The Drop Zone

by Boyes, Shandi

  Recognizing that unwelcomed disappointment won’t get me anywhere fast, I pull up my sleeves and get to work—literally. I have an order for six dozen cupcakes due first thing tomorrow morning. At four dollars a pop, I can’t afford to leave the order unfilled. That's more than we cleared in sales today alone, and with Fallon calling it quits, that bequeaths the task to me. I’m the only baker left with the skills capable of getting the job done.

  After pushing back from my desk, I flick on the coffee regulator I only just switched off, then head into the kitchen. Harlow’s Scrumptious Haven doesn’t look very scrumptious from this angle. The compact space is spotlessly clean, but the oven, countertops, and electronic appliances are well overdue for an upgrade. Only a few short months ago, I was gathering quotes to have them replaced. Now, all my savings have been depleted paying my staff’s salaries. Without employees, I won’t have any products to sell, but without the right equipment, I can’t produce quality products. It truly is a lose-lose situation.

  “But at least it’s homey,” I murmur to myself.

  A few minutes later, I stop balancing packets of flour on my chest when a distinct bell chimes through my ears. I glare at the main entrance door of the bakery, certain I locked up hours ago. Sprinkles of flour dust my fitted Polly-knitted skirt when I dump the commercial-sized sachets onto the counter before making my way to the hub of my store.

  “I’m sorry, we’re closed,” I advise my unexpected caller, my tone shocked.

  Although the streetlights illuminate the bakery floor, the empty cabinets should alert patrons that the shop is closed, not to mention the late hour.

  “If you come back in the morning, I’ll have a fresh range of scrumptious products for you to sample. . .”

  My words trail off when my guest spins on his heels to face me. If my tongue weren’t laden with the excessive amount of sugar I consumed for dinner, it’d be hanging out of my mouth. This man. . . this man. . . I don’t have a word to describe this man. I have many.

  A chiseled chin hidden by the stubble of a hard day, glistening blue irises unconcealed by thick lashes, and blond hair that's well-groomed but free of products, that is what reflects back at me. Add those yummy elements to a fit body presented in glorious detail by a well-fitted suit and pristine shoes, and you’ve got an overall package that has my mouth drying up and my eyes going crazy.

  Spotting my uncontrolled gawk, the man’s lips tug high, making them even more enviable. If he weren’t studying me just as closely, I’d be embarrassed he busted me for ogling him. Mercifully, I’ve never been referred to as shy.

  When the stranger spans the distance between us, I eyeball him without shame. Even the way he walks is sexy. His strides are long and effortless, revealing the cut of his suit isn’t the only thing enhancing his god-crafted body. Ravenshoe is known for its quality of men, but this man deserves his own unique category. One for him and him only. He’s not just handsome; he’s downright sexy.

  When he stops to stand in front of me, a spicy scent lingers into my nostrils, mixing the sugary taste on my lips with an equally enticing palate.

  “Cormack.”

  A platinum cufflink on a crisp white sleeve becomes exposed when he holds out his hand in greeting. I accept his gesture, forgetting my hands are gritty from the bags of flour I was wrangling before being graced with his presence. The contrast between my skin and his is evident, but I maintain my cool cat composure. I interact with hunky builders and tradesmen on a regular basis, so you can be assured I’m quite familiar with handling eye-catching men. Although none have ever been as stunning as this one.

  “Harlow. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I withdraw from his grasp, albeit reluctantly.

  A grin furls on my lips when I notice he’s accidentally dusted his thigh with a bit of flour. If he weren’t wearing a midnight black suit, the powder could be overlooked, but since I'm as pretentious about messes as I am about wanting my bakery’s glory days to return, I point to the offending product.

  “You’ve got a little flour on you,” I choke out. I’m not stammering because my mouth feels like the Sahara Desert on the hottest day of the year. It’s from his hand brushing away the powder with a quick sweep.

  I’m notorious for stalking Instagram in my spare time. I’m not looking for a date, merely inspiration for the numerous romance books I gobble up every week. I’ve found many suitable book-boyfriend candidates in my daily—sometimes multiple times a day—searches. Handsome men with straight teeth, blemish-free faces, and tight, fit bodies, aren’t hard to come by, but rarely do I discover one who ticks all my boxes. I’m not fussy; I'm an everyday standard American mid-twenties romance lover extraordinaire. There is just one difference: I don’t just want junk in the trunk, I want it in the hood as well.

  This man has both. Not only are the creases in his trousers ineffective at hiding the swell of his crotch, but they showcase every perfect asset of his backside as well. My aunt thought a mirrored wall would give the bakery an illusion of space. She had no idea.

  Is it possible to fall in love at first sight? If so, I’ve fallen head over heels in love.

  Not with this man—with his tailor!

  “Sorry,” I mumble when a deep, penetrating voice breaks through the padded-cell silence surrounding me. “Did you say something?”

  Cormack’s smile exposes the pegs of his perfectly straight teeth. I didn’t need an in-depth cavity search of his mouth to confirm he ticks every box in my ultimate book boyfriend list, though. His impeccably tailored suit, exceedingly shiny shoes, and zesty scent filled the gaps my lust-fired brain forgot to inspect. He’s not a ten out of a ten. He’s an eleven.

  “My order? I was wondering if I could pick it up it this evening instead of tomorrow morning?” Chocolate dribbled on strawberries, honey smothering oats, or a dash of vanilla in a skinny chai latte—that's how heavenly smooth his voice is.

  “Your order?” I repeat, somewhat lost between a lust-crazed idiot and a half-capable business woman.

  My daft response can be easily excused. Excluding the one-off birthday or wedding cake requests, my customers are generally in and out in under ten minutes. And with sugary treats at the bottom of the totem pole when it comes to necessities, even those visits are becoming few and far between.

  Just as Cormack nods his head, the business side of my brain finally kicks into gear. “Oh. . . you’re Marshmallow Man?”

  I try to iron out the immaturity in my tone, but I’m not fast enough. “When Fallon jotted down your order, she forgot to ask for contact details. Since you requested marshmallow fondue, we named you ‘Marshmallow Man.’ It was all in fun. You don’t look like a marshmallow—not at all. I’d be surprised to find an ounce of fat on you. Not with a body like that—all lean and muscular. Not a single lump to be found. Well, except in critically acclaimed areas . . .”

  I’m rambling. Not an I’m such a cutie-pie ramble, but an I'm as idiotic as I feel ramble.

  Pretending I haven’t noticed an amused smile cracking onto Cormack’s lips, I straighten my spine and assert a professional façade. “Anyhoo, your cakes aren’t ready.”

  My laidback tone doesn’t match my business-like stance. Once again, my response can’t be helped. Any hope I have of sounding professional is destroyed by Cormack’s ravishing grin. He has the I’ll cause you a whole heap of trouble, but in a way you’ll never see it coming smile down pat. It makes me both wary and excited. I love a challenge, and he appears as challenging as I could get. He makes me want to exercise the non-business side of my brain, which is so unfit from lack of use the past two years, our little tussle has already left me breathless.

  If I weren’t already suspicious of his wealth, his quick check of the time leaves no doubt. Either Scott upped the ante on the fake Rolexes he sells at the corner of my bakery for twenty dollars a pop, or this man is loaded.

  “It’s past nine,” he advises, as if I'm unaware of the time.

  “Uh-huh, it sure is.” My
eyes stray to the massive clock filling the silence with its loud clangs. “We here at Harlow’s Scrumptious Haven pride ourselves on ensuring our customers receive the highest quality products. If that means I need to stay on site until 3 AM to produce the freshest and most scrumptious cupcakes you’ve ever eaten, that's what I’ll do.”

  The first half of my statement is full of pride and certainty. The last half sounds like my voice when I have to book a pap smear. I arrived at work at 3 AM this morning. I don’t want to be here anymore than I wish I hadn’t kicked off my shoes nearly two hours ago. I’m not short, but my lack of heels has left me a good four to five inches shorter than the man smiling at me like I just told him his order is free. It isn’t. I have until 8 AM tomorrow to fulfill his order because “it’s on time or it’s free” is our motto.

  “You’ll have your cupcakes, but not until the time Fallon promised. . .” I stop talking as my worry makes itself known. “She did give you a time for pick up, didn’t she?”

  A strand of platinum blond hair falls in front of Cormack’s bright blue eyes when he briefly nods. “Yes, she did.”

  Although his reply seems hesitant, I murmur, “Oh, thank god. I was beginning to wonder if I had hired a dimwit with half a brain.”

  He unleashes his deadliest weapon when a wicked smirk crosses his face. He either finds me amusing or thinks I’m a twit. I really hope it isn’t the latter.

  “Teething issues?” The sass in his tone puts my worry to rest.

  “Ah. . . if the issues stem from a ninety-year-old geriatric with a faulty pacemaker and glass eye, then yeah, we could go with teething issues.” My reply reflects more on my outdated kitchen than crappy employees, but since it's the main source of my frustration, I work it into our discussion.

  When he throws his head back and laughs, the lack of libido I informed you of earlier packs up and leaves town. I let out a yearning sigh, mesmerized by the raw sexuality of his mannish chuckle. It’s gruff yet smooth, two usually contradicting features perfectly blended like sugar and butter.

  Cormack uses his laughter to study me more closely. He watches me through hooded lids, his lengthy perusal more attentive than carefree. His attention causes my stomach to somersault, but not in a bad way. It’s flighty and free, as disentangled as the rope circling my heart.

  When his eyes return to my face, I splay my hands across my hips and arch a brow, acting annoyed by his impish study of my body. I’m not annoyed, though—I’m far from it. I’m just praying he won’t see the lust in my eyes caused by his prolonged stare. I'm a single woman living in the twenty-first century. I’ve been ogled in more ways than you can imagine, but this is the first stare to award me with excited butterflies rather than itchy hives.

  Cormack doesn’t buy my attempt to act coy. His sexy grin triples as his eyes glimmer with as much desire as mine. For every second he silently goads me, the curvier his lips become. His suit should come with a warning label: only here to distract you from the defiant man beneath the expensive threads.

  I try to return his silent mock with an equal amount of grit, but I’ve never been good at lengthy bouts of silence. “I don’t know why you’re smiling. It’s not funny. I’ve been up since 3 AM. I’m tired.”

  I wanted my reply to amplify the friskiness in the air, but my honesty has the opposite effect. I’m so tired, if the savage surge of electricity bouncing between us wasn’t increasing my energy levels, I’d be on the verge of collapse.

  My knees wobble when Cormack twangs my bottom lip. “Don’t pout. You’re not a baby.”

  “It takes one to know one,” I fire back before I can stop myself.

  It wasn’t very mature, but when you catch me with minimal sleep, you’re destined to recognize my morbid dislike of mellowness.

  Cormack’s lips twitch as he attempts to stifle his reply. His pause is pointless when he snickers, “I know you are, I said you are, but what am I?”

  My lips move, but not a syllable escapes my mouth. He just stole my line. “Well. . . ah. . . shit. . .”

  Out of words—and clearly oxygen—I switch our verbal tussle to a physical one.

  Cormack takes a step back when my fist lands in his stomach. My hit is barely a fairy tap, but firm enough for both of us to gasp in sharp breaths. I don’t know why he's wheezing, but I obviously can’t take it back. I just acted before thinking.

  “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have hit you.”

  I’m drowning in a cesspool of financial burden; I don’t need a lawsuit to take away the half dozen pennies I earned last month.

  I worry that his wealth wasn’t acquired via hard work when he scans my bakery. If he’s calculating my assets, he shouldn’t waste his time. The chairs and tables nestled around the space are Ikea knockoffs because even flat-packed furniture is out of my league. The paintings gracing the walls are prints I doctored to look authentic, and my kitchen is older than me. Second only to Cormack, the highest thing of value standing in this bakery is me, and even then, you’re not getting much bang for your buck.

  When he returns his eyes to mine, the mischievous gleam brightening them divulges he isn’t litigious. He’s simply seeking a way to return my tease. How do I know this? The sting of my bra strap snapping my olive skin proves he was calculating nothing but revenge.

  My jaw drops as my overworked brain struggles for an appropriate response. He just snapped my bra strap—a man whose suit alone could feed me for a year snapped my bra strap. What universe am I in and how did I get here?

  Instead of taking a moment to consider all my options, I respond to Cormack’s tease with an equal amount of immaturity. With a poke of my tongue, I stomp on his foot, spin on my heels, then dart for the kitchen. I should be screaming in alarm, alerting anyone in the vicinity that the Straight-Suited-Stalker who terrorized the residents of Ravenshoe in the late nineties has resurrected from his grave, but instead of hollering at the top of my lungs, I’m giggling like a juvenile twit.

  My response can’t be helped. The butterflies in my stomach already have me overwhelmed with giddiness, and don’t even get me started on Cormack’s bellowing laugh. He’s loving this step back in time as much as I am. I can’t remember the last time I acted so carefree, let alone freely frolicked with a man I just met. I wouldn’t necessarily say dating sucks, but by the time I’ve spent hours primping my body to within an inch of recognition, I barely have the strength to leave my loft, let alone play nice.

  When I enter my kitchen, I snag two eggs in my hand and pivot on my heels to face Cormack. I have no clue what I plan to do with the eggs, but with my brain on the fritz, I’m listening to my fun-loving heart instead of its more mature, rational counterpart.

  He stops dead in his tracks. “Hey, whoa, hold on a minute.” He raises his hands in the air like I’m grasping pistols instead of two lousy eggs. “We’ve only just met, but I’m fairly certain you’re not a lady who does anything she’ll regret in the morning.”

  I twist my lips, equally adoring and loathing the mirth in his tone. “Who says I’ll regret it?” The sexual innuendo teeming between us can’t be missed. It’s so intense, I’m certain the eggs I’m clutching are now hard-boiled. “One stupid mistake can change everything, but who says all mistakes end badly?”

  The air sizzles with sexual tension when he steps toward me, the crackling of energy between us making him seem closer than he is. “Think about this. For every action there is an equal reaction.”

  “Yeah, it’s called retaliation.” I give him a sassy wink.

  When his eyes brighten with defiance, I raise an egg high into the air, wordlessly warning him to stand down. He angles his head to the side before furling his lips. He isn’t berating me; he's merely authenticating my threat. I maintain my strong stance, even though his heated gaze makes me want to squirm. I don’t back down when challenged.

  With the smirk of a man who has nothing to lose, Cormack takes another step toward me. His prowling stops midstride when I peg an egg at a tile me
re inches in front of his feet. It cracks on impact, splashing his expensive shoes with clear goop and bright yellow yolk.

  Pretending I can’t feel my heart jolting in my throat, I return my eyes to Cormack. He’s staring at me in shock, and if I’m not mistaken, a smidge of awe. I accepted his challenge, wrapped a shiny red bow around it and served it straight back to him. He’s probably used to high-class, six months to make a decision women. I’m a baker and a Libra. I think quick, respond even quicker, and dive into the shallow end without a second thought. My life is sweet, but my wittiness is even sweeter.

  Some may say too much sweetness will leave a sour taste in your mouth. That isn’t the case with me. I’m only here for a lifetime, so I plan to make the most of it. If you want to join the crazy-ass ride, you are more than welcome—the more, the merrier, but if you want a smooth, boring track without a single curve or dip in the road, you’re associating with the wrong woman.

  This is Cormack’s introduction to my craziness. I’m expecting him to run for the exit without so much of a backward glance. Will I be disappointed when he flees? Yeah, I will be. Will I mourn his loss? Yes, just as much as I did my libido when it packed up and left town, but I played the game as stipulated in the rule book we call life, and I still came out a loser. That’s why I turned a page five years ago.

  Against the advice of family, friends, and anyone who has ever known me, I threw every penny I had into my business. Up until eight months ago, it was paying dividends. I was happy. I am happy. I’m just trying to find my work/life balance again since this recent decline in sales. Once I do that, things will once again be golden.

  Cormack coughs, alerting me to his presence while also dragging me from my thoughts. I was so sure he would have fled by now, I stare at him with wide eyes. My frozen stance only lasts mere seconds, but it feels like hours.