Beef Cake (Donner Bakery Book 4)

by Smartypants Romance

  I just got here, and I’ve been hoping all week to see her. I’m definitely not ready to watch her drive away again.

  “I wanted to see you,” I admit. There’s no sense in beating around the bush. If she doesn’t know I’m into her, then I really need to reevaluate my strategy, or up my game.

  Opening the door, she turns her back to me and I see the way her shoulders lift then fall, and when she speaks, she sounds distracted. “Can you just—I can’t deal with this. I don’t have time to deal with you, okay? I'm not interested. Leave me alone.”

  I feel my entire body deflate. She wants me to leave her alone, I’ll leave her alone. But since we’re here, talking, and this might be my last chance, a part of me I can’t ignore wants to make sure her disinterest isn’t because I’m a fighter.

  “Okay. Fine. But do you mind if I ask why?” I get the feeling she has her guard up all the time. I get it, I do. She’s a beautiful woman, but it’s got to be exhausting. Somehow, I’d still like to prove that it’s not necessary with me.

  She slowly turns back around. “Why what?” It’s obvious she’s trying to avoid answering, so I spell it out for her.

  “Why aren’t you interested?” I ask, keeping it casual and relaxed as I take a step back until my back is flush with the side of the truck. I don’t want her to feel threatened or pressured, but I do want her to talk. So, I’m hoping if I give her a little space, she’ll open up.

  “You can be honest, it’s cool.” I shrug. “I’m just looking for some constructive feedback here. So, do you not find me attractive?” I ask, unable to keep from smiling. “Or are you just not into blondes? Or muscles?” I continue, trying a more playful approach, and it works. The side of her mouth pulls as she fights back a smile, her cheeks heating.

  “I—you know I find you attractive,” she mumbles reluctantly, the stain on her cheeks warming to red.

  I nearly sigh in relief but stop myself, because this means her disinterest has its root in my fear. “Frankie,” I continue softly, “is it because I’m a fighter?”

  Her gaze cuts to mine and she presses her lips together, and that’s all the answer I need. My stomach drops.

  We stand there like that, watching each other, and she sways toward me, her eyes conflicted.

  “Listen,” I tell her, sighing, putting my hands in my pockets. “Go on one date with me, pretend I’m a lawyer, a doctor—”

  She snorts, rolling her eyes. “I wouldn’t go on a date with a doctor either.”

  “Fine, pretend I’m a window washer.”

  Now her lips twist to the side to hide a new smile.

  “I promise I won’t talk about MMA or cage fighting. Just one date. If you’re still not interested, I’ll leave you alone. And I’ll leave you alone now if that’s really what you want. All I’m asking for is a chance . . . and a date.”

  She eyes me and I can tell she’s giving it some thought, which is hopeful.

  Patiently, I wait for the final verdict, hoping it’s not a no.

  “You’re incredibly persistent.” Still struggling with her smile, she sighs in mock exasperation.

  Am I proud of the fact I’ve convinced her to give me a shot in such a short time? Yes. And no. Yes, because I set out to do something and nothing makes me happier than accomplishing a goal. No, because I hate that I had to do it in the first place. I’ve never had to convince someone to talk to me or go out with me. But her misconceptions about me based on what I do don’t sit right.

  Thumbing my bottom lip, I give her a smirk. “I’ve been told my persistence is an attractive quality.”

  She finally—fucking finally—fully smiles, and it’s everything. The sun, the moon, the stars. I swear it just lit up this dark-as-fuck parking lot. “Is that so?” Her tone is different. She’s losing the chill and I’m thinking there might be a warm, soft center under that thick layer of ice.

  And, fuck if I don’t want to find out.

  “Tomorrow morning,” she announces, interrupting the fantasy of her curves under my hands.

  Wait. What?

  “Morning?” I ask, not sure I heard her correctly. With the blood leaving my brain and flowing to my dick, it’s possible I wasn’t paying attention.

  Crossing her arms, she copies my stance, leaning against her car. “Yes, tomorrow morning. Daisy’s Nut House. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it on my terms, and I’m busy. That’s my only offer. Take it or leave it.”

  I get the feeling she thinks her offer is going to scare me off or change my mind, but she’s badly mistaken. “Tomorrow morning,” I confirm. “What time?” She could tell me two o’clock on the moon and I’d make that shit happen.

  “Seven.”

  Again, the quirk of her head tells me it’s a challenge. One I gladly accept.

  “I’ll be there at six thirty,” I counter.

  There’s an air of skepticism whirling around, but I’ll be happy to see her look of surprise when I’m sitting in the parking lot of Daisy’s Nut House tomorrow morning when she arrives. Shit, I might drive over there now and sleep in the truck, just to make sure I’m early.

  Her laugh, although disbelieving, is music to my ears. It might also be my new favorite sound.

  Shaking her head, she gets into her car without another word and I stay put, watching her buckle up and drive off. I’m pretty sure she stops and looks back at me before turning out on the street. Could be my wishful thinking, but I’m going to roll with it.

  I mean, she did agree to a date.

  Fist pumping the air, I walk around the truck and get back in, starting it up. For a second, I let my mind wander back to what I drove up on—Frankie surrounded by those fucking bikers. I know I promised her I wouldn’t bring it back up, but fuck if I’m leaving it alone.

  There’s one person I bet knows who those fuckers were.

  I’ll be paying my new friend, Cole Cassidy, a visit.

  Chapter 6

  Frankie

  When I woke up this morning, I rolled out of bed like it was any other Wednesday. Walking to my closet, I pulled out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. There’s no need to dress up for my work at the shelter. I could wear scrubs if I wanted, but since I wear them almost every other day of the week, I take advantage of the opportunity to wear regular clothes.

  It’s when I’m standing in the mirror, trying to make my hair behave, that I remember what I agreed to last night.

  A date . . . with Gunnar Erickson.

  Six-foot-three.

  Two hundred and thirty pounds.

  And the most piercing, translucent blue-green eyes I’ve ever seen.

  Gunnar Elias Erickson.

  His question last night about me not being attracted to him is laughable. I’m so attracted to him it scares me. I’ve tried forgetting about him, wanting so badly to erase the memories of his chiseled chest out of my mind, but it’s been futile.

  Like it or not, he’s apparently here to stay.

  I also don’t want to admit I was glad to see him last night. When he pulled into the parking lot, he unknowingly saved me from whatever favor the Iron Wraiths were after. They’d just cornered me in the parking lot a couple of minutes before and hadn’t gotten around to saying what hoop they wanted me to jump through for the moment.

  I’ve spent the better part of two years trying to prove my trustworthiness, and frankly, I’m getting tired of it. They’re stringing me along and I’m desperate enough to fall for it.

  When Gunnar drove up they took off, probably thinking they’d circle back around when he left, but he didn’t leave. No, he was his typical, persistent self and I didn’t hate it. Even though I tried to blow him off again, I really don’t mind his company. He’s surprisingly charming and nothing like I thought he’d be.

  Sure, he’s a bit cocky, but it’s more endearing than annoying.

  He’s also not selling fake merchandise.

  Everything he’s packing is legit, which probably helps his case.

  And slowly but
surely, he’s getting under my skin.

  Part of me is hoping this morning’s date is a bust and he proves my original judgment of him was right. Then I can walk away and not feel any regrets. But the other part of me, some dormant part I wasn’t even sure existed, is hoping he proves me so, so wrong.

  For a second, I think about adding a layer of mascara to my lashes or a swipe of gloss to my lips, but then I think better of it. Gunnar knows what he’s getting. If he didn’t like me the way I am, he would’ve given up a long time ago.

  Unless, this is some kind of elaborate prank.

  Yeah, there’s that.

  And it’s totally plausible.

  One time, back in junior high, Travis Evans pretended to like me for a few days only to humiliate me in front of the entire school when I tried to sit with him at lunch. It was mortifying and traumatizing and probably why I never attempted to get to know a guy again.

  Ever.

  It’s not that no one has shown interest since then, but when I give them the cold shoulder, they give up. It’s not hard to stay single when you have a thick layer of defense like I’ve built up over the years.

  In high school, when I was ready to give up my virginity, I picked a guy I could tolerate—and who I knew wouldn’t refuse me—and propositioned him.

  The entire act was very clinical. I provided the condom and the perimeters—no calling afterward and no repeats.

  It worked then, and it’s worked every time since.

  Not that it’s happened much, but when it has happened, it’s been the same arrangement.

  When I say I don’t do relationships, I mean it. I’ve never even been on a date. Which is probably why I’m suddenly nervous and thinking about standing Gunnar up.

  A date.

  I’m going on a date with Gunnar Erickson.

  “It’s a donut and coffee,” I mutter to my reflection in the mirror. “You do this every day. The only difference is a beefcake will be sitting across the table from you.” Groaning, I throw my head back and stare at the ceiling. Honestly, I’d rather scrub in on a surgery with Dr. Powell, and he threw a suture needle at me once because I set it up for a righty and it turns out he’s a lefty. He’s such an asshole, but at least I know what to expect with him.

  I’ve never made the righty mistake again, that’s for sure.

  With Gunnar, every time he’s around, I feel a flight of butterflies take off in my stomach . . . and my palms get sweaty . . . and my mind starts thinking inappropriate thoughts. It’s unsettling, to say the least.

  Tilting my head back up, I blink away the rush of blood and then pinch my cheeks. “Let’s get this over with. Fifteen minutes, tops.”

  When I get in my car, I look at the time on my phone and it reads six forty-five, which is the same time I leave every Wednesday morning. The thought crosses my mind to call Helen and let her know I’m going to be there a little later than usual, but I decide to play it by ear. There’s a chance I’ll get there and he won’t even show. Or he will, but we won’t have anything to talk about. Or I might chicken out and keep driving.

  Yeah, there’s always that.

  But when I get close to the diner, it’s not hard to spot the truck . . . and then the beefcake. He’s leaning up against the side of the rusted metal—legs crossed, arms folded, looking like a dream. No, seriously, I had a dream just like this a few nights ago and I’m currently experiencing the strongest case of déjà vu I’ve ever had in my entire life.

  What do they say about that?

  Is it good?

  Bad?

  In another universe, someone like me and someone like Gunnar meet up for breakfast at Daisy’s all the time? Have I crossed over some time-space continuum?

  And this is a prime example of why Frankie Reeves can’t have nice things. She screws it up with all of her overthinking and overanalyzing. And then she starts speaking about herself in the third person. It’s embarrassing.

  Get ahold of yourself.

  I park my car beside Gunnar, and I don’t miss the smile on his gorgeous face. With all the angular planes and hard lines, his soft smile is a nice contrast, setting off his mesmerizing eyes.

  Oh, my God. I sound ridiculous, like one of those lovesick girls on the stupid dating shows the other nurses watch on our late night shifts. When he knocks on my window, I jump in my seat, my eyes flashing over to meet his, and he’s holding a bouquet of flowers. Sunflowers, to be exact, which happen to be my favorite.

  How did he know that?

  What if he’s a serial killer stalker?

  That would be my luck.

  “Hey,” I say, getting out of my car and tamping down the rush of nerves.

  He gives me an even bigger smile. Funny, I didn’t think he’d be a morning person, but he’s somehow just as chipper in the daylight as he is at night in the middle of the canned foods at the grocery store.

  “Good morning,” he muses. “Didn’t think I’d be here, huh?”

  I scrunch my nose and glance over at the door of Daisy’s as another early riser walks in, letting the smell of freshly baked donuts waft out. “I don’t know,” I admit. I was hoping you would . . . and I was hoping you wouldn’t. “But since you are, I guess we should go inside before the old men eat all the donuts.”

  “Have they run out before?” he asks, his expression going serious, like the idea of them running out of donuts is a tragedy. It really is. Daisy’s donuts are hands-down the best in the state of Tennessee.

  Letting out a laugh and appreciating the way the tightness in my chest eases, I shake my head. “Nah, I don’t think so, but we want first dibs. They’re best when they’re fresh.”

  He nods his head in agreement. “True.” Glancing down at the flowers that are still in his hand, he hesitates for a moment, shifting on his feet. It’s possibly better than the flowers, because I realize then, he might also be a little nervous about this date. “I brought you flowers.”

  “Where did you get flowers at this time of morning?” I ask, taking them from him and holding them to my chest before turning and placing them on the passenger seat of my car.

  “Tempest knows the florist downtown,” he says, pinching his bottom lip like he’s regretting his choices. “Is it too much?”

  I thought I might see a different side of Gunnar this morning, but this is certainly not what I had in mind. He’s surprising me again, but it’s not bad.

  “It’s great,” I assure him. Perfect, if I’m being honest, but I’m not ready to show all of my cards just yet.

  As we walk into the diner, the same kid from yesterday is at the counter. When he sees Gunnar, his eyes widen and I have to fight back a chuckle. I wonder if Gunnar gets that everywhere he goes. If people reacted to me every time I walked into a room, I think I’d take a page from my mother’s book and stay home. Attention like that makes my skin crawl.

  “Good morning,” he greets, schooling his features as he reaches for his notepad and pencil. “Jelly donut and coffee to go?”

  I give him a smile, but then shake my head. “Two jelly donuts and two coffees . . . for here.”

  His eyebrows go up, surprised at this change of events.

  “Can you add on a maple bar?” Gunnar asks, glancing in the case. “And a blueberry cake donut.”

  Turning around, I give him what must be a surprised expression because he laughs.

  “What?” he asks incredulously. “I’m a growing boy.”

  The spit I was swallowing must have a bone in it because I choke and Gunnar pats my back until I can catch my breath.

  “You okay?” he asks with a knowing grin, placing money down on the counter to pay for our breakfast. I would argue, but I’m still recovering, so I let him. It’s just a donut and a cup of coffee. No big deal.

  “Fine,” I reply, as we make our way over to a table and have a seat, feeling a little hot. The air around us feels charged, but that’s not new; it’s been that way since the first day I met him in the ER. I’ve just been trying to
ignore it, hoping it would go away. Like him, it hasn’t.

  “I thought you drink smoothies for breakfast?” The way he’s leveling me with his eyes makes me fidgety. Now that I’m really getting an up close and personal experience with them, I decide they remind me of sea glass.

  “Uh, I do. Drink smoothies. Every day, except for Wednesdays,” I reply, still feeling mesmerized by the intensity of his eyes. I wasn’t ready for those. The smirk? Sure. The biceps? Fine. The eyes? Nope. They turn me into a rambling idiot. “On Wednesdays, I eat jelly donuts.”

  The smile he gives me is a new one, different from all the rest. It’s not his cocky smirk or his confident grin. It’s a little wistful and a little mysterious . . . and a lot mine. I decide since I haven’t seen it before now, I’m going to claim it. It’s my favorite.

  “Two jelly donuts, one maple bar, and one blueberry cake donut,” the guy, who I now see has a name—Kyle—says as he sets down our donuts on the table between us. “I’ll be right back with your coffees.”

  A second later, two piping hot cups of coffee appear and I smile up at him. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” he says, glancing over at Gunnar. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  “Looks great, man,” Gunnar says, reaching for the maple donut. “Thanks.”

  I slide one of the jelly-filled donuts onto a napkin and take a bite. Strangely, it tastes even better than usual and I wonder if it’s the fact I’m eating it while sitting down and not driving down the road. Or maybe it’s the company.

  “So, when you’re not stitching up people in the ER,” Gunnar starts, but pauses long enough to lick some icing off his thumb and drawing my attention to his mouth. “What do you do besides grocery trips to Piggly Wiggly on Tuesdays and getting donuts on Wednesdays?”

  Taking a sip of my coffee, I try to decide if he’s making fun of my simple life or just being conversational. “I also go to the farmer's market on Saturdays,” I offer, gauging his reaction.

  “That’s right,” he says, holding his half-eaten maple bar in midair. “Katie, the cashier at the Piggly Wiggly, told me that.”