Tasty

by Bella Cruise

  “You want me to be serious, Cal McKenzie?” I mutter under my breath. “Okay. Let’s get serious.”

  Chapter Nine

  Over the next few days, I have fun imagining the chaos that’s descended upon Cal McKenzie’s store. Even with the huge kitchen, I bet the massive flour delivery is causing storage problems. I fantasize about Angelique trying to balance Cal’s books for him, and coming up in the red. Okay, maybe it’s a little petty, but business is still slower than molasses at Rock N Roll Cakes. I need something to think about.

  I can’t wait until the pop-up shop is closed. When Cal leaves the Keys, Rock N Roll Cakes can finally return to business as usual and I’ll stop having to change my panties twice a day. Assuming there’s any business left. And assuming I don’t run out of panties. But until then, there’s not much for me to do. I start closing the shop early. Then I start opening late.

  One Tuesday, I show up around noon only to find a man in a suit standing outside. He looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him—until he flashes me his health department badge.

  “Mr. Reynolds,” I say, as his name clicks into place. He inspected the shop only four months ago. We passed with flying colors, of course. “What are you doing here? Did you want to buy anything?”

  “I’m afraid not, Ms. Rockwell,” he says, with a stern shake of his head. I slide my key into the door and start unlocking it, trying to stay calm. But inside, my mind is a jumble of panic. “It seems we’ve received a complaint about your shop.”

  I force a laugh, even though I’m terrified. Stores have been shut down over anonymous complaints, and Reynolds is a notorious hard-ass on the South Florida restaurant circuit.

  “That can’t be true,” I say. When I glance at him, I see how he’s knit his brow.

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “Why, uh, no. Of course not,” I say quickly. He gives his head a stout nod.

  “Good. I’ll need to conduct an inspection.”

  “Of course,” I say. I go to stand behind the counter, where I wait awkwardly. I can’t figure out what to do with my hands as I watch him turn every crumb and cupcake plate over. Finally, I fold them in my lap. I feel like a schoolgirl who has done something naughty, like I should be apologizing. But why? I haven’t done a thing!

  “What year was this stove built, Ms. Rockwell?” he demands, in a voice that’s less a question and more of a command. I shake my head.

  “I’m not sure. 1965 or ’66. I forget . . .”

  His gaze tells me that I should know this. He opens the oven and peeks inside. Then he pulls out a Q-tip, swabs it along the griddle, and holds it up to the light.

  “There’s some sort of residue. I’ll have to send it in for analysis . . .”

  He drops the Q-tip in a plastic baggie. Then he turns back toward our employee bathroom.

  “I’ll need to check that you have appropriate signage regarding hand-washing over the toilet.”

  “O . . .kay,” I say slowly. Our signs are bolted to the wall. Where does he think they might have gone in four months? But soon he disappears behind the door anyway. I’m relieved to be out of his presence for a few moments—even more relieved when the door swings open and a young woman steps inside.

  “Hi!” she says cheerfully, “I was wondering if you make birthday cakes?”

  I brighten. It’s been weeks since I’ve gotten to do any big projects, not since Mrs. O’Gilligan’s Pink Surprise order, in fact.

  “Of course we do,” I tell her, and bring out my portfolio book, which is filled with big, colorful photos of all of my best cakes. I try to ignore Mr. Reynolds when he steps back into the store and toward my stock room. Instead, I open the book to a few designs.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Um, like a sheet cake, I think? It’s for my husband. He’s turning thirty.”

  “Lucky man,” I say with a grin. “What kind of cake does he like?”

  “Um, yellow? I think . . .” She starts to page slowly through the designs. Usually, uncertain customers drive me batty. I prefer people who know what they want, so I can give them exactly what they ask for. But I’m so glad to have any business that I don’t mind at all. I pore over the designs with her.

  “This looks nice,” she says softly, pointing at a cake covered in white frosting, with a sweet strawberry filling sandwiched between the layers. It’s simple, traditional. A breath of fresh air after so much time spent thinking about Cal McKenzie’s gourmet cupcake monstrosities.

  But then Mr. Reynolds appears from the back room, holding a jar of something brown.

  “Ms. Rockwell!” he exclaims, shaking the jar. “Is this mouse feces?”

  I glance at the customer. Her jaw’s dropped in horror.

  “Um, I think I should . . .” And without even finishing her sentence, she rushes from the store. I lift my hands to my face.

  “Those are chocolate jimmies!” I exclaim. Mr. Reynolds uncaps the jar, and sniffs at the contents. Then he nods, satisfied.

  “Quite right,” he says curtly.

  That’s when I spot a figure outside the shop window. Tall, muscular, with rakish hair and a wicked grin at my expense. I stalk outside, leaving Mr. Reynolds to take apart my cupcake case.

  “You!” I roar. Cal doesn’t wince at the force of my anger. He doesn’t even blink. He just gazes calmly, like it’s no big deal.

  “Hello, Juliette.”

  “God damn it!” I exclaim. “It’s Jules! Christ, Cal, what did I ever do to you? You couldn’t leave it alone, could you?”

  “What did you do to me?” he says with a snort. “Does one thousand pounds of flour sound familiar to you?”

  I wince. Of course it does. But still, I was just trying to level the playing field. It’s no fair picking on the little guy!

  But it looks like his little plan has failed, because Mr. Reynolds has returned, and he’s actually smiling, for once.

  “Ms. Rockwell,” he says, offering his hand. I take it, and shake it dutifully. “Your store is lovely. Very clean.”

  “Oh, is it?” I say, giving Cal a pointed glance. The Cake Master just rolls those beautiful emerald eyes at me.

  “It is. Perhaps whoever called in that complaint was mistaken. I’ll still have to send out that oven residue for analysis . . .”

  “Of course,” I tell him smoothly. I’m pretty confident it’s only Crisco, anyway. “I look forward to hearing the results.”

  He flashes a quick, courteous smile. “Otherwise, you’ve passed with flying colors. Congratulations, Ms. Rockwell.”

  I fight back the urge to thank the Academy, God, and my grandma for the honor. Instead, I just give him an appreciative nod.

  “Have a nice day, Mr. Reynolds. See you in a year.”

  I watch him stroll away, whistling tunelessly as he goes. But as soon as he’s out of earshot, I turn to Cal.

  “Take that, Cake Nazi!” I gloat. One corner of Cal’s all-too-kissable mouth ticks up.

  “What charming humor you have, Juliette.”

  I ignore him. He can slag me all he wants. It won’t get me down. “You want to play dirty?” I say, “Well, then let’s go.”

  “If I remember correctly, it was you who wanted to play dirty,” Cal says with a smirk. “In fact, you were begging me.”

  My blood runs cold. “Dick,” I say, hating the way my cheeks are burning. I spin around. There’s no use staying open. After all, he’s lost me my only customer today. Besides, I have revenge to exact.

  “Where are you going?” he asks coolly. I brush by him, letting my shoulder slam into his. And I try to ignore the sparks that shoot through me when our skin touches.

  “Oh, you’ll see,” I promise, and I storm down the road, leaving Cal alone outside Rock N Roll Cakes.

  #

  A half hour later, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I take it out. It’s Summer.

  Do you need me to work today?

  I type out my response. Because for once, I do need
her to work. But not at the store.

  I do. But not at the shop. Meet me at Swift Copy.

  I hit “copy” on the copier again, then watch with glowing eyes as it spits out a page. It might not be heavy cardstock with spot UV, but I’ve done a pretty good job of replicating Mecca Cakes’ logo. Full color. The ink smells fresh on the page. It’s perfect, so I run off 500 more copies.

  It doesn’t take long for Summer to arrive. Her wide-eyed, mischievous smile is a breath of fresh air.

  “So Jules,” she says slowly. “What’s up? Are we going to do a promotion? Drum up a little business?”

  “Take a look,” I say, gesturing to the tower of paper. She grabs the top flyer from the stack. Her eyes go wider still as she reads.

  “Wait, did we change the name of the shop to Mecca Cakes?”

  I smirk. “No.”

  “Okay, but this says Mecca Cakes is giving out a half-dozen free cupcakes to every customer today.”

  “Mmmhmm. Figured it’s time to hit Cal McKenzie where it hurts.”

  “His testicles?” She’s dead serious. I stifle a snort.

  “No, their bottom line. And I know just where to drum up business for old Cal. The Ball and Chain.”

  The Ball and Chain is the biggest biker bar on Key West. Summer’s beaming. If there’s one thing I know about her, it’s that she loves a good evil plot.

  “Jules Rockwell,” she says, “you are diabolical. I love it.”

  #

  It’s complete chaos outside of Mecca Cakes. Summer and I soak up the scene. The air smells thick with gasoline, body odor, and beer. Harleys have clogged the streets and overrun the sidewalks. There are a few terrified-looking tourists clinging to one another inside the bakeshop. Otherwise, it’s all metal and leather, beards and broads. I even spot Mrs. O’Gilligan and her ladies coming out with a cake box each. She lets out an apologetic sigh.

  “I’m so sorry, Jules,” she says. “You know I can’t resist a freebie.”

  “You’re a cheap bitch, Mrs. O’G,” I tell her, but I’m smiling when I say it. Nothing can get me down, not right now. Cal’s employees are running around behind the counter in a frantic panic. I even spot Angelique Sutton scooping cupcakes into boxes by the register. Her hair’s a frizzy mess. There are bags under her eyes. It’s not until she spots us by the door that she pulls herself together, stalking around the counter and through the crowd of burly, boisterous bikers.

  “Juliette Rockwell,” she snarls, “are you behind this?”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny it,” I say. Summer, beside me, lets out a snicker.

  “I know you were the one who screwed up our flour order. I can’t believe you were stupid enough to sign your own name.”

  Summer glances at me. “Wait, what is she talking about?”

  “Nothing,” I say quickly. But Angelique gives her head a brisk shake.

  “Nothing? This one’s been trying to take down our business for weeks. Pranks and tweets. It’s like some kind of high school rivalry.”

  “Whoa, Jules,” says Summer, eying me appreciatively. “I’m proud of you.”

  I elbow her in the side. “Thanks, kid.”

  “Do you think this is funny?” Angelique goes on. “That it’s some kind of joke? We could sue you! Do you think we don’t have the resources?”

  Of course they do. Cal is a flashy fake TV celebrity chef. But he wouldn’t dare. It would ruin my business.

  “I don’t think that’s really necessary . . .” I begin, as Angelique takes out her phone and starts dialing.

  “I’m calling Cal’s lawyer,” she says. But then a booming voice cuts through the chaos.

  “Angelique,” Cal says as he walks through his shop, an apron tied around his waist. Even the biggest bikers step aside. He’s like Moses parting the Red Sea. “Put your phone away. It’s fine.”

  And then he smiles. A wide, infuriating, brilliantly white smile. I feel my belly heat at the sight of it. I can’t look at his mouth without imagining kissing him. It’s infuriating.

  “Fine?” I say skeptically, crossing my arms over my chest. Cal puts his hands on his hips.

  “I don’t mind the business,” he says with a beam, even as, behind him, one biker shoves a cupcake into another’s beard. “There’s nothing more joyful than a busy kitchen.”

  I scowl. Because of course, I know what he means. When was the last time Rock N Roll Cakes was this busy? Never. That’s when.

  “I bet all the supplies cost you an arm and a leg,” I say quickly. But Cal just laughs.

  “Luckily I have a few extra pounds of flour sitting around. Really, this is no bother at all, Angelique. I can handle this.”

  She turns hot eyes onto her boss. But his gaze is steady, calm, and cool. So she spins on her pumps and stalks back toward the kitchen. That’s when I see that Cal’s holding a box in his hands, brown paper tied with twine.

  “What’s that?”

  “A gesture of goodwill,” he tells me. “To show you there’s no hard feelings.”

  He hands me the box. I tug on the end of the twine, then open it. Inside are a half dozen delicious-looking cupcakes. Pink icing. Red velvet beneath. They’re Pink Surprises. But damn, they look better and prettier than anything I’ve ever whipped up. He’s written “Cheers” on the inside of the box lid, an exclamation point after it.

  I glance up, but he’s already walking away. He doesn’t even glance back. That gorgeous, muscular ass is all I see.

  “Can I have one of those?” Summer asks. I hand her the box, letting out a sigh of defeat.

  “Take them all,” I say.

  Chapter Ten

  Later, I can’t sleep. My mind is restless. My body is restless, too. I’ve been tossing and turning in my sheets for hours, thinking about Mecca Cakes.

  Thinking about Cal.

  Sure, in a lot of ways, this whole thing has been fun. The pranks. The costumes. The mind-blowing orgasms. Trying to take down Cal’s business has been a solid distraction. My days feel pretty busy, despite the graveyard that is Rock N Roll Cakes.

  But something’s been weighing on me, something that Cal said about not taking my business seriously. I hate to admit it, but he’s right. Not in the way he thinks. I’m no idiot—I know that my rivalry with him isn’t really helping my business any, that it’s only a way to fritter away my time until sales pick up again. But even before Cal, before Mecca Cakes, I’d been on autopilot, coasting on my regular customers and my good name in town. People trusted me because I was a girl born and raised on the Keys. But clearly, that’s not going to cut it anymore.

  I finally pull myself out of bed and throw my silk robe over my shoulders. Then I wander to my almost empty fridge. There’s a bottle of white inside, half-drunk from the last girls’ night me and Ginny shared. I uncork it, open my kitchen window, head out onto the fire escape and climb onto the roof.

  The rooftop is my second-favorite thing about my apartment, aside from the fact that I can wake up and practically roll out of bed to get to work. I’ve decorated it with a few plants, a small wrought-iron table and chairs, and a charcoal grill that’s perfect for summer cookouts. Tonight, the air is fresh and cool. The sky is clear and sprinkled with stars. The moon overhead is a crescent, white and gorgeous. I sit on the roof’s edge and look out over Key West—the Victorian houses, the tourist traps, the ocean stretching out, eternal, beyond it.

  I think about my home here, and I think about the store. I never wanted to be like Cal. I never wanted fame, or a television show, or a franchise splattered across the United States. I opened Rock N Roll Cakes after heartbreak. My first boss in Miami had been a philanderer, and I’d had no idea. I was swayed by the fantasy of a lifetime of naked cooking together. And to be fair, he knew how to woo me like no one else. Our dates were magical, full of candlelight and laughter. Sad thing is, I’d actually believed every single one of his stupid promises, that he’d marry me and help me get ahead in the Miami restaurant scene. When I stumbled acr
oss him out at dinner one night—with his wife and three kids—it felt like the Earth fell out of the sky under my feet.

  I ran away from Miami, but I had no idea what to do with myself. Not until my grandmother died. Sometimes tragedies can be blessings in disguise. She left me some money, not a fortune, but enough to get my meager dreams off the ground. In her will, she said, “Juliette, may this small sum give you freedom.”

  And it has. I don’t have to worry about my relationship with my boss heading south, or jealous co-workers, or kitchen drama. I can make my own hours. I can come and go as I please.

  I take a swig of wine, thinking. I set my own schedule and avoid the romantic entanglements that plague so many restaurant workers. The truth is, I’ve loved my work, from designing the store’s retro fabulous interior, to hiring and training Summer, to planning wedding cakes for nervous bridezillas. It might be just a bakeshop to anyone else, but I’ve squeezed out more than a few drops of meaning out of it.

  And the thought of losing it is more than I can bear.

  In the pocket of my robe, my phone vibrates. I take it out. It’s a message from cupcakecasanova.

  cupcakecasanova@gmail.com:

  Are you awake, sugar?

  I grimace. Normally, I’d be thrilled to hear from him. But I’m not really in the mood for a virtual booty call.

  thenagainmaybefondant@gmail.com:

  I am, but I’m having a rough night. Business woes.

  There’s a pause, just a moment too long. I realize that I’m holding my breath, waiting to hear his response. We’ve never really talked about our real lives before. We’ve talked about sex and food and all sorts of other delicious things, but nothing that mattered. Up until now, I’ve been fine with that. But sometimes I just need someone to talk to, someone who will understand. And cupcakecasanova, whoever he is, knows my industry better than almost anyone.

  His answer comes blinking back at last. I’m glad to see that mere mention of actual, real emotions hasn’t scared him away.