Tasty

by Bella Cruise

  It’s not until we’ve hammered in the last nail that Summer sees fit to turn to me, a bored look on her face.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” she begins. There’s something strange, careful about her tone of voice.

  “What is it, Summer?” I prod, as I go to put the tools away. Around us, the wind is whipping wildly. It’s been drizzling on and off for the last hour, and though my hair is a mess, the storm hasn’t really picked up yet.

  “Yesterday, while you were out buying boards . . . ”

  “Yes?” She often talks like this, in half statements and dangling threads that I have to slowly pull apart to get to the point.

  “Jane Tinderton came in. She wanted to talk about her cake for the Bogleys’ gender reveal.”

  Jane Tinderton organizes baby showers. Call her the Ginny Austen of pink and blue diapers. She’s been buying cakes from me for years.

  “What about it?”

  “They don’t want it. They’ve decided to go another way.”

  I stand, letting the toolbox slam shut. “What?”

  “I dunno. She said they didn’t want it. To cancel the order. It’s dead, Jules. Let it go.”

  But I can’t let it go. I feel my hands curl into fists, almost involuntarily. “Does Cal McKenzie have something to do with this?” I demand. But she doesn’t have to answer. Of course he does. God damn it. Just when I let my guard down. Just when I start to trust him. Just when life is looking up, he has to come raging back like a hurricane to steal my only customers.

  “Summer,” I say, “Finish locking up, then get the hell inside, because Hurricane Jules is coming to town.”

  Summer stares at me. She blinks once, calmly.

  “Um, okay,” she says, and goes inside without another word.

  #

  I hop on the shop bicycle and ride three blocks over to Mecca Cakes. By the time I get there, the rain has really started to come down. Have you ever been caught in a Florida rainstorm? It’s like the sky opens up and a sheet of rain, all silver and bright, suddenly slams down on you. But I don’t even care right now. I’m so pissed at Cal that all I can see is his stupid face in my mind’s eyes. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted a chef, and now I’m determined to get some answers.

  But when I get there, Mecca Cakes’ big picture windows are all boarded up, and there’s not a soul to be found.

  Standing under his overhang, wiping rain from my eyes, I get out my phone. I don’t have Cal’s number, but I do have his twitter address. I send him a DM.

  Rock N Roll Cakes

  Where the hell are you?

  There’s no answer, not right away. Distant thunder rattles the sky. Finally, my phone buzzes back.

  Callum McKenzie

  I’m at home, why? Where are you? Are you okay?

  Rock N Roll Cakes

  Send me your address.

  Callum McKenzie

  ???

  Rock N Roll Cakes

  Damn it, just do it, Cal.

  There’s a moment’s pause, but then my phone vibrates again. There it is. Cal’s address. I know the neighborhood, close to the beach, where every season the houses get rocked by hurricanes. Normally, I’d feel nervous about biking over there in this weather, but not today. The rain pounds down on me, and thunder makes the sky tremble, but that only makes me feel more righteous.

  Cal McKenzie is going down.

  And not on me this time.

  #

  I’m more than halfway there when I start to think that this might be a mistake. Thin crackles of lightning light up the sky pink and electric green. The wind swirls all around me. No one is out now, not cars, not pedestrians, definitely not crazy bicycling bakers. But it’s too late to turn back. I pedal on.

  Soon, I’m soaked to the bone. My hair hangs in stringy threads down my face and neck. My T-shirt clings to my tits and belly and I can hardly see for all the water that’s in my eyes, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve found Cal’s house, a canary yellow bungalow surrounded by palms that shake frantically in the wind. I can’t leave my bike behind, not in this weather, so I lug it up the steps with me and start to pound on Cal’s door.

  “Callum McKenzie!” I shout. “Open up the door, you Scottish asshole!”

  I’m mid-curse when the door swings open. Cal stands in the doorframe. He’s got a cozy flannel on over his usual T-shirt. He looks warm and clean, his usually disheveled hair hanging down straight into his eyes. His expression is halfway between thrilled and baffled. It’s like he can’t do the math for what he sees in front of him: insane broad, hurricane, bicycle.

  “Juliette, Jesus. Come inside.”

  I stagger through the front door, dripping water everywhere. Cal hesitates only a moment before he reaches past me to grab my bicycle. Like it’s nothing, he drags it in after me, closes the door, and leans it against the coat rack. My teeth are chattering already. There’s another roar of thunder. I jump.

  He puts a hand on each arm and looks at me, eyes full of concern. For a moment, I forget what I’ve come all this way for. But then there’s another CRACK that rings through the air, and I remember.

  “You bastard!” I say, shrugging him off me. “You stole Jane Tinderton!”

  Cal looks baffled. “I stole what?”

  “Jane Tinderton! The baby shower lady! You stole her away from me!”

  Cal lets out an uneasy laugh. He lifts his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I promise you I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  I look at him for a long time, water still dripping down my face. His green eyes are open and kind. His eyebrows are knitted up with concern for me. I know I’ve jumped to conclusions again, but I also know I’m right. I’ve lost pretty much my only business for the past few weeks to Cal. But it’s not like he was lurking around the corner from Rock N Roll cakes, luring them in with the expressed purpose of sabotaging me. Maybe it’s not just the glitz and glam that makes him so successful. Maybe he’s actually the better baker.

  God.

  I put my hands up over my eyes. I know Cal doesn’t mean it. And in many ways that makes it worse. He’s too kind, too hot, too damned perfect. Opening myself up to him means making myself vulnerable again. It’s petrifying.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, drawing my hands down. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m just scared. Business has been awful, and then there’s the storm . . . ” A flash of lightning lights the doorway behind me. I jump. It would be embarrassing, but Cal only looks sympathetic.

  “I’ve heard the barometric pressure can do strange things to your mind.”

  He laughs a little. I do too. Then he reaches up and gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

  “I didn’t know, Juliette. Angelique must have taken that order, and if I knew it was one of your former customers, I would have turned her right back to you.” His gaze softens. “I’m glad you told me about the store. Maybe we can brainstorm something together. This weather is too bad to let you ride back into it, anyway. Can I get you a towel and a cup of coffee?”

  I look at Cal, standing there, so tall and muscular and cozy in his warm, dry clothes. An image flashes through my mind: peeling all those layers of cotton off him, one-by-one. I know that if I stay, something is bound to happen. And the storm is raging outside, wild and deadly. I have no choice, really. For the first time in five years, I’m facing something real.

  For the first time in five years, I don’t mind. Not at all.

  “I’d love that,” I say.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The rain rattles the windows of Cal’s bungalow. Tucked inside, now dry and wrapped in one of his sweaters and a dry pair of shorts, clutching a steaming mug of coffee, I can see what a small, cozy space his home is—and what a mess. There are clothes everywhere, tossed over the sofa and piled up on the floor. Magazines, some with Cal’s face on them, are sliding off the coffee table. He seems embarrassed by the scene. He’s been rushing around since I got there, stacking up mail and tossing empty ja
rs and bottles in his recycling bin.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I’m not home much. Been pulling sixteen-hour days at the store. I’ve been hoping to hire someone to clean, but I haven’t had time for interviews.”

  I feel my own cheeks heat at that. Even if I wasn’t a neat freak, I can’t imagine being able to afford someone to clean up after my messes. It’s a reminder that Cal lives in a different universe than I do. He’s a wealthy schlub of a celebrity, and I’m an uptight small business owner who is barely keeping her head above water.

  He must read the discomfort in my expression, because he stops cleaning, standing with a stack of magazines in hand and looking seriously at me.

  “Is that strange to say? I would have hated hearing that when I was living in my da’s house. Believe me, I know what it’s like not to have a penny to your name.”

  “A self-made man,” I say softly, taking a sip of coffee. It’s black and hot and wonderful. I wonder where he gets his beans. Cal paws at the back of his neck, setting the magazines down on the coffee table in a neat stack.

  “Aye, you could say that.” He seems as uncomfortable talking about his past as I do about his cleaning women. I put my mug down on a stray piece of mail, then stand, heading toward what I assume is his kitchen at the back of the bungalow. It’s a small, cozy space, yellow light and older appliances, a pegboard for pots and pans on the far wall, a center island fully stocked with spices. It’s much cleaner than his living room. I’m guessing it hasn’t gotten much use, not with the way Mecca Cakes has taken off.

  I feel Cal’s gaze on me as I stand there in the doorway. He steps closer, until I feel the heat of him behind me, and every strand of hair on my body stands on end. He really is electric, as highly charged as the storm that rages outside.

  I turn around. My body brushes his as I do. But he doesn’t startle back. He’s calm, easy.

  “Let’s bake something,” I suggest. He brings a broad hand down against my hip. I like the weight of it there, heavy, steady.

  “That’s a great idea,” he says.

  #

  If Cal seemed reserved when we were talking about his past, then he’s a new man in the kitchen. There are no cookbooks here. Only his hands, strong and gorgeous, as he mixes the batter for an angel food cake that he’s promised me will be divine. As he stirs, I watch the bulging shape of his muscles. He whistles happily. I’m sitting up on the center island, watching him, letting my eyes drink in every single inch of that gorgeous man.

  “Tell me, Juliette. What’s the first thing you ever made?” He steps forward after asking until his weight rests against my knees. I should feel shy, guarded, but I don’t. Instead, Cal’s kitchen feels like the safest place in the world.

  “Poptarts,” I say, and he laughs louder than I expected. “What? I was eight. Latchkey kid. My parents were no great cooks.”

  “They didn’t have them on my side of the pond.”

  “No? You missed out. Frosting. Sprinkles. What’s not to like?”

  “You like frosting, eh?” he asks, arching an eyebrow. His gaze drifts to the piping bag that he’s already got prepared on the counter. My eyes go wide. Okay, so the frosting thing’s always been kind of a fantasy of mine. But I remember the bar night chatter during culinary school. It is for most bakers, right? From the way that Cal is leaning in against me, his cock stiffening in his jeans, I suspect it is for him, too. I edge my hand forward.

  That’s when the oven beeps.

  Cal grins wickedly at me. His cock is still pressed against my hip as he drizzles the batter slowly into the pan. It’s white and thick and rich. After he pops it into the oven, he dips his finger along the bottom of the now-empty bowl. Mr. Reynolds would have his hide for food safety, but Mr. Reynolds isn’t here right now.

  “Want a lick?” he says, offering his finger to me. I lean forward on the counter. I’m aching to feel his body against me again. But instead I wrap my mouth around his hand. The batter is sweet and rich. I lick it off, smiling coyly. He’s watching me intently, his mouth closed. But then I suck his finger deeper into my mouth. His falls open. He’s breathing heavily. I am, too.

  I deep throat his finger, letting my tongue massage the base of his hand. He lets out a moan, jutting his hip so that he’s even closer to me. He wants me. I want him, so I go for it.

  I kiss him, my mouth still perfumed by vanilla and sugar and a hint of orange extract. His tongue against mine is heavy and urgent. Kissing him feels easy, like talking, like eating. Something about the way our mouths fit together, just right. I throw my arms over his strong shoulders. He leans me back against the counter, and my legs entwine around his waist. His cock is right up against me, but there’s too much clothing between us for my liking.

  I hesitate only a moment—so small, he probably doesn’t even notice. Because this is the closest I’ve been to anyone in ages. The storm is raging outside. The kitchen is warm from the oven and our shared heat. For once, I’m not in the middle of a murderous rage while he’s touching me and I’m not sure if I’m ready for that vulnerability.

  His cock is right against my pussy, and god, I want him inside me. I’ve spent enough time fantasizing. We’ve had enough teasing. I don’t want to wait any longer, don’t want to think or run or hide. So I don’t. I rip off his shirt in one swift movement, my hands touching every inch of him. Smooth skin, soft curling chest hair, and hard muscles beneath. My fingers trace his abs and trail down. His hips angle into a perfect V, like an arrow pointing to his cock. I follow that line, easing down his button fly one button at a time.

  “No,” he says, putting firm hands on mine. I feel a moment of dismay, confusion. Is he seriously going to make me wait again? But then he reaches for the piping bag. “Not yet.”

  I’m waiting on the counter, my knees still propped up against the edge. He leans over me and with perfect, fluid confidence, he undresses me, one piece of clothing at a time. Sweater. T-shirt. Shorts. I’m left in my black cotton bra and panties. Not what I was planning to wear when I was undressed by America’s favorite celebrity chef, but it’ll have to do. He runs a hand smoothly over my ass, teasing at the edge of my panties. “Cal,” I moan, my back arching.

  Then I feel something cool against my skin. He’s piping icing over my stomach, one single star-shaped dot at a time. I look down, watching him above me. He flicks his tongue downward, lapping the icing up.

  I gasp at the sensation of his lips skimming my body. Every place his tongue touches, it feels like fire, hot and teasing. I arch into him, raising my hips, wishing he would give me what I need, what I’ve been begging for since our first encounter. I’m opening for him, full of desire. I whimper. Damn, I want to feel that tongue everywhere. But he takes his time, teasing me, tasting one drop of icing—one inch of skin—at a time.

  I swear to god, if we get interrupted again, I’m staging a coup.

  I’m so wet, I’m practically aching.

  “You like that, Juliette?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I whisper. He puts another dot of icing on my inner thigh. I feel it there, cool and slick. My legs open. I’m desperate. I need him to push that perfect tongue inside of me and never come out. But he doesn’t, not yet. Instead, he puts icing on the other thigh. Then he kneels in front of me and begins to lap the icing off my skin, careful motions, left thigh, then right. He feels so good that I’m quivering, gripping the edge of the counter for dear life.

  My hips are rising off the counter to meet him. My clit is throbbing in my panties. It’s too much. It almost hurts, how badly I want him.

  “God, Cal,” is all I manage. I need release. I reach down, sliding my hand beneath my waistband. It’s been too long since I had a guy’s mouth against my pussy. But his own hand shoots out and covers mine, holding it there on my thigh.

  “Naughty girl,” he says, pausing a moment between my legs. My skin feels like it’s on fire. “Have you been touching yourself lately?”

  Fuck, he has no idea. My pussy’s still throbbi
ng, hot and wild and wet. And then, just when I think I can’t take it anymore, I feel his mouth against me, licking me right through my panties. His tongue is stroking the cotton, tasting my lips. Pleasure trembles through my belly. My hips buck. My ass clenches.

  His mouth starts to move faster, making hard, rough circles around my clit. It feels unbelievable. I rake my fingers through his hair, holding his mouth deep against me. Finally, he pushes aside the cotton with rough fingers and I gasp. His tongue travels to my clit. “Fuck, Cal,” I manage, as he sucks with unbelievable pressure. Fire and spice erupts everywhere our skin makes contact and I’m shaking against him. I’ve been fantasizing about this for so long. Now that the moment is here, the sensation is even hotter than I imagined.

  He slides two fingers inside me, and I shudder. My body is slippery and tight around him. I ride his hand desperately, taking him deeper and deeper inside me. Cal moans, takes my whole clit in his mouth and sucks.

  My thighs start to tighten. My hips quake. And I’m just at my edge when he curls his fingers inside me, hitting my g-spot. I cry out, bucking against him. Pleasure explodes from my belly and I feel wave after wave rolling through me as I come harder and harder. I’m shaking so much that I send a wire whisk off the counter and tumbling to the floor.

  He keeps moving even after I come, letting his hands pulse inside me for a moment more. When I finally stop writhing, I reach down and pull his face up toward mine.

  I kiss him. He tastes like me and orange extract. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever tasted. He should bottle that shit, sell it to the commuter crowd at Mecca Cakes.

  “You’re incredible,” I tell him. And it’s true. I’ve never been touched like that before. It’s like Cal McKenzie is a recipe concocted just for me. He laughs and buries his face in my neck.

  “I’d give you five stars on Yelp, too,” he says.