by Bella Cruise
I let out a sigh, and keep searching. His website only offers a brief bio—born in Glasgow, trained in Soho, now renowned for his old school, back-to-basics approach to the pastry arts. I can’t help but admire that. He’s a boy after my own heart. I was always butting heads with my professors at Le Cordon Bleu down in Miami over my refusal to incorporate modern “innovations” into my recipes. But then I tamp down my excitement. After all, there’s really only room in this town for one anti-sorghum, pro-butter baker.
Anyway, I’m just starting to page through articles on his new bakery here in Key West, which all repeat his bio and talk about his TV show in the same flat, inoffensive way, when a message pops up in my g-chat.
[email protected]:
There you are!
I grin. It’s uncanny, how this guy seems to always find me right when I need a pick-me-up.
[email protected]:
Here I am.
[email protected]:
I was worried I’d scared you away.
[email protected]:
I don’t scare easily. I’ve been busy.
[email protected]:
With frosting?
[email protected]:
Among other things . . .
[email protected]:
Such as?
[email protected]:
I’m brainstorming a new cake recipe. Bacon-infused double dark chocolate.
[email protected]:
I love it when you talk bacon to me.
[email protected]:
I was thinking of adding a leaf of candied basil on top.
[email protected]:
Savory. Sophisticated. Just like you.
I’m alone in my shop, and I’m blushing furiously. Cupcakecasanova always knows just what to say. Maybe it’s because he loves food. We speak the same language—all five flavors, from umami to sweet.
[email protected]:
What are you wearing?
Or maybe it’s because we’re both horny as hell. In a minute, my hands are flying across the keys as I describe my non-existent black lace thong and demi-cup bra.
Things are just getting good—he’s telling me how he wants to bend me over his butcher block counter to take me from behind—when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I consider letting it go to voice mail, but then I pull it out and see that it’s Ginny. It’s been awhile since we last spoke, not since the day I found out that Mecca Cakes was coming to town. She’s been busy with wedding plans. I’ve been busy stewing. I chew my lip, feeling torn between my best friend and a damned good virtual lay. At last, I pick up her call.
“Hey, Gin,” I say. “What’s up?”
“I miss you. My life is empty without you.”
“Gosh,” I say, letting out a laugh, “you know we once went a decade without seeing each other.”
“The worst ten years of my life. Are you busy tonight?”
I look around the store. It’s clean as a whistle and empty as a bottle of Mad Dog on prom night.
“Nope. Definitely not busy.”
“Good. Meet me and Luke at Lenny’s in an hour for drinks.”
“Aw, I don’t want to be a third wheel. You know that you love birds kind of nauseate me sometimes.” I’m mostly teasing Ginny, but it’s halfway true. The pair of them can’t keep their hands off each other. It’s cute, but a little sickening too, especially when Luke starts giving her those big sloppy tongue kisses.
“Don’t worry. Luke is bringing a friend.”
“A blind date?”
Ginny lets out a light laugh. “It’s not like that. He just thinks you two might get along. As friends. If more happens, then we take no responsibility. Wouldn’t want you to be happy for once or anything.”
I bite my tongue. Okay, so maybe I’ve been a little bit of a sulky dope lately. But I have a right. My love life sucks! My business is failing!
But who knows. Maybe tonight will be the night everything turns around.
“Sure,” I say to Ginny, “I’ll see you then.”
I hang up my phone, then lean over the keyboard.
[email protected]:
Hate to run, cupcake, but I have plans. Hold that thought for me?
He’s a sweet guy. Understanding.
[email protected]:
For you, doll? Anything. xoxoxo
I lock up the shop and head toward Pelican Key Cove.
#
I used to take the long trek up the Overseas Highway toward my hometown once a week. Every Friday, my mom would make dinner and I’d sit in front of the TV and eat it with her and my dad and my grandma. It wasn’t anything fancy. My mom’s not much of a cook. But it was nice and relaxing to see them so regularly. Now that Grams choked and they’ve moved up to Arizona for retirement, I miss it more than I’d care to admit.
But the drive to Pelican Key Cove is still old hat. Even though the sunset is gorgeous on either side of the black strip of road, I hardly feel it. I’m thinking about cupcakecasanova, and wondering about this guy that Ginny’s going to set me up with. And mostly, I’m trying not to think about Callum McKenzie and how my business might be dead soon.
When my mom and dad were close by, I could lean on them a little to get me through the rough patches. And every small business has them—downturns in the economy, equipment failures, unexpected spikes in rent. But Dad cashed in all his stock options at work when he retired to cover Mom’s medical expenses and their new place out in the desert. For the first time in my life, I was completely on my own.
I did what I had to do. I took out a loan. Hated to do it—I’d even worked my way through culinary school to avoid debt—but it was the only way. I’ve managed to keep up with payments, month after month after month now. But if things don’t turn around soon, I’m not sure that will be the case.
My stomach is in knots by the time I pass the Welcome to Pelican Key Cove sign out in the middle of the highway. I pull into Lenny’s, the little dive bar that never changes, and let out a long breath to try to calm my jittery nerves. Luke’s pristine white pick-up is parked out front.
Come on, I say to myself, keep it together. Don’t let business ruin what could be a great night.
And I’d love it to be a great night. Maybe I’ll get kissed. Maybe I’ll get laid. A girl can’t live off the sweet vibrations of her rabbit alone, not for five years straight. But I have, and it’s pitiful as hell. I want this friend of Luke’s to be spectacular.
I shake off my anxiety as best I can before I head inside. The bar is packed with familiar faces, mostly guys of my dad’s generation who look like they’ve been nursing the same beers since 1977. But then I spot a young, smiling face back by the pool tables.
“Jules! We’re back here!” Ginny cries, as if I might not recognize her. I wave to her, and to Luke, who has just sunk a ball.
But then he steps back, away from the table, and I see his friend standing in the darkness. My breath catches in my throat. There, wearing dark blue jeans and yet another white undershirt stretched over his powerful muscles, is Callum McKenzie.
Chapter Six
What. The fuck. Ginny.
I’m frozen in the middle of Lenny’s bar, some poppy eighties shit blaring on the jukebox like a bad joke at my expense. But I suck it up and force a smile. Ginny’s waving me over, grin stretched wide and slightly maniacal, like the overgrown cheerleader she is. I know that it’d break her heart if I don’t act excited to see her
Plus, I’m super curious to know what he’s doing here. Callum McKenzie doesn’t really seem like the type to hang out at backwater Floridian dive bars. I head over and press a kiss to my best friend’s cheek.
“Hey, Gin,” I say, speaking carefully and evenly. “So this is Luke’s friend, huh?”
“It is.” Cal steps forward, out of the shadows. He sounds so smug. Ginny moves to introduce us.
&nbs
p; “Jules, this is—”
“Callum McKenzie,” I say. “We meet again.”
He bends at the waist, holding his pool cue between both hands. “Juliette Rockwell, I presume.”
Ginny lets out a giggle. “What, are you two arch rivals? The Riddler and Batman?”
“They are both bakers,” Luke says, positioning himself to make yet another shot. “Your stores are competing, right? It’s a small world. Cal here called me up last week interested in having a beach house designed for him.”
Ginny’s fiancé might look unassuming. He’s a Carhartt and Levi’s kind of guy, with a firm jaw and muscles that he’s built out of years working on construction sites. But he’s a self-made man, too. He crawled his way up through architecture school and now owns his own firm, designing amazing houses all along the Floridian coast. I dream of owning a Luke Porter home someday. But right now? It’s a pipe dream. I could never afford it.
I suck in my cheeks and level a glower at Cal. He’s standing beside the table, his posture easy.
“Thought it would be nice to have a place down here,” he says with a shrug. “What with business going so well at the shop.”
“I’ll bet,” I say pointedly. Then I fix my hand under Ginny’s arm. “C’mon, Gin. Let’s go grab a pitcher.”
“Oh! Okay.” Ginny sounds a bit confused, but she lets me pull her along through the crowd and up to the bar. Lenny Jr. himself is standing there, boredly polishing glasses.
“Hey Len,” I call, “get me a pitcher of Heineken.” Then, when he’s gone, I lower my voice and turn to Ginny. “Gin, that’s the asshole. The one who’s been killing my business.”
“Callum McKenzie? Really?”
“Really. Rock N Roll Cakes has been a graveyard since his store opened up. No wonder, it’s like three blocks away. Not that he didn’t know that before we opened. He sent his girlfriend to scout me out for dirt before they opened.”
“Girlfriend?” Ginny asks, her brow knitting. She keeps glancing over her shoulder at Luke and Callum. “Luke said Cal told him he’s single.”
My heart skips a beat at that news. I whip my head around, gazing at Cal and Luke, too. The two of them are laughing about something as Cal bends low to take a shot over the pool table. Under the yellow lights, his carved body looks almost like a Roman statue. Man, I could sell this stuff to TMZ if I wanted. Confirmed anecdotal gossip: Callum McKenzie is not fucking Angelique Sutton.
But who knows who he is fucking? Because as we’re sitting there waiting for our beer, two middle-aged bar flies, underdressed in spandex and polyester, approach Cal for autographs. And he’s nothing if not polite to them, flashing his perfect white teeth. He even signs one woman’s cleavage before they scurry away.
“Well,” I say with a sigh, “single or not, he’s killing my business.”
Lenny Jr. leaves a pitcher and a stack of red plastic cups on the bar. I take them and start my way toward the pool table, Ginny trailing after.
“Hey, guys,” she says brightly. “We brought beer.”
“Beer, my favorite!” rumbles Luke, and he sweeps Ginny up into his strong arms and starts to nuzzle his neck. I laugh at the two of them. It’s kind of comforting, how some things never change.
“I bought the beer, actually. But please, no kisses. Your undying love is enough thanks.”
“Sure, Jules,” Luke says, chuckling. He’s still holding Ginny, but he reaches over her to take a beer from my hand. I start pouring one for Cal, but he gives a slow, serious shake of his head.
“None for me, thank you.”
The way he says it is pointed and a bit peculiar. I hand Ginny her solo cup and wrinkle my brow.
“Are you in recovery?” I ask, lowering my voice. Cal shrugs, but I’m sure there’s a story behind his solemn expression.
“Nah. Just never had a taste for it.”
“A Scotsman without a taste for beer,” Luke says, lifting his eyebrows. “That’s something I’ve never heard of. Next you’ll be telling us you’ve never been in a fist fight.”
“Takes all kinds,” says Ginny. She’s used to navigating delicate situations, like drunken bridesmaids flashing their undergarments in wedding photos and groomsmen projectile vomiting when they should be giving heartwarming speeches. “What do you say we start a new game? Boys against girls.”
Cal glances at Luke, his eyebrows lifted. His mouth is wide and cocky. I’m not sure if it makes me want to slap him or plant a kiss right on his mouth.
“What do you say, Luke? Think we can take this gaggle of gals?”
“Careful,” says Luke with a chortle. He points a finger toward Ginny, who blushes. “That one is a ringer.”
I roll my eyes and grab a cue off the wall.
“Enough flirting,” I say. “I’ll break.”
#
I’d forgotten how good Ginny and I are at pool.
How could I? We spent all of the summer before sixth grade playing on the table in her aunt’s basement. Back then, we had all day to practice while we ranked every boy in our class from hottest to nottest (Luke always topped her list, even then). I don’t play often anymore, and didn’t exactly expect it to feel like riding a bike. But sure enough, the two of us sink shot after shot, cheering and high-fiving over the table while the men look on, silently admiring our mad skills.
“See, boys?” I say, leaning low over the table and taking aim. I can feel Cal’s eyes on me even now, looking me up and down, resting on my curves. It feels good to know I can command his attention. “Pool is easy. It’s just math. Geometry. Just like cooking is—”
“Science,” Cal says. Shit. I’m surprised enough that I miss my shot. The ball goes ricocheting around the table and lands nearly where it started. Cal saunters over and takes aim. Now it’s his turn to arch his body over the table, every single one of those massive muscles tensing. His brow furrows. He takes things seriously, even a silly little pool game.
“Are you guys going to talk shop?” Luke asks. “Because I don’t know anything about this cooking stuff.”
“That’s not true,” Ginny says softly. “You can grill a mean steak.”
“Thanks, hun,” he says, then leans over to kiss her. While they’re lip-locked, Cal sinks his shot. He stands up straight.
“What’s there to know?” says Cal. “It’s only chemistry. How to heat things up, and how to keep them to a simmer.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s only chemistry,” I protest. “There’s a part of it that’s more like alchemy. Magic. Mixing potions, mixing flavors.”
“Romantic way of looking at it.” Cal’s hip brushes mine as he positions himself for the next shot. I try to ignore the electricity that zaps through me when it does. Damn, this would be so much easier if he wasn’t so attractive. He wets his lips as he aims. My eyes are fixed on his mouth.
“It might be romantic,” I say, shaking myself off, “but it’s true. Cooking loses something if you don’t take the art of it into account. The humidity in the air. The altitude. All of that can make a difference.”
Cal pockets another ball, easy. He stands up straight. “That’s no magic. That’s science.”
“If it’s so simple, why not just replace ourselves with robots? Why do we even need bakeshops, anyway?” I’m feeling weirdly upset about this, even for me. Something about the way that Cal’s looking at me. His eyes are so, so green and so incredibly calm. He’s barely rattled by our disagreement. My feelings don’t matter to him. I might as well be a table or a chair.
“Good question,” he says, arching an eyebrow. The way he’s looking at me is measured, careful—and infuriating.
“It’s like you don’t even care! You come down here with your stupid shop and your stupid, perfect recipes and think you can just take over. You don’t care that there are people who actually care about Key West. All you see is dollar signs!”
“Whoa,” says Luke softly from across the table. “Are we still talking about cooking, or . . . ”
�
�Shhh,” Ginny hisses back. God bless her. She always knew to lie low when I was arguing with Wes Lansing. I guess things haven’t changed much since high school. “Let them talk it out.”
“We don’t need to talk,” Cal says coolly, bending over to aim. “I’m not the one who needs to justify myself to others. I’m good at what I do. I’m skilled. I’m professional—”
“You’re infamous for verbally abusing your employees.”
“A fan of the show, are you?” Cal asks, cracking the slightest of grins. I don’t want to admit to him that I’ve racked up a few hours on Netflix marathoning The Cake Master, remote in one hand, rabbit in the other.
I’m blushing, but I don’t want him to see it. So I throw my hands in the air instead.
“God!” I exclaim. I put the pool cue back on the wall. “You’re insufferable. Ginny, he and I have nothing to talk about. I hardly know you, Cal. And I’m not sure I care to, either. Good luck with your fancy house and your fancy bakeshop. I’m going home.”
“Jules, wait!” Ginny cries, as I turn to leave. But Luke holds her back.
“Let her go,” I hear him say, as I storm out of Lenny’s and out into the dark, cool night.
#
The insects are buzzing, loud as anything in the warm Florida air. I stand over my car, fumbling with my keys. But then I hear footsteps on the gravel behind me.
“I don’t want to talk about it, Ginny,” I call out.
“It’s not Ginny.”
I turn. There, standing in the golden light of one of the street lamps that overlooks the parking lot, is Cal. He looks concerned, his wide mouth downturned, his eyebrows knitted up. But that’s his problem. I reach for my keys again.
“I said I don’t want to talk about it.” But then my anger flares hot again and I spin around. “This really doesn’t matter to you, does it? You think you can just play around with other people’s lives. I care about Rock N Roll Cakes. You’re just some celebrity douchebag who wants to fritter his time away in the middle of nowhere because he’s bored.”