake,” he said. “I wanted to go over that with you before you went to the bakery because I know you probably wouldn’t be comfortable talking about it there. And I’d love to get that ball rolli
ng today.”

  She propped a hand on her hip. “What ball rolling?”

  “We want you to develop our new snack cake,” he said again.

  “I got that part. I’m not going to do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why would I? I work for Buttered Up. I know things are a lot better between the two families, but I can’t develop a new cake for another company without talking to Zoe. And if someone is going to do that, shouldn’t it be her?”

  “No, you need to do this. You deserve this,” Grant said, taking a step toward her.

  “Deserve this?” she repeated. “What are you talking about?”

  “You deserve the ten thousand dollars that comes with it. And the monthly royalty payment as long as the cake is a part of our product line. Which, considering the company has never added or removed any other product, will be for a very long time.”

  She frowned and turned to face him more fully.

  He took another step closer. “You also deserve the recognition of having one of your cakes produced a million times over, sold to hundreds of thousands of people.”

  “I… don’t want that.” But her heart was beating hard. What was that?

  She didn’t want to do work for Hot Cakes. She didn’t share Zoe’s long-held belief that Hot Cakes and the Lancaster family were inherently evil—and, of course, Zoe’s feelings about the company and the family had changed recently as she’d let go of the three-generation old grudge she’d been holding on behalf of her grandmother—but Josie did believe that what she and Zoe did at Buttered Up was different, and yes, better on some levels. It was more personal. It was more special. They created from scratch, by hand, and with the people of Appleby in mind. They didn’t mass produce cakes that would sit on grocery and convenience store shelves for strangers to grab without even giving it a true thought. They baked for their neighbors and friends, and they did it with a mind to tradition and the occasions that their treats would be a part of.

  “You don’t want to be financially secure?”