Sinfully Delicious: Six Scintillating Stories of Sweets, Treats, and Happily Ever Afters

by Gauthier, Crystal L.

Perhaps there had been more behind all the frowns and the growls he’d issued in her direction since hiring her.

  Did demons have feelings the way that humans did? Were they capable of compassion?

  His letting her live was certainly evidence of his ability for pity, if not kindness.

  But what of love?

  Ouch! Shampoo lather snuck its way between her closed eyelids, stinging painfully. Blue rinsed her hands, then flushed water into her eye, trying to clear out the soap. That’s what she got for letting her mind wander into truly ridiculous places.

  Blocking out any further thoughts about the night before, she finished showering and got ready to head out for the day.

  Blue stood o n tiptoes to hang the chalk board menu up on the outside of The Sugar Bean. She stepped back and surveyed it. Only slightly crooked. It would do. As she started to circle to the back of the trailer, she cast a surreptitious glance up the street to The Adriatic and immediately regretted it.

  Velimir limped out of the building, along with that other guy, the one who killed the old woman. Velimir looked her way and came up short.

  She lowered her head even more, scrubbed at a pretend mark on the front of her shirt, and made for the truck door as fast as she could without breaking into a run. She pulled the metal door closed behind her and leaned against it, willing her heart to slow its frantic beat. Perhaps, he’d keep on going wherever he was going.

  Too bad she and Luck had a bit of a love-hate relationship.

  He appeared at the counter window. Surprise, or maybe it was confusion, put a deep crease in his forehead. “I hadn’t thought we’d see you again.”

  She conjured a calm smile. He and his kind weren’t the only ones who could work magic.

  “Well, I’ve been told I’m a tough cookie.”

  “Yes.” His lips pulled back in what he probably thought passed for a disarming smile, but fell far short, landing squarely into the unnerving category. “Seems someone has grown a sweet tooth.”

  What did that mean? Was that someone Sokach?

  “Can I get you anything?” she asked, wanting to end the weird interview and get rid of him.

  “Sure. I’ll take a coffee.”

  She turned around to pour his cup, and the hairs on the back of her neck and arms stood up. He was watching her, studying her, she could feel it, as distinct as a touch of the hand.

  Coffee splashed onto her wrist and shirt in her haste to fill the cup. She inhaled through clenched teeth at the sting of hot liquid on her skin and shook off the drips.

  “Funny isn’t it,” he said with a nod to her new stain when she came back to the counter, “how even the most benign things can turn dangerous?”

  It came to her then.

  It had been this idiot who told her to bring the food up to the office last night. To leave the kitchen. If she hadn’t done as he’d asked, she’d still be living in splendid, beautiful ignorance.

  A half-hearted laugh forced its way through her lips.

  Something like triumph sparkled in his eyes, like he knew some secret she did not. He lifted the cup in a silent toast and walked away.

  She stared at the ten-dollar bill he’d left on the counter, dreading having to touch it. As though taking his money made her beholden to him.

  Next time she saw Sokach, she’d tell him that it had been Velimir who’d demanded she serve them in the office. It was important that he know it hadn’t been her choice. That she hadn’t been stupid.

  A light breeze lifted the money and sent it dancing down the sidewalk.

  She let it go.

  Chapter Nine

  With water fro m a plastic bottle, Sokach washed sticky blood from the knuckles and fingers of one hand, then the other. He swallowed what remained, wetting his parched throat. The pile of pulverized human flesh sprawled before him moaned, tongue lolling out of a crushed jaw. The sound rolled outward, dissipating the further it went into the gaping cavern of the abandoned warehouse.

  Sokach released the magic pinning the man to the interrogation chair, letting him slide to the floor like raw liver slipping from a countertop.

  If he’d have known anything about his boss, Anton, or that symbol, he would have talked by then. Hell, he hadn’t even known who took out Vic Malone days after their conversation at the club.

  It was one of the downsides of grabbing a low-level lackey; they tended not to know anything. Or at least anything of importance. That was the frustrating and fine line Sokach had to tread with his investigation. Morana had said to start small, with someone he could make disappear without anyone caring, then proceed with caution. What he needed was to get his hands on one of Anton’s personal guards. Those bastards would know something.

  Sokach walked over to the small table he’d set up to hold his things and slid on his shirt over his tank top. Fitting the buttons through the small holes was slow going; both hands were swollen and throbbing. They’d heal in an hour’s time.

  The same couldn’t be said for the poor sap’s face and ribs he’d just rearranged into a Picasso painting.

  He looked back at the unconscious man and frowned. He didn’t like losing control, but he had.

  Somewhere in the middle of the interrogation, right around when he asked about the bonfire at Ushi’s, thoughts of Blue had surfaced, and for a while, he’d forgotten what he was doing and why. He’d only known that he needed to hit something, feel the crack of bone beneath his fist, hear the wet smack of flesh. Anything to release the fury pent up tight inside his chest, to banish the images of her burning, of her flesh melting, her hair floating up as it caught the drafts and ignited.

  He'd gone to see her once since the incident, giving in to the need to ensure she was hale and alive. He’d chosen to go during the day, thinking it would be safer, that the bright sun would have a better chance of keeping desires in check than the cool, seductive moonlight.

  Wrong, so very wrong.

  She’d been washing the food truck when he arrived, standing on a ladder with sponge in hand, her thin cotton tank damp and clinging to every inch of her. Hunger awoke like an angry viper, stinging and biting his insides. Through clenched teeth, he’d ordered the Fourth of July desserts, then shimmered without giving her a chance to talk, to keep him there any longer.

  From now on, he’d keep his distance, relegate any interaction or conversation to work and work alone.

  Chapter Ten

  The kitchen wa s a buzz of activity when Blue walked in through the back door. When she’d dropped off the cakes and frosting earlier that morning, only a security guard had been there to let her in. Without wait staff or chefs, the kitchen had loomed dark and silent, foreboding like a haunted house.

  She stood now, tucked to the side, watching the others as they moved about, preparing the night’s menu.

  Were any of them human?

  Probably not.

  She shook her head. She’d been like a mouse, blind to the fact that she worked in a kitchen full of cats.

  Well, at least now her eyes were open.

  Pulling herself tall, she walked in, ignoring the momentary pause in activity as heads swiveled her way. She side-stepped to avoid one of the waiters who squatted down outside of the walk-in cooler, wiping a spill off the red-tiled floor, and went to where the cakes waited.

  Thank goodness, they didn’t appear to have been messed with or touched by anyone.

  It’d taken from four to seven in the morning and all her ovens, both in her apartment and The Sugar Bean, to bake close to a hundred individual, star-shaped pastries. She admired the red, white, and blue cakes. The investment in the cake tins had paid off; she’d reuse them hundreds of times.

  Now all they needed was the finishing touch of a little sweet buttercream topping. She set the box of decoration tools down on the counter and went to retrieve the bowl of frosting from the cooler.

  She walked out of the fridge. Should she use the #172 nozzle tip or the #21 for the star-burst topping? Or maybe—

/>   Without warning, she was airborne. Her right foot flew out from under her, as though the floor was covered in ice. The bowl sailed out of her hands, upwards into the air. She landed with a thud, her hip hitting the hard tile first, then her shoulder and side. The metal bowl crashed back to earth in front of her, sending buttercream frosting splattering into her face.

  Heart skittering like a trapped squirrel, Blue lay on the floor, too stunned to move, unable to see out of one eye because a gob of frosting covered it. She felt drops of cold stickiness on her neck, chest, hair, arms. It was everywhere.

  What the hell had just happened?

  With three fingers, she wiped her eye clean and looked around.

  She had walked right over the spot the waiter had been cleaning – not so thoroughly, apparently – when she’d come in.

  The bowl, Saran hanging off it, wobbled to stillness beneath a stainless-steel counter top six feet away. Its clanging ring echoed in the near silence of the shocked kitchen.

  Not a cup of the frosting could be saved.

  Searing pulses of pain radiated out from her hip and shoulder. With a groan, she melted on to her back and lay staring up at the ceiling tiles as she gingerly checked for broken bones. Around her, the sounds of the kitchen picked back up.

  Nice. Real nice. No one wanted to lend a hand? But really, what did she expect from a pack of devils?

  Sokach’s face appeared above her, sending her heart leaping back into race mode.

  Last time she’d seen him, outside her apartment, he’d only glared at her, making no attempt to hide his contempt. As though letting her live had been a mistake he regretted and wanted to correct. She’d half expected him to smite her then and there, but he’d only barked some orders and left. She hadn’t even been able to say sorry or to thank him again.

  “I slipped,” she said, and felt her cheeks flame hot. Idiot. That was perfectly obvious.

  She hauled herself to sitting, wincing.

  “Are you hurt?”

  God, yes ! she wanted to cry, but pride keep the words locked behind tight lips. She kept her eyes focused on the blobs of frosting she wiped from her arms. “I’ve had worse.”

  After a long pause, his hand reached out. She looked from it to his face. None of his prior hatred remained. Instead, a careful blankness stared back at her.

  She took the hand, did her best to ignore the way his touch set her pulse tapdancing.

  Once she was on her feet, he dropped her grip, rather quickly she noted, and moved to fetch a dish towel. He wet it down in one of the sinks and tossed it to her.

  “Thanks,” she mumbled and wiped at her face, then went to retrieve the mixing bowl. “I guess the cakes will have to be served bare.” None-too-gently, she threw it into the dish washing sink, gasping at the pain that shot through her shoulder. She cringed and rubbed the bruised joint.

  It was going to need some ice and a whole lot of ibuprofen.

  “You remember the recipe?” he asked when she came back.

  She snorted, brushing the hair from her eyes with the back of hand. “Of course.”

  With a sigh that sounded decidedly like surrender, he said, “Tell me.”

  “Butter, vanilla, milk, and confectioner sugar. Err…that’s powdered sugar,” she clarified.

  “I know that,” he growled over his shoulder as he walked over to the wall where a variety of aprons hung.

  “What are you doing?” she asked when he shrugged out of his suit jacket and swapped fine wool for cotton bib. He tied the apron about his waist as casually as pulling on a pair of socks.

  “Making another batch.”

  She blinked. This was surreal. Two days ago, he’d held her life in his hands; today, he wanted to save her buttercream. “But, but…”

  “But what?” He pinned her with a look as he rolled up his shirt sleeves.

  You’re a demon! she wanted to say, but thankfully she hadn’t hit her head when she’d fallen and still had a modicum of common sense. “Nothing,” she said instead, and followed him in silence while he collected the ingredients.

  “Careful,” she said, pointing to where she fell as he came out of the cooler, cradling butter and milk in his arms. “It’s slippery. Right there.”

  He walked right over the spot without even a little waver.

  Of course. Life really enjoyed laughing at her.

  At the counter, he brought the ingredients together in a clean bowl and carried it to the mixer.

  “You might want to—”

  He was one step ahead of her, wrapping a towel around the mixer to keep the powdered sugar from flying.

  “Never mind,” she mumbled.

  After a minute on a low speed, he stopped the mixer, removed the towel and used a spatula to scrape the bowl’s sides. He poured in a splash of milk and started the mixer again, this time at medium. When the frosting looked a little softer, he used his pinky finger to sample a small drop.

  One eye closed. His tongue licked his lips. Then he added two more drops of vanilla.

  Watching him, it was almost possible to forget about the bus station, about the woman dying upstairs, about the fact that he was…not human.

  Almost.

  Once the vanilla was blended, he gave her a spoon’s worth.

  The sweetness hit her tongue, melted, filling her mouth with pure joy. It was perfect. Speechless, she nodded her approval.

  He carried the bowl back to the counter, and Blue followed. “It’s going to need to chill in the cooler for a little bit to thicken,” she said, but when she placed her hands on the bowl’s sides to pick it up, they met with frigid metal. As though it had been in the fridge for hours.

  How the hell?

  And then Blue remembered the burning cold of the fireball as it he held it close to her face.

  Cooling off a little pile of butter and sugar probably required a sneeze’s worth of his magic.

  Burying the memory, she selected tip #21 and filled one decorating pouch with icing. He watched her add a star top to one cake, then filled his own decorating pouch.

  Without talking, they worked their own trays of cakes, but there was nothing awkward in the silence between them. Instead, it was a comfortable quiet. Like a Saturday morning spent reading the newspaper in bed, coffee and croissant in hand.

  In no time, all the cakes had their finishings, and she and Sokach leaned back on the counter, side by side.

  Blue stared up at his striking profile. “I gotta say,” she started when he turned those stormy eyes on her, “you’re actually good at this.”

  He looked away, focused on wiping his hands off on the front of his apron. “I cook.” He gave a little shrug. “It’s close to the same.”

  “Cook? That seems so…normal.” He frowned. A nervous little laugh escaped her. “For, um, er, a demon…”

  The easy atmosphere disappeared, like smoke up the stovetop vent.

  “I’m sorry.” She lifted a hand to – to what? She let it drop. “I didn’t mean…” Good lord, she needed to shut up.

  Eyes back on the fingernail cuticles he’d polished free of icing, he cleared his throat. “I’m not a demon.”

  “You’re not?” Blue cringed when the question came out sounding more like an accusation.

  He frowned. “I’m a shadow. Not a demon.”

  “Oh! When you said underworld , I assumed—”

  Disgust swept the irritation off his face, his nostrils flaring. “Demons are Lucifier’s get.”

  “Ah.” Blue dropped her gaze, shuffled one foot back and forth. What did one say to that? She wanted to ask what the difference was but decided against it.

  A loud crash and a sharp curse accompanying the sound of shattering ceramic came through the dining room door. An appropriate end to their chat.

  He shoved away from the counter and started to go.

  “Sokach.”

  It was the first time she’d ever said his name out loud. It tasted…good.

  He stopped and turned. />
  She wagged a finger at him, up and down.

  He looked down at himself, at the apron he still wore.

  Was that a blush?

  He bent his head, pulling the apron over it.

  “I didn’t want to leave the kitchen,” she said. The words were out of her mouth without a thought.

  He straightened, rolling the apron into a ball, and pinned her with a quizzical look.

  “That night,” she clarified with a twitch. She had wanted to tell him this, but now that she’d started, she felt childish. “That other guy, Velimir, told me to. He wanted food brought up.”

  For moment, he didn’t move, just studied her. Sweat prickled her armpits. What if he and Velimir were best buddies?

  But instead of leveling her with a flame, he nodded, tossed the waded apron on the counter, and left.

  Chapter Eleven

  Pulling up hi s winding driveway, Sokach’s mind was still on what Blue had told him, tugging at the words like strings, trying to untangle a knot.

  Velimir told me to.

  Why? Why would Velimir order Blue up to the office when he knew what was going down? Had he wanted her to see? Velimir was known for playing with his food, but Blue wasn’t on his plate. At least not that Sokach knew. So why?

  In the early days, Velimir’d been envious of the women who tended to gravitate to Sokach, even tried to woo a few away. And Sokach had let him have them. Part because they meant nothing to him, part because he enjoyed letting Velimir think he’d bested him, and part, if he was being honest with himself, out of pity.

  When she’d created Velimir, Morana’d been too weak, the incantation too strenuous, resulting in the imperfections of his human form – a twisted leg and broken vision. He’d asked Morana once to heal him, smooth his blemishes, make him as perfect as his brothers and sisters, but she’d refused.

  “You are beautiful because of your flaws,” she’d said. “They are a symbol of resilience. You are my constant, my reminder of the lessons learned from the war and all that followed.”

  His disappointment had been palpable.

  But Sokach had made no move toward Blue, kept his thoughts locked up tight. Nothing to trigger Velimir’s suspicions, to let on that she was anything more than kitchen help.