by Nia Arthurs
“You’d be left penniless.”
I blanch at such a horrifying reality. Money’s been my only consolation in this miserable life. If I lose that…
“Just one month, Mave. Give me one month working undercover at the branch. If you stick it out, it’ll prove to the board that you’re worthy of their trust.”
“And after that month?”
“If all goes well and we can convince them, you take over the reins. You get your corner office. You get what little freedom you can muster while commanding a multimillion-dollar company.” She shakes her head. Looks at her watch again. “The current manager is expecting you today. You need to get going.”
I want to argue, but I don’t have it in me. Gran looks really tired and that scares me more than I’ll admit. Even if I hate the thought of running the business, I hate the thought of losing her more.
We’re up in the air and flying away from Belize in under an hour. I fold my arms over my chest and remain quiet all through the flight.
When we land, Gran takes my hand again. “I know you can do this. You’re capable of so much more than you think, Mave.” She brings my hand to her lips and kisses it. “I know you won’t let me down.”
“I’ll try my best.” That’s all the promise I can make right now.
Gran nods at Will.
The burly man escorts me to the car.
The sun is lower in the sky. Dusk smears a hazy backdrop over a city that’s settling down for winter.
I shiver against the cold even though I’m wearing a jacket.
We’re definitely not in Belize anymore.
Will pulls the vehicle to a stop in front of a tall, brick building with a striped green-and-white awning. They’re the official colors of our franchise and they stand out against the red bricks and frosted door.
I climb out of the car. When I hear an answering thud from his side, I shoot Will an annoyed look.
“You’re going to walk me in?” I arch an eyebrow.
He stops walking but doesn’t stop glaring. “Don’t disappoint your grandmother.”
“Sounds like you don’t think I can pull this off.”
He grunts doubt it.
I toss him a smirk and stalk into the store.
The bell above the door jingles once and then again when the door crashes shut. The scent of baking cookies fills the air, reminding me of my mother.
My palms start to sweat.
Christmas pop music blares from the speakers.
My stomach tightens when I see all the decorations. It’s like the North Pole threw up in here. Miniature Christmas trees. String lights. Red and green garlands. Fake snow.
Gran chose the worst possible time to fling me back into my past.
Even so, I grit my teeth and push forward.
A woman with deathly pale skin and blue hair stares at me from behind the cash register.
I saunter up to her, throwing on my most charming grin. “Hey, there. I’m looking for the manager.”
“You must be Mave.” She plays with a lock of her hair. “Clark’s back there.”
“Thanks.” I tap the counter twice and head back.
Gran must have sent them a picture or… I don’t even care. I’m just hoping to square off with the manager, set my expectations and get the hell out of this nightmare before I go crazy.
I throw my shoulder against the swinging door leading to the industrial-sized kitchen and hear a voice singing softly to the Christmas pop on the radio.
A woman dances to the music, shaking her hips lightly. Long, honey-blonde hair falls down her back, an interesting contrast to her light brown skin.
Short and slender, with curves in all the right places, she reaches for one of the giant jars in the cabinet.
As the music hits the chorus, her hips swing a little faster. Even in the dowdy khakis and plain T-shirt, she manages to emit a sultry appeal.
I lean against the door and observe some more, watching as she stretches on the tips of her toes and nabs whatever she was after.
When the singer goes a key higher and the woman tries to follow, her wavering pitch nearly shatters glass.
I decide to make my presence known.
“Ehem,” I say.
She yelps and turns too quickly, losing her balance on the stool. I see her falling in slow motion and run toward her, my arms outstretched and my eyes locked on her teetering figure.
She crashes into my arms.
The collision of her body knocks me backward, driving me to my knees as a cloud of fine, white snow falls gently around us.
2
Clark
One minute, I’m reaching for the flour jar and grooving to the latest Christmas hits.
The next, I’m wobbling on a rickety stool, arms wind-milling like a giraffe in a hula hoop competition.
At one point in the hand-waving, legs-shaking routine I think I’m going to restore my balance, but gravity says ‘nope’ and pushes me down like a schoolyard bully.
I go flying back.
The man in the doorway moves fast and rescues me from smacking my face into the ground. His lean, muscular arms rope around me, pulling me into his body.
Our noses almost brush with every heave of the chest.
His eyes lift slowly and, when they crash into mine, black as bitter coffee, I feel like a spinning top.
The fragrance of sand and sun leaps off him. He’s hard as granite, his brawny legs keeping me upright with little effort and his full, pink lips pressed into a shadow of a smirk.
I must be dreaming…
“Are you okay?” His voice rumbles like a big, Diesel engine. The kind daddy used to take apart and put back together just for fun.
“Y-yeah.”
Flour rains over our heads like snow, coating his disheveled hair in white dust.
“Oh, geez.” My fingers make one sweep through silky black strands before his heated gaze on my skin stops me.
I realize what I’m doing.
How close we are.
How long we’ve been sitting like this.
Cursing under my breath, I roll off his lap and land on all fours. The humiliation seeping into my skin threatens to send me straight to the pearly gates.
Of course he’d witness my off-key singing and Humpty-Dumpty level fall. Because why would such horrors happen to anyone other than me?
He climbs to his feet quickly and sticks out a hand.
For a second, I consider not taking it, but I reach out and clasp my fingers over his, allowing him to help me up. My heart does a funny little flip when we touch, and I yank my hand back as soon as I’m on my feet.
Get a grip, Clark. Did that fall mess with your head?
He studies me, his hand sliding into his pocket. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Totally.” I offer a strained smile and dust the ends of my hair. Thick, honey-blonde locks bounce against my shoulders. The synthetic hair is a new unit and I paid a hefty price for it.
Gosh, I hope flour comes out of frontals.
“Nice moves.” His smile gets a little bigger. “Might need to work on your falsetto though. That chorus…”
My embarrassment gets a little stronger.
And by little, I mean it’s roaring through the roof.
“I’m thinking of signing up for American Idol.” I laugh sheepishly. Since he caught me, I might as well own it. “Don’t you think Simon would love me?”
He chuckles, flashing a smile that threatens my ability to breathe.
“Thanks for the rescue.” I brush my apron down. “But you’re not allowed back here.”
“I’m Mave. I was told to speak with the manager.” He points a finger at me and lifts a thick brow, the last line of his words inflecting up into a question.
“Oh. Oh.” I smack my forehead. “You’re the suit from corporate.”
Mave’s lips twitch as he nods. “I’m the suit.”
My eyes slide down his body again. He doesn’t look like someone I’d exp
ect from corporate.
There’s no old-fashioned haircut. No crisp blazer. No stick-up-his-butt. The recklessness shining in his gaze tells me there’s something more behind this.
“Just to clarify… I'm not the manager,” I explain.
His eyebrows arch. “Aren't you?”
“I kind of fell into the position.” Eager to get away from his heavy gaze, I reach for a broom and start to clean up the flour. “The actual manager quit.”
“Oh.”
I study him strangely. “Didn’t they tell you anything?”
“I was just told to report here.” He reaches out to me, eyes glittering expectantly.
I pause and study his pale hand.
Long, slender fingers. Broad palm. Heavy veins snaking up into his arm.
Even his hands are masculine.
I swallow hard. “W-what?”
“The broom.” He takes it from me when I don’t hand it over.
The sudden emptiness makes me feel vulnerable.
“I’ll do that.” I reach for it, leaning forward in order to nab the broom back. “The mess was my fault.”
“I’m the one who startled you.”
“But—”
He slants me a firm look over his shoulder. “Relax.”
I catch another whiff of his sunny fragrance, and I wonder if he’s just walked off the set of a high-class sunscreen commercial.
He stares right back at me.
Our gazes tangle like twin flames, and all my nerves tighten into one big knot.
“Thanks,” I say shyly.
He rests his elbow on top of the broom and gives me another appraising look. “I didn't catch your name.”
“Clark.” I croak out my name as if it's foreign to me. As if my mother and father didn't labor over a thousand baby name books before they settled on the one that felt right.
His lips inch up. “Well, Clark, you think you could clue me in here? I rushed over without stopping to read the files and I feel like a lot was missing from my brief. What exactly am I supposed to do?”
“Everything.” I throw my arms wide.
For the first time his expression shifts to something other than confidence. Black eyebrows pull together, and tiny crinkles spread out from the corners of his eyes. “Everything?”
I nod. “Corporate’s reclaiming the store until they can find a new franchisee.”
“So I’m…” He sticks a finger at his chest.
I bounce my chin. “Yes. You’re the new captain of this sinking ship.”
“Hmm.” He drums his fingers on the broom.
“I'm sure you'll do great.”
“Not as great as you would.”
I grin softly.
He tilts his head to the side. “How do you feel about a promotion, Clark?”
I burst out laughing.
His eyebrows knit together. “What?”
“Didn’t you hear me when I said this ship was sinking?” I purse my lips. “You do realize this bakery is broke, right?”
He blinks rapidly, the broom swishing left and right as he manages to make an even bigger mess of the flour.
“Before the previous owner left, she handed me the books.” It was more like she flung them at me while cursing out her cheating husband who’d bought this place before leaving her, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Math is not my friend, but when every number’s negative and in red…”
He huffs out a breath. “How bad is it?”
“It’s bleeding dry. Has been for a while. Unless corporate takes a big scoop out of their piggy bank and offers way more help than they have been, we’re stuck. There's no way this place can afford a promotion for me, for you, for anybody.”
Mave looks like someone just ran him over with a truck.
I press. “But isn’t that why you’re here? To save this place before it closes down?”
His eyes flash with something I can't understand. He sighs heavily and a cloud of flour blows up from the desk. “I guess so.”
“You guess?”
“If I added the extra cash, would you consider a promotion?”
Does he have that kind of money just lying around? “Sorry. Even if this place could afford it, I’m not interested in a promotion.”
He keeps sweeping flour all over the place. “Why not?”
“This,” I gesture to the franchise logo coating every plastic, plate, and parcel, “is not my dream. I want to own my own bakery. I don't want to take care of someone else’s.”
“And yet you’re here.” His vigorous sweeping continues. Rather than collecting the dirt into a pile, he’s managed to throw dust and flour into the farthest corners of the kitchen.
“Only because I’m trying to qualify for a license to open my own place.” I eye the giant mess he’s making. Finally, I reach for the broom and grumble, “You’ve never done this before, have you?”
“Promoted someone?”
“Swept a floor.” I deftly gather the dust in a pile. “How can someone mess up something this simple?”
“Ouch.”
I glance up. Smile apologetically. “Sorry. I’ll give you a lesson later.”
“You’re going to have to teach me more than how to handle a broom.” He rubs the back of his neck. “This,” Mave gestures to the kitchen, “is all foreign to me.”
My eyebrows knot. I don’t understand why a corporation as well-oiled and mighty as the Aunt Lee Bakery brand would send a total novice to help this place.
The store is barely limping along.
It needs a skilled surgeon, not a handsome GQ model.
As much as I appreciate Mave’s visuals, and I do, it’s important to me that I keep this job. This franchise has a direct line to the culinary organization in the city. Under their banner, I’ll qualify for my culinary license this Christmas.
I’ve already saved up enough money to put a down payment on a new spot and, hopefully, get a loan from the bank to buy the equipment I need for my own tiny bakery.
Everything’s in place.
I can’t lose my chance this close to the finish line.
A gurgling sound interrupts my thought.
I sweep up the flour into a dustpan. “Sounds like you’re hungry. We’ve got fresh cookies baking—”
He winces like I just offered him poison. “No thanks.”
“You prefer something else? We’ve got Danish, tarts, snickerdoodles—”
“I don’t really like sweets.”
“You… don’t?” I scrunch my nose. “You do realize you’re working for a company that sells nothing but sweets and coffee, right?”
“Yeah.” He smiles.
I immediately lose my train of thought. Every time Mave smirks at me, it feels like I’m riding a roller coaster going a hundred miles per hour. My heart jumps to my throat, and I can’t breathe.
He shakes his head. “It’s okay. I’ll order in while I look at the numbers.”
“Sure.” I point down the hallway. “Office is down there.”
He saunters down the corridor, his loping, confident stride making me revisit the idea that he’s really a model-turned-corporate-suit.
I tear my eyes away from him before he turns back and catches me staring like I’ve never seen a handsome man before.
The moment the door to the office thuds shut, the door to the kitchen swings open.
Leona barrels toward me, her bright blue hair matching her eyes. “Did you see that guy?” she hisses. “Did you see all that?”
“I did, yeah.” I laugh at her theatrics.
“A face like his is wasted behind a desk.” She fans her ruddy cheeks, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she sighs. “Tell me he’s single.”
“I don’t know. We didn’t discuss that.” I wipe the counters.
Leona grabs my shoulders and whirls me around. “Clark, what’s that on your face?” She grabs a cloth and wipes my forehead. “There was a huge, white palm-print there.”
“Was it on me the e
ntire time?” I gasp. No wonder Mave’s lips kept twitching when he looked at me.
Roughly rubbing my forehead with the cloth, I pout in horror. He could have at least told me I had something on my face.
Trying to placate my stinging ego, I straighten my shoulders. It doesn’t matter. A man like Mave probably has a string of women hoping to impress him. I don’t need to be another one.
“Want me to help you take the cookies out of the oven?” Leona asks.
“I’ve got it.” Slipping on my oven mitts, I open the oven and slide the cookies out.
The fragrance fills my nostrils and I take a deep drag like an addict about to make his next big mistake.
Every Aunt Lee’s Bakery menu is the same and I completed two weeks of training to ensure I understood the brand. To preserve the recipe, the company sends pre-made dough for us to bake during the week.
It works for me because I want to reserve all my creative juices for my own baking recipes, but the one pastry that tempts me the most is those Christmas cookies.
I nab one.
Delicious.
“You shouldn’t be eating the stock, Clark,” Leona scolds me playfully as she, too, steals one.
I moan softly. “Every time I bite into one of these, I feel like I’m in the backseat of Santa’s sleigh.”
“Doing what?” Leona wiggles her eyebrows.
I push her shoulder. “The cookies are done. The kitchen is clean. I’ve got dough rising for tomorrow. I’m clocking out now.”
“Going to stalk that old building again?”
“That old building is going to be my future bakery.” I grin.
“Clark, seriously, when are you going to have a social life. If you’re not here or at that old bakery, you’re hustling to sell your amazing cupcakes on the side. You’ll never meet a guy at this rate.”
“You sound like my mother.” I roll my eyes. “Even if I were interested, I can’t date right now.” The baking sheets rustle as I place another pastry in the display counter. “I have to log in enough hours to qualify for my culinary license—”
“Which is why you’re working here when you bake circles around us.”
“Leona, I barely have time to breathe right now.”
“People who can’t breathe tend to be uptight.” She rubs my back. “You know what’s the best at working out those kinks?”