Tasty

by Bella Cruise

  “Fair enough. I’m Cal McKenzie.”

  He sticks his hand out, offering it to me. He looks so damned confident, like he owns the place. Like he owns me. I take it, sighing, and weakly shake. My fingers are so delicate, almost dainty next to his. He’s smiling as our palms connect. I can’t really blame him.

  “Juliette Rockwell,” I say.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hermosa gets us lunch on the house, Cuban sandwiches steaming hot and fatty and rich. Cal and I eat in near-silence together, our gazes meeting now and then. He has such a cute smile, curling and slightly cocky. I honestly feel relieved about our truce. It was getting exhausting, holding two conflicting ideas of Callum McKenzie in my head: on the one hand, the douche bag who was ruining my business; on the other, an incredibly sexy bastard who frosts my cupcake like nobody’s business.

  Of course, I think, as I take another bite of my sandwich, steamy ham and gooey melted cheese going all drippy in my mouth, I’m still not entirely sure I can trust him. I’ve been burned by his kind before. For all I know, what Ginny heard about Angelique is a big fat lie. Or maybe he has a fiancée back in New York City. Or maybe even a wife and gaggle of kids somewhere. There’s no telling. I need to be careful. When Cal lets his leg casually knock mine under the table, I draw my foot away. He lifts his eyebrows, but doesn’t acknowledge that it happened.

  “I need to be off soon,” he says, wiping the corner of his mouth with one of the flimsy paper napkins. What I wouldn’t give to be that napkin. But no, I scold myself, I’m not going to think like that. I’m going to behave.

  “Back to Key West?” I ask, training my voice carefully, trying to sound mild and disinterested. He gives his head a shake.

  “No, Le Cordon Bleu. I’m teaching a class.” It’s cute hearing him try to wrap his accent around the French name.

  “Really? That’s where I went to school.”

  “Hmm,” Cal says. Seems he’s being as careful as I am. There’s something on his mind, but he doesn’t say it. Instead, he gives his muscular shoulders an easy shrug. “Would you like t’come with?”

  I haven’t been back to school in ages. And while my memories are complicated—I spent some of the best days of my life there, but also some of the worst—I can’t imagine anyone I’d rather return there with. Imagine the looks on my professors’ faces when I walk back in through those doors at the side of a bona fide celebrity chef. The only way it could be juicier is if we followed it up with some time naked in bed together.

  No. Goddamnit, I need to nip this insatiable fantasy in the bud.

  “I’d love to,” I say.

  #

  The last time I was in one of these teaching kitchens, I was a wide-eyed student, all full of passion and moxie and hope. I can’t help but feel a bit jaded as I sit on a stool near the door, watching the baby chefs stream in. Some of them are clutching books to their chests. Others are flirting and joking. All have their lives stretched out ahead of them, no failing business, no loan payments coming due. They don’t even know how lucky they are. Their biggest problem is their next exam.

  I notice a few of the girls whispering and blushing as they pass Cal, and I sit forward a little bit on my stool. I’m tempted to growl at them, Summer-style, to scare them off. But of course, I have no right. Cal and I have only hooked up a few times, after all. I have no claim on him. For all I know, he’s banged every single coquettish cake decorator in his class, and there’s nothing I can do about it. But I do watch his body language with them closely. It’s open, generous, nothing like the prickly hot and cold he’s run with me.

  I wonder what it would have been like to have a guy like Cal as my instructor. My girlish heart would have lapped up every ounce of his attention. And then my girlish mind would have had a lot of fun imagining him bending me over a teaching stove . . .

  He’s showing them how to bake a soufflé, a deceptively easy task. After all, there are only a few ingredients: chocolate, egg whites, sugar, butter, a dash of cream of tartar, and a splash of vanilla extract, too. But I catch a few students overbeating the eggs. I can’t help myself. I rush to intervene.

  “Whoa whoa whoa,” I say, as gently as I can muster. “Go easy on those. Your approach matters here. You don’t want to work those too hard.”

  The students look a little flustered. One, a slender, bored-looking girl, arches an eyebrow at me. But they do as they’re told, to my relief. There’s nothing worse than overworked eggs.

  Cal, busy chatting with another student, pauses to lift an eyebrow at me. But he doesn’t say anything, not at first. Not until the ramekins are all in the oven and I spot the same student nearly open the oven door to check on hers.

  “Don’t! It will fall!” I cry, dashing up from my stool again. She gives me a sour look, but Cal appears, and puts a firm hand on the oven handle.

  “Listen to her,” he says firmly, his voice velvety smooth. “She knows what she’s doing.”

  “Who is she, anyway?” the student snaps back. Cal looks surprised by her viciousness.

  “Juliette Rockwell. She owns the best damned bakery on Key West, and you should listen to her. Not every chef has a television show. But they don’t all need it. Some, their passion shows in every recipe they dream up, every cake they bake.”

  I’m blushing furiously. “I just didn’t want your soufflé to fall,” I tell the student, eager to turn her attention away from me. She rolls her eyes, and whispers something to one of her classmates. I’m not rattled. I remember her type from school. They’re all running themselves ragged now, trying to compete with each other in New York and London and LA. But that life was never for me.

  Still, I have imagined coming back here, teaching a few classes myself. If Cal can do it, why not me? Clearly he thinks I’ve got something to share. I go to join him at the front of the class, where he waits for the soufflés to finish baking.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Don’t mention it,” he replies. But then he does something that surprises me. He lifts up his broad, strong hand and lets it rest on the small of my back. I don’t shrug away his touch this time. I let him linger there, all the while savoring the heat of his hand through the fabric of my dress.

  #

  When we walk together through the halls, our knuckles sometimes touch. I let them. I let Cal hold the door for me, too. I watch him when he pauses to speak to another faculty member, then introduces me. He calls Rock N Roll Cakes a Key West institution. He talks to me like I matter in the industry, like I matter to him. When we walk down the halls together, everyone turns to look.

  I was so hardened to him before, so sure he was nothing but a bossy jerk. And okay, maybe he is, in some ways. He’s not kind to his employees. And he seemed to get off on ordering me around in that alleyway, leaving me panting and begging for satisfaction. But honestly? I got off on it, too.

  As I walk besides Cal, something inside me is softening like a sugar cube dropped into a tall, cold glass of lemonade. All that’s left is sticky sweetness.

  “So this is where the magic happened?” Cal asks, gesturing to the echoing ceilings and the classrooms we pass. My eyes wrinkle at the corners.

  “No, the magic happened in my dorm. This is where a lot of struggling happened.”

  He looks at me seriously, his green eyes open. “What happened?”

  I’m disarmed by how closely he seems to be listening to me. I let out an uneasy laugh. “I guess I just never fit in here. It felt like the other students were used to having things handed to them.”

  He laughs too, but it’s a comfortable laugh. “I can imagine. You’re nothing like the chefs I teach. Half the students have never set foot in a real kitchen. Bunch of virgins.”

  “That’s an . . . interesting way to put it,” I say, wondering again if he’s bedded any of them. He touches my shoulder, just a light glance of reassurance. And yet goosebumps travel up and down my back.

  “Now, don’t take it the wrong way. But I clawed my way
to the top. Stomped on a lot of heads in the process. Washed dishes. Prepped stock rooms. Held the door shut while my boss fucked his mistress. I would have done anything to get ahead when I was young.”

  “But you never went to school for it?”

  “No, couldn’t afford it. My dad had his head too far up a bottle to help. And then when I could, it was too late. I’d learned more than a school could ever teach me.” He’s smirking at me, teasing. Then he gives me a wink. “Don’t tell the administration that. They’d have my hide. I’ve heard what they charge for my lectures.”

  I bite my lip. I can only imagine. I remember what tuition cost here, how I scrambled and worked to pay every bill.

  “It was never really a question for me,” I say. “It was either this or college. My mom and dad worked their whole lives to save for me to go to school. They weren’t going to let me squander it bussing tables after graduation. No offense.”

  I’m grinning now, too, teasing him back. He takes it in stride, lifting his hands. “None taken.”

  Funny thing is, I knew he wouldn’t be offended. He’s surprisingly easy-going beneath it all, even when I’m all prickly fire and white-hot rage. And now, things feel deliciously easy. He holds the door open for me as we step back into the broiling heat of the parking garage. His car, a gleaming silver Chevy suburban with leather seats and a moon roof, is waiting for us at the far end. We walk in silence toward it. But it’s not an awkward silence, not at all. Still, I feel my heart beating faster. He reaches past me to open the passenger door, but before he can open it, his thick arm lightly brushes my chest. I startle back, just a little, and our gazes catch.

  His eyes are so, so green, like crème de menthe. He has a dimple in the corner of his mouth when he smiles. I can see now that there’s a small scar near his brow line. I can smell him, vanilla extract and cocoa powder, a dash of cinnamon, like his skin and hair have soaked up the scents of the kitchen. I’m remembering what his mouth tasted like, how hungry he seems whenever he touches me And god, I’m hungry, too.

  I’m just thinking about how much I need him when he gathers me into his arms and kisses me, hard. His mouth is hot against mine. The movement of his tongue into my mouth sends wild butterflies free in my belly. His hands tangle in my hair, then down along my back. I arch into him, feeling the strength of his muscles. My thighs shake with pleasure as he presses wild, rough kisses into the soft flesh of my throat.

  My fingers blindly trace the line of his hip down, into the front of his jeans. I unbutton his fly, trying to shoot him my most taunting look. “I’m taking you up on that rain check,” I tell him, wrapping my hand around his cock. He is so long, and so thick. His skin is as hot as the Miami afternoon. He lets out a low murmur . . .

  And that’s when we hear a cackle of laughter. Cal looks over his shoulder.

  “Christ,” he mutters. My hand is still on his pulsing cock. But I glance over the muscular line of his arm. There’s his student from class, the bitchy one. And she’s fumbling in her purse for something.

  “Quick,” he mumbles to me, “before she finds her phone and takes a picture. Don’t want to find yourself on Perez Hilton tomorrow.”

  And just like that, he peels his body away from mine and is around the other side of the car. I’m almost dizzy with desire, but I pull myself into the passenger seat. Cal looks angry as he buckles his seatbelt and speeds out of the parking garage.

  He turns the radio on, loud. We drive through downtown Miami until he finds my car again. I try to think of something to say, but I can’t. My thoughts are clouded with desire. And, to be honest, I’m a little pissed. Yes, he has a reputation to uphold, but he could at least offer me an explanation. How can he turn on a dime like that? The way he goes from hot and heavy to cold and commanding . . . it dashes even the tiniest trust I’m starting to feel for him.

  If only he weren’t so goddamn irresistible.

  “Cal,” I begin, but he bursts out, pounding a fist on the steering wheel.

  “I hate it,” he growls. “I can’t escape them. Not even for a second. Not even when it matters.”

  I spin to look at him. That declaration hangs heavy in the air between us as I take in his implication. I matter to him. We matter. But he doesn’t catch the slow melting of my icy exterior. He’s too angry about the gawkers.

  He pulls up beside my parked car, leaning across me to open the door.

  “I promise you, next time, we’ll do this right. No interlopers,” he says. Stunned, I don’t move.

  Is the Cake Nazi asking me on a date?

  “When?” I ask, more than a little skeptical.

  He leans over again. In a moment, he’s kissing me, his hands hot and heavy all over me, curling around the curve of my ass. It’s a long, slow, sensuous kiss. My body is full of electricity.

  “Soon,” he says.

  I echo back softly, “Soon,” as I hop out of his truck and make my way to my car. Then I stand there, crazy with lust, watching as Cal drives off into the pink and gold Miami sunset.

  Did I just agree to go on a date with the man who’s kind of ruining my life?

  And am I unbelievably excited about it?

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  I think about fucking him the whole ride home, finally riding that cock and getting the satisfaction no amount of time with my rabbit has been able to bring. I’m wound tight as a spring, my panties wet, squirming in my seat every time I shift gears. Then my phone vibrates in my lap and I almost veer right off the interstate. It’s not until I get back to Key West that I hit a stoplight and can check my messages.

  It’s precisely what I need at that insanely horny moment: a g-chat message from cupcakecasanova.

  cupcakecasanova@gmail.com

  Hey, cupcake! Up for a little fun?

  Grinning madly, I speed all the way home.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It’s early in the season for a storm, but the sky has been darkening for hours through the front window glass of Rock N Roll Cakes. Ginny is here, leaning over the counter with an elaborate sketch of a client’s dream wedding cake. And as much as I love her company, I’m starting to get worried.

  “I know you’ve been out of Florida for awhile, but that’s a hurricane sky,” I say, gesturing to the clouds that are pressing the horizon, dark and foreboding. Gin just waves her hand at me. Her primary concern is her business, as usual. For Ginny Austen, life is 1. Weddings, 2. Luke, 3. Her stunningly attractive best friend Jules. Natural disasters? 409. Maybe.

  “We’ll have to get the clients here for a tasting, of course. They’re a trip, Jules. You’ll love them. I think they’re going to want something exotic for the cake. Like, Thai lime something or other, maple bacon surprise, that kind of thing . . . ”

  “Ugh, hipsters?” I ask, looking up from the sketch. “That’s really more Cal’s style.”

  “You know I’m loyal to you.” Then Ginny glances up, too. Her lips are pursed. “Wait a minute . . . why is it that you’re not talking about Cal like he’s Satan incarnate?”

  “Because he’s not,” I say slowly, and I try not to grin at the mention of him, or the eager, intense way Ginny is looking at me.

  “Spill,” she commands.

  “We had a moment,” I say, and when her gaze continues to press into me, I sigh. “Okay, an afternoon.”

  “Was this afternoon clothing optional?”

  “I don’t kiss and tell.” The truth is, I don’t want to admit to Ginny how much I like him. It’s a struggle even to admit that I don’t hate him. It’s kind of terrifying.

  “What? You’re not kids, Jules. Even me and Luke—”

  “I don’t want to hear about you and Luke!” I say with a cringe. “It’s like hearing about my siblings fucking.”

  “Shut up,” she says. “You love hearing about us.”

  “Okay, maybe I do. What does he call that oral technique again?”

  “The Rocky Horror Picture Show.”

  I snicker. �
�Love it.”

  That’s when the door swings open, bringing a great burst of air with it. It’s Summer, her hair all a tangle. Business has been better the past few days. A kid’s soccer team coming in for snacks after practice, a honeymooning couple making the rounds at local businesses, and a contract to cater a baby shower. It’s not much, but enough that she’s been coming into work again and I’ve been getting my sarcasm fix more often. Reunited and it feels so snarky.

  “God!” she says, looking at both me and Ginny, “What are you guys still doing here? This place should be boarded up! Do you think Chuck Norris is going to magically fly in here and save you when the shit goes down?”

  I start to roll my eyes, but then Ginny cuts in.

  “Of course Chuck Norris is going to save me! I’m awesome!”

  Summer looks blankly at her. And then, all at once, we burst out into laughter. Ginny leans forward and presses a kiss to my cheek.

  “I’m going to end things on a high note.”

  “End things? You’re going to kill yourself?” Summer asks. Ginny just laughs at her.

  “Be safe, you two, okay? I’ll be in touch soon about the cake. Seriously, maple bacon surprise, I’ve got a feeling.”

  “Is the surprise more bacon?” Summer asks, as I wave goodbye to Ginny. Then I turn to Summer, putting my hands on my hips.

  “You ready to get working?” I ask. She pulls a hammer out of her back pocket, ready to help me board up the shop

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  #

  All up and down the street, our neighbors are gathering supplies, closing down early, and shuttering their shops. We’re no exception. Within an hour, Summer and I have boarded up all the windows and secured the more delicate equipment in the back storage area, just in case. It’s been years since we’ve been hit hard by a storm, but I want to be careful. We’ve barely recovered from our month in the weeds and I can’t risk major storm damage.