by Anthology
I shook my head. “For an actor, you kind of suck at lying.”
We gathered up the ruined wrapping paper and the leftover bits of ribbon and tossed it all in a large garbage can in the corner. When the room looked mostly as we had found out, I turned to him. “I guess I should get out there.”
He nodded. “I’m afraid I need to get going.”
“Really?” I couldn’t hide my disappointment. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to him yet. I had no idea what to make of the night, no idea what any of it meant or, more importantly, if it would mean anything tomorrow. All I knew was that I wasn’t ready for it to be over.
“There is a club opening that I’m supposed to make an appearance at,” he explained, looking sheepish. “A work thing, the studio arranged it. I, uh, was supposed to be there a few hours ago, actually.”
“Jackson!” I pulled my phone from my purse. It was nearly midnight. “Why didn’t you say?”
He looked away, shy. “I guess I didn’t want to leave.”
Something warm and velvety slid down my chest. “Really?”
“Really.”
We stood there in the store room for a long moment, just staring at each other. “I’m glad,” I finally whispered. “That you didn’t leave.”
And there was that grin again—that happy, little boy look that I had never seen in any of the magazines. It made me feel special, seeing that smile. Like I got to experience a part of him no one else did.
“So,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine. “I should go. I guess.”
“Will I… I mean. I guess I’ll see you around?”
The grin turned sly, that charming and dangerous smile that had sent me into such a tailspin earlier in the night. “Sofie, you will absolutely see me again. I promise.”
I didn’t bother to hide my own smile. “Good.”
Still we stood there, not quite close enough to touch, watching each other. Like neither of us wanted to be the first to say goodbye. I watched as his eyes moved down to my lips, darkening. It sent a delicious little thrill down my back.
“You know,” he murmured, not looking away. “I’m already late for the club opening.”
“And everyone has gotten along without me for the last hour,” I added, my voice husky.
“So what’s a few more minutes, eh?”
Without breaking his gaze I reached over and slammed the door. “Don’t knock over the gifts this time, all right?”
He narrowed his eyes. “That was you, miss.”
“Yeah, right. It was totally your fault. You’re the one—”
Before I could tell him what he had done, his lips were on mine, his hands on my face, pressing me back against the wall.
Maybe we’ll find time to argue about fault later, I thought, bringing my hands to his messy hair. He had promised that he would see me again. Would he be able to keep that promise? I had some small idea of how busy his life was, how very different from my own. I knew that I couldn’t really bet on a reunion any time soon. And my life was about to get insanely complicated. There probably wasn’t any room for a movie star in it, particularly one who lived in a different country.
Jackson’s lips moved down to my neck and I closed my eyes, happier than I had been in ages. Maybe I wouldn’t see him again. Maybe I would. There was no way to be positive. And that was okay.
No matter what the future held for us, I had Jackson here now, in my arms, his lips on mine.
And I sure as hell was going to enjoy it while it lasted.
Author’s Note - Rachel Schurig
Author’s Note: You’ve just finished reading Sofie and the Movie Star, a short story by Rachel Schurig. If you’d like to spend more time with Sofie, Jackson, Thomas, and Lizzie, fall in love with the Lovestruck series! Book One, Lovestruck in London, is currently FREE!
LOVESTRUCK IN LONDON - available now on Amazon.com
LOVESTRUCK IN LONDON - available now on Amazon UK
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www.rachelschurig.com
A Sweet Affair
Elle Casey
DESCRIPTION: A handsome stranger walks into A Sweet Affair Bakery looking for a job, just when owner Mary-Anna is ready to toss her hands up in the air and give up. When things get hot in the kitchen, there’s more than just cakes cooking.
A Sweet Affair by Elle Casey is a stand-alone short story.
HEAT LEVEL: Spicy! This short story contains steamy scenes and is intended for mature audiences, 18 and up.
Turn the page to begin reading A SWEET AFFAIR by Elle Casey, or click here to return to this anthology’s Table of Contents.
A Sweet Affair
Elle Casey
A Sweet Affair by Elle Casey
IT SHOULD GO WITHOUT SAYING that I’m a cake-oholic. A cake addict. A sugar fiend, even. I do own The Sweet Affair Bakery in the heart of Chelsea, just at the edge of the Meatpacking District after all. But until I met him, I never considered myself a risk-taker, a person who has zero self control. I’d always lived by the credo that there’s a time and a place to indulge, and I always thought I knew when and where those times and places were.
Wrong.
Oh, I was so wrong.
Turns out, there is no time and no place where I won’t indulge, so long as the cake is sweet enough and the icing tempting enough to get me to take a taste…
The bells on the door ring, barely registering in my brain. I have four cakes to get done before the end of the lunch rush, and I’m not sure how it’s going to happen. My two best and only full-time employees called in sick, victims of the latest flu, leaving me on my own for the entire day. I know they weren’t faking, so I can’t be mad at them. The Sweet Affair Bakery is a great place to work. I’ve made sure of that.
“Excuse me,” a very male voice says, “is there a manager around I could talk to today?”
Before looking up to acknowledge him, I put my finger on the bow I’m trying to tie, to keep it from falling apart on me again. Exasperated with the interruption and annoyed that he’s automatically assumed I’m not in charge, I raise my gaze to see who I’m about to reply to.
Wow. Gorgeous eyes.
They’re dark brown and fringed with impossibly long, thick lashes that make it appear as if he’s wearing eyeliner.
“No. No manager here today,” I say. It’s the truth. She’s one of the sickies. Normally I take Mondays off, but not this week. I’ve been working nine days straight, but when you’re the owner, that’s what you do. You work until your fingers fall off or you pass out in the flour, whichever comes first.
Mental note: Remove flour bins from potential napping area.
He blinks a couple times in acknowledgement, and then his eyes wander over the display case between us.
“Great looking stuff you have here,” he says.
I take a few seconds to check him out when his attention is elsewhere. I’m tired and practically dead on my feet from working through the night, but I’m not blind. He’s gorgeous. Serious eye candy.
His beard has started to grow in, maybe from his last shave a couple days ago. It’s sparse, telling me he’s possibly on the young side. It’s hard to tell with those eyes of his. They look… wise.
His soft-looking black hair is long enough that it hangs partly in his eyes. He’s either forgotten to brush it today or he’s spent an hour making it look that way. Regardless, it’s perfect. He’s perfect. If you’re into Greek bad boys, which I’m not. Not normally, anyway, but he’s causing me to rethink that a bit.
He has tattoos on both arms, from wrist to neck, sliding and snaking around well-toned, lean muscles. I wonder if they cover his chest and back too, making him look like a walking comic book. Normally I’d find that off-putting, but not so much with him. On him, it could look right. It could look…
Argh!
Stop! Tie your bows and forget about him being naked!
My alarm bells are going off like crazy. This guy is bad with a capital B. He’d break my heart in less than a week if I let him. Which I won’t.
Because I’m too busy.
And he’s too young for me.
And he’s not even offering.
I blow the hair off my forehead and go back to my box of cookies and the pretty but annoying, difficult-to-tie purple bow.
“Thanks,” I say, hoping the long pause between his question and my answer doesn’t make me look crazy.
Not that I care what he thinks, really.
Not much, anyway.
“Do you ever do pastries?” he asks. “French pastries?”
I shake my head, not even looking up. “Nope.”
“Any particular reason why not?”
“Too fussy.”
I glance up under my lashes to see him shrugging faintly as his eyes roam the menu above my head on the wall behind me.
“Do you know when the manager will be back?” he asks, taking a step away from me as he eye-gropes the cookie selection farther down the display case from the register.
“Probably Tuesday. She has the flu.” I don’t know why I feel the need to explain to him. I hate to think I was setting a specific date for when I’d see him again. I bite my lip just in case the words, Around ten in the morning, are about to come out.
“So you got stuck holding things together while the big dog was out, eh?”
I smile as I picture what Amelia would say about being called The Big Dog by this guy. She’d probably bop him upside the head with a bag of sugar for that one. I hired her even though she’s pretty advanced in years because she’s one of those really straight-up people. You always know where you stand with Amelia, and she’s not afraid to start swinging the bags of sugar when necessary.
Mental note: Bring Amelia scones and tea after work.
“Is everything made on site?” he asks, moving over towards me again.
“Yep.”
“Do you ship?”
I sigh heavily. “Yes.”
“Am I bothering you with my questions?”
I tighten the third bow I’ve managed with this new slippery ribbon I ordered last week that I wish I could set on fire right now.
Mental note: Never buy this shit ribbon again!
I look up. “To be honest, yes. I’m on a very tight schedule, and I’m having a hard time concentrating while you’re here.”
He lifts an eyebrow and gives me a half-smile. “Should I take that as a compliment?”
My heart does a tiny flip at that grin. He’s too damn hot for his own good with that black T-shirt and those junk-revealing jeans on. That instantly makes me cranky for some reason. I’m not sure whether it’s at him or myself.
“Not unless you consider being called an interrogator sexy.”
His smile gets bigger. “I like you.”
“Oh goody.” I roll my eyes and slide the box over to the edge of the counter and then support it underneath so I can place it on the table behind me to rest with the other orders ready to go. I kind of hate myself for wanting to flirt with a guy ten years younger than me. It makes me feel older than I am.
Mental note: Watch early Cougar Town episodes to remind self how awful it would be to actually be a cougar.
“You know… I could help you out,” he says. “For today, I mean.”
I don’t turn around to face him. I’m afraid my expression will give me away. Is he seriously that cocky? Thinking I’d go behind my manager’s back and let him work here without her permission?
“What do you mean?” I want to be sure I completely understand what he’s suggesting. He can’t possibly be that bold, can he?
“If your manager’s sick, she won’t be back today, not even to drop in. I could come help you for the day and get you caught up.”
I hate to admit to myself how much of a relief that feels like, the idea of having someone working here today with me. Not a stranger, of course, but someone who knew what he was doing, someone I could trust.
“What’s in it for you? I’m not the manager.” I’m carefully avoiding outright lies, but it’s getting more difficult to dance around the words I want to say.
“Maybe if I do a great job, you’ll put in a good word for me. Maybe your manager’ll want to hire me if you tell her all the things I’m capable of.”
“She’d wonder how I know.”
“You can tell her we worked together before. It wouldn’t be a lie.”
I should tell him to forget it. Or reveal that I’m the owner and the fact that I wouldn’t hire a sneaky bastard like him if he were the last pastry chef on Planet Earth.
But I don’t.
Instead I turn around.
“What experience do you have?” I ask.
“I’ve completed all three levels of patisserie training from Le Cordon Bleu, Paris. I’ve worked at The Four Seasons, Chicago and The Ritz-Carlton at Amelia Island on their pastry teams. I’ve been making pastries and cakes professionally since I was twenty-three.”
I look up at him, trying to hide my reaction to his long list of achievements. “And that makes you… how old now?”
Mental note: Cancel earlier mental note. Stop watching Cougar Town all together. It’s getting into your blood.
He grins again, that simple but very effective body-warming gesture. “Does it matter?”
I shrug, knowing it’s got to be a lot younger than my forty-two years. People say I don’t look my age since I’m short and have long hair, but there’s no way I’d pass for late twenties, which I’m betting is close to where he is in life. He probably has a girlfriend still in college.
“No, it doesn’t matter. Because you can’t work here anyway. The manager does all the hiring.” I put all my weight on one foot and cock my hip. My feet are killing me. “Is there anything I can get you?”
“How about a cup of coffee and one of those frosted heart cookies?”
I nod once and go about getting him a completely inappropriate breakfast. Cookies at eight in the morning? Not for me. I’m strictly a tea and scone person before noon.
I place the coffee and cookie on a plate on the counter and take his money. “If you need anything else, just ring the bell.” I motion to the small silver dome with a button on top next to the register. “I need to start baking.”
“Sure, no problem. Thanks for the coffee.” He winks at me before he picks up the saucer the cup is resting on.
“No problem.”
I actually feel something akin to regret as I turn away from him and walk into the back room.
Four gourmet cakes in four hours? Not possible. The flowers on one cake alone will take me an hour.
I stare at the mixer and hate the gods who arranged my cake orders that day to include not one, not two, and not three, but four different confections in different flavors, necessitating a complete clean and start-over for all my equipment after each one.
Mental note: Save up for another Hobart, ASAP.
Normally, I’m a very organized cook, but when I’m running out of time and feeling stressed to get things done, that particular skill goes right out the window and my life tumbles into chaos. I go into a form of self-destruct. It’s like one of those movies where there’s a bomb about to go off and it has one of those red digital read-outs, ticking off the hours, minutes, and seconds until the big explosion that annihilates everything.
Ten minutes into my routine, I trip on a bin of flour that I didn’t wheel back into its spot earlier and fall onto my knees, bringing a whole tray of spatulas and tongs with me. They clatter all over the floor around me.
“Son of a bitch!” I yell out before I can stop myself. “Mother fudger,” I mutter, rolling over onto my butt. I’m afraid to look at my right knee; it’s already throbbing. I pull a set of tongs out from under my butt and throw them across the kitchen.
I’m trying to wrestle my wavy brown hair back int
o its haphazard bun when a head pops in through the swinging doors.
“You okay in here?”
I’m in too much pain to be angry about the fact that the guy who tried to get me to lie to my manager is in my personal space without an invitation.
“No, I fell. Frigging flour bin.” I reach out with my good leg and try to kick it back into place. It bangs into the one next to it and slowly rolls off in the wrong direction. I really want to throw another kitchen tool at it, but I resist the urge.
I have the distinct impression that The Fates have it in for me today. Why today, is what I want to know. What have I done to deserve this? Of all the days, why is this happening on the one when I have cake deliveries scheduled for my most influential and valuable customers?
Mental note: Consider setting up altar and worshipping to Sugar God or other appropriate deity.
“Here, let me help you,” he says, coming into the room and reaching down to grab me under the arms.
I’m about to protest, partially because I don’t want his help and partially because I’m sure the smell where his hands are going isn’t pleasant, what with all the sweating I’ve been doing, but it doesn’t matter. Before I can get the words out, I’m up. He’s that strong and that fast. It’s hard not to be impressed.
“Whoa, okay. I’m up. That’s good.”
His hands are still on my ribs. I feel a little giddy over it.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, his face just inches away as he squats down a little to get to my level. I can see small wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. I amend his age-estimate to very early thirties.
“I’m fine.” I look away, not wanting to be captured in that gaze of his. It’s too compelling. “Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really do have a lot of work to do.”
He drops his hands to his sides and then kind of throws them up with a shrug. “So let me help.”
I shake my head.
“Come on, what’s it going to hurt? You’ll get your work done and I’ll have something to do for a day.” He claps his hands together. “Please? I’m bored out of my mind. I haven’t had anything to do since I moved here a week ago.”
My heart is fluttering, imaging being with him for that long. “You can’t stay for a whole day.”