Beef Cake (Donner Bakery Book 4)

by Smartypants Romance

  What if she kisses like a fish?

  No, not with those lips.

  “Thanks,” she finally says distracting me from my thoughts as she picks up the cup and takes a tentative sip. “I didn’t have time to make any this morning. My shift went so late last night I thought I was going to have to call Gracie May to cover for me this morning.”

  My smile drops at the thought of showing up here to see her and her not being here. “Sorry you had to work so late, but I’m glad you’re here to drink my coffee.”

  I made it just like she drank it on Wednesday at Daisy’s—black.

  “You made this?” Her brow raises in speculation as she takes another sip. “It’s good.”

  I can’t help the cocky smirk. It’s not hard to make coffee, but I appreciate the compliment just the same. “Thanks.” Turning to survey the rest of the vendors, I mutter under my breath, “I’d like to show you a few other things I’m good at.”

  “What?” Frankie asks.

  “Nothing,” I tell her, shaking my head. I take out the slip of paper Tempest gave me, needing to redirect my thoughts and this conversation so I can stick to my plan—keep Frankie engaged. I see her walls and I have a feeling they’re not going to be easy to knock down. Even though I pack a punch, I know the hardest opponents take finesse. You can’t go in guns blazing. You’ve gotta take it slow, look for an in . . . pace yourself. And sometimes, you have to woo your opponent.

  Which is exactly what I plan to do to Frankie Reeves.

  “I’ve been given a mission,” I tell her, holding up the list. “Choosing to accept was a no-brainer because the reward is muffins. And I don’t know if you’ve ever had something baked by the Duchess of Muffins, but they’re—” I pause, kissing my fingers in a flashy gesture. “Delicioso.”

  That earns me a smile. “Oh, so now you’re Italian? Or is it the muffins? Are those Italian?”

  She’s a smartass, and I love it.

  “I’m Scandinavian,” I boast, leaning forward so my hands are resting on the table in front of her and my pecs flex. “Can’t you tell? Blond hair, blue eyes . . . ruggedly handsome.”

  She laughs and it’s the best sound I’ve ever heard in my entire life. “There’s nothing rugged about you,” she says, tilting her head up so our eyes meet. “You’re kind of a pretty boy.”

  When her cheeks flush pink, I know she didn’t mean to say that, but I love Frankie’s unfiltered words. “Oh, really,” I goad. “Tell me more about how pretty I am.”

  “I thought a big, tough guy like you would be offended at the term pretty.”

  “Pretty . . . handsome . . . it’s basically the same thing,” I say, smirking and leaning forward until our noses are mere inches apart. “Besides, a compliment is a compliment. So, whatever you want to call me, I’ll take it.”

  “How about beefcake?” she drawls. Her words come out hesitantly, like she can’t believe she’s saying them, but there’s no time to take them back. Now, it’s my turn to laugh.

  Throwing my head back, I let it roll through my belly and up my throat until I’m howling. “Beefcake?” I ask, still laughing. “Is that what you call me?” I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but that’s never been one of them. Little Cage, Tiny Viking—those were my nicknames in my formative years. Since then, I’ve graduated to The Show, a play off my name—Gunnar—and my muscles, as in gun show.

  But never beefcake.

  “Maybe I should tell Cage to put that on my next fight card? Gunnar Beefcake Erickson… it has a nice ring to it, huh?” Waggling my eyebrows, I earn another smile from Frankie and I decide I’m keeping every single one. I wish there was a way I could literally collect them and save them up for a rainy day.

  She stiffens a little at the mention of fighting and I make a mental note to steer clear of that subject, leaving it for another day. “Care to point me in the direction of . . . Mr. Henson’s blueberries?” I ask, glancing at the first order of business. “And make sure you put a jar of your mom’s honey aside for me. Well, for Tempest. She also wanted me to pass on that the mint honey she made last year was ‘to die for’.” I add in my own impersonation of Tempest Cassidy and thankfully Frankie relaxes, laughing at my antics.

  “She just told me last week that she has herbs harvested and saved up for the winter. When it’s cold and not much is growing, she loves to make her infused honeys and jams from the fruit and herbs she’s frozen during the year.”

  The way she talks about her mother makes me wonder how close they are and if Frankie has any other family around. With her mom basically living in the woods and Frankie going once a week to check on her and take her groceries, who’s there for Frankie when she needs someone?

  Or does someone like Frankie never need anybody?

  That thought doesn’t settle well.

  “Mr. Henson’s booth is over there,” Frankie says, pointing across the lot. “He should have a few boxes of blueberries left. I stopped by and bought some for my mother earlier and he had a lot.”

  When she looks back up at me, I see so much in those deep brown eyes—questions, indecision, curiosity, and yet she’s so guarded. What is your story, Frankie Reeves?

  “Do you want to go with?” I ask, pointing over my shoulder. “Maybe you could sweet talk Mr. Henson into giving me a deal on what he’s got left?” I’m teasing about the deal. I’ll pay whatever the man asks, but I’m not teasing about wanting her to come with me.

  I want her, in every sense of the word.

  “Uh,” Frankie hesitates, glancing around. “I better stay here.”

  “Would someone seriously steal your honey?”

  I almost say honey pot, but that makes me think of her honey pot and that’s a downward spiral I can’t afford at a family-friendly farmer’s market.

  She gives me a small, knowing smile. “No.”

  “Then you should come with me. It can be a second date,” I say conspiratorially. “And I know you haven’t been on one of those . . .”

  She huffs out a laugh and rolls her eyes before groaning and reaching under the table. Placing an empty mason jar in front of me, she pulls a small sign out and sets it in front of the jar.

  Honey $5

  Jam $3

  Candles $4

  We operate on the honor system.

  It’s an old American tradition.

  Don’t screw it up.

  “Nice,” I tell her, nodding my approval.

  “It’s effective,” she says with a shrug, walking around the table to stand beside me. Her scent is stronger today and not diluted with the sterility that usually lingers on her from the hospital. It’s just pure, unadulterated Frankie—fresh, citrusy, and delicious.

  As we begin to walk, she shoves her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, making me notice every part of her: ass, legs, the way she walks. There’s an overwhelming urge inside me to wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her to me. I need more. I want to know what she feels like and if it’s as good as I’ve imagined. But I don’t.

  Slow and steady.

  Pace yourself.

  Chapter 8

  Frankie

  On my drive into Maryville on Wednesday morning, I’m all smiles.

  When I pulled up to Daisy’s this morning for my Wednesday coffee and donut, lo and behold, who was waiting for me? Gunnar Beefcake Erickson. It wasn’t a date, per se. We didn’t plan it, but he was there and I was there . . . and we sat for over half an hour talking about mundane, random things. It was awesome.

  He bought my coffee and donut again, sending a dozen with me to give to Helen and whoever else might want one at the shelter. It was a sweet gesture, and quite honestly, made me feel like a loser for never thinking of doing it myself.

  Gunnar is definitely a charmer. But my inner skeptic wonders if it’s a mask for something sinister. Or maybe that’s the company I keep. There are several of the Iron Wraiths who seem nice, but deep down, they’re just as horrid as the rest.

  In m
y life experience, people always have their own agenda, and I wonder what Gunnar’s is.

  Does he truly want to get to know me?

  Or am I a game? Someone who turned him down and he can’t give up until he’s conquered me?

  Well, that kind of ruins my buzz.

  As I drive a little more, thoughts of Gunnar revolve through my mind, just like they always do lately. And there is one thing I know about him: he’s a man of his word. He said he wanted to take me on a date. He did. He told me he was going to come to the farmer’s market. He did. He volunteered to help with the benefit at the shelter, and according to our conversation this morning, he is doing just that.

  We never finished discussing the details, but he told me he spoke with Helen last week and everything is in motion, happening sooner than I ever would’ve been able to pull it off. Whatever they’re planning is taking place in three weeks.

  When I arrive at the shelter, I park my car in my usual spot and grab the box of donuts. Walking in, Helen is the first person I see.

  “Good morning,” she says, her smile is unusually broad. “Have a nice weekend?”

  I frown at the small talk. Helen and I don’t typically have a lot of small talk. We just get to work and get stuff done. Sure, we talk business when we need to, but neither of us require more than that.

  “It was,” I tell her. The best weekend I’ve had in a long time, I think, but don’t say. That would lead to other details I don’t feel like sharing, namely Gunnar.

  “Your friend called me last week,” she says, cracking the lid of the box and raising an eyebrow at the contents.

  “From my friend,” I say with a shrug, testing out her label for Gunnar.

  Helen’s brows go up in an unspoken question and I give her a roll of my eyes that says “don’t ask.”

  “He’s a nice man.” Helen has never been one to reprimand me but she does let me know in her own way when she thinks I’m being too hard on someone or unreasonable. It’s in her tone, and I’m hearing it loud and clear. As not to harp on the subject, she changes direction. “I think he’s going to raise a lot of money for the shelter.”

  Setting the box of donuts down on the table, I fold my arms across my chest. “What exactly did he suggest?”

  “Oh,” she says, her eyes widening with something that resembles amusement with a hint of mischief. Helen might work in a church, but she’s no saint. “He didn’t tell you?”

  I shake my head. “No, he didn’t. All he said was the two of you spoke and came up with a plan. Then he changed the subject.” Now that I think about it, he did get kind of tight-lipped when I asked, like he was avoiding telling me, but I wouldn’t know why. If it’s going to make money for the shelter, I’m all for it.

  “A benefit fight,” Helen says, laughing somewhat enthusiastically, like it’s the best idea she’s ever heard. “And the best part? He thinks we could raise over forty thousand dollars for the shelter. That’s more than we need for the rest of the year. It’ll give us the cushion we need for the holidays and then some.”

  Forty thousand dollars?

  From one event?

  “But a fight?” I ask, trying not to show my disgust—but I can’t help it. “Is that even . . . right?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” Helen asks, her countenance shifting as she mirrors my stance—hip resting against the desk, arms crossed. “Do you know of anything we can do to raise that kind of money?”

  “No,” I answer honestly. It’s the reason I jumped at the chance to have someone else work on it. “But a fight is so . . . violent. And we’re a women’s shelter who takes in battered women and children. That seems like a conflict of interest to me.”

  Helen rolls her eyes. “Oh, Frankie.”

  “Oh, Frankie, what?” I ask, following her as she walks off down the hall. “Tell me I’m wrong, Helen.”

  “You’re wrong,” she calls back over her shoulder. “It’s a sport, Frankie. We’re not throwing innocent women and children into a ring and letting someone beat up on them. They’re all willing and able opponents. They train to compete. It’s no different from a football player or a basketball player. If you know any other professional athletes, I guess we could call them and see if they can round up some of their friends and raise us forty thousand dollars.”

  She stops when she gets to the main room, sweeping a hand out over everyone eating breakfast at the tables. “Or I guess we can tell all of these people they’ll have to find somewhere else to stay in a few months.”

  My eyes go immediately to Lisa and Allie. Lisa’s face is no longer swollen and her cut is healing nicely. Allie looks happy as she and her mother share a peaceful meal. Everything about the two of them reminds me of me and my mother and my heart clenches.

  “No,” I whisper. “I don’t want that.”

  Helen sighs, turning toward them. “It’s not as bad as you think. You’ll see.”

  We’ll see.

  I guess I can suck it up for one fight. I don’t have to like it; I just have to tolerate it.

  “I think he really likes you,” Helen says, still facing all the mothers and children eating their warm breakfasts in a safe environment.

  “Who?” I ask, playing dumb.

  She laughs. “You’re the smartest girl I know, Frankie Reeves, but that heart of yours has a lot of catching up to do.”

  Chapter 9

  Gunnar

  “So, Vali will be here when?” I ask, grunting as I twist my body and throw my weight into a punch to the bag, and then repeat. Cage has amped up the training sessions since we put the benefit fight on the schedule. Even though it’ll be for exhibition, he wants to make a good impression and earn some positive publicity.

  From the other side of the bag, Cage replies, “Two weeks from Monday. Just in time to help us get the ring set up, since he’s the best at it. I’ve found some guys to hire for the rest of the set-up. The venue provides concessions, so we won’t have to worry about that. I’ll be able to staff the doors from here. Everyone seems to be willing to volunteer their time. Cole is going to hook us up with some security. I think it’s all coming together nicely.”

  “And on short fucking notice,” I add, sweat dripping from my nose as I breathe through each punch, feeling the burn in my chest radiate through my muscles.

  “For a good fucking cause,” Cage shoots back.

  Spinning, I switch to kicks and land a roundhouse that elicits an oomph from Cage as he holds the bag in place, ready for my next move. “It is.” With my hands up near my face, I knee the bag and then switch feet to land a sidekick. “Thanks again for helping.”

  “The way I see it,” Cage says, almost as out of breath as I am, “it’s a win-win for everyone involved. You get a fight under your belt before we head to Nashville next month. Viking MMA gets some much-needed publicity. And the shelter gets the money it needs to operate.”

  “Frankie’s pissed about the fight.”

  Cage holds the bag a little tighter, stopping me midair. “What do you mean she’s pissed? I thought she wanted your help?”

  “She hates violence,” I tell him, repeating Frankie’s words. “But I feel like it’s more than that. I don’t know. She’s so guarded . . .” I think about asking him about the motorcycle guys that were bothering Frankie in the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly a couple of weeks ago, but I don’t. He hasn’t lived here long himself, so I doubt he knows who they are. However, the questions have been burning in my mind ever since: Who are they? And what is someone like Frankie, who doesn’t like violence, doing with them?

  I’ve actually lost sleep over it lately, wanting to ask her about it but not wanting to scare her off.

  “So how’s that going to work?” Cage asks, drawing me out of my thoughts.

  “What?” I ask, not following his question.

  He cocks his head, leaning into the bag. “You and her. And don’t tell me you don’t like her because I won’t buy it. You’re head over heels for a girl who hates vi
olence. Let that sink in there for a second, Gunnar The Show Erickson . . .”

  I do let it sink it. I have let it sink in. Kind of. And I have no fucking clue how it’s going to work, but I do know that I really like Frankie and I’m willing to find a way.

  “What about the venue?” I ask, wanting to change the subject. “Are we confirmed?”

  “Yeah,” Cage says, stepping away from the bag and over into the middle of the mats. “They’re knocking off about five grand, so we should come in under budget.”

  I nod, pacing as my heart rate continues to level out. “I threw together a press release and contacted local papers. Did you know Green Valley has a paper?”

  Cage laughs. “Not surprising. This town thrives on gossip.”

  “I was also able to get in touch with a news station out of Knoxville that’s going to add us to their ‘Local Happenings’ segment.”

  “Damn, maybe you did pay attention,” Cage teases, ruffling my hair. I know they all thought I was the baby and not invested in the gym like the rest of them, but the truth is, I loved watching my brothers work together. And yeah, I paid attention, and maybe even learned a few things.

  Side note: he’s the only person on the face of the planet who could get by with ruffling my fucking hair. Well, him and my other brothers. No matter how big I get, even bigger than them, I’ll always be the little brother and some things never change.

  “Vali is going to die here,” I say, using my teeth to rip off one glove and then the other, tossing them to the corner. Vince will be here later to spar, but I need a break. My hands are sweaty and if I don’t hydrate I’ll have muscle cramps later, and nobody has time for that. “There’s not a Starbucks or Chipotle for miles.”

  Cage laughs, throwing a few kicks at the bag. “He’s such a fucking wuss.”

  It’s crazy; even retired, he could still kick my ass. There’s so much power in every swift movement. His shoulder, which will never be truly healed, is the only reason he’s not the reigning heavyweight champion in the UFC.