Traded for Love

by Michelle Hughes

  “Just one?” I tipped my chin.

  “Two, then. I'll even bake them myself.” He wiggled his fingers.

  “Okay.” I took his hand and allowed him to lift me to my feet. He did it without any effort. For a split second, our bodies brushed, and a shiver ran a marathon down my back.

  Keep it together, Emily. Keep your shit together.

  I took a deep breath to steady myself.

  “Are you sure you're ready to walk around? We can always go another day.” His voice was hedged with concern again.

  “No. I'll be okay.” After he'd taken over when I freaked out, I couldn't help but feel safe with him. Despite my not knowing him long, there was something strong and sturdy about him. It could have been that I was stupid to trust him so soon, but his solution to our newness to each other seemed sound.

  We answered all the questions of the staff as we left, reassuring them that I was okay.

  Once outside in the cool air, I took out my phone and called a cab.

  A few minutes later, a yellow car pulled up and we piled into the back.

  “Where to, ma'am?” asked the cabby. I realized Drake had never told me.

  “Where are we going?” I asked quietly.

  He leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Savage Sweets.”

  Yeah, that shiver? It was back in full force. “Wh—what?” I stammered.

  “Savage. Sweets,” he repeated.

  His breath in my ear made it impossible to move. I cleared my throat. “Savage Sweets, please,” I told the driver.

  “Yes, ma'am.” He programmed his GPS.

  Jesus. Even the name of his bakery is sexy.

  “So,” I piped up, my voice cracking, “What made you think of that name?”

  “My last name is Savage. The family name was Sauvage but my great-great-grandparents changed it when they emigrated from France to the U.S … ”

  “And were they bakers, too?” I asked.

  “No, my great-greats were cobblers. They made shoes. What do you do for a living?”

  “I'm a housewife. Kind of. Not really a job,” I said, tapping my fingers on my knees.

  “Hey, housewives have really important jobs. Without them, entire households would be chaotic. I'm sure your husband appreciates everything you do for him, all the cooking and cleaning.” He popped his forehead with his palm. “Sorry. That was a little presumptuous of me. I guess when I think of a housewife, I think of my mom. She did everything for me growing up. Without her, I wouldn't have found or followed my passion. Without her, I wouldn't be the person I am today. I have the utmost respect for housewives. They're the glue that holds families together.”

  I chewed my lip. “I don't actually do any of that stuff. I have maids and a cook.”

  “Oh.” He appeared to be recalculating where he should be taking the conversation. “Well, still. I'm sure the things you do make you irreplaceable.”

  “That's generous. I'm sure anybody could do what I do, which isn't much.”

  “Even a woman who never lifts a finger has an important job to do. Any woman in a relationship is a support system, a shoulder to cry on, someone to experience life with. You're a wife and that definitely makes you important. I'm sure your husband couldn't live without you.”

  I stared in awe at the way he described what he thought my life must be like. How could he be so sure? “Can I just crawl into your brain and live there, where everything is perfect?”

  “Gosh. I keep overstepping my bounds. I'm really sorry.” He ran his fingers through his golden hair. “I'm not good at small talk.”

  “Yeah, I can see that. Shit gets intense with you, doesn't it?” I clasped my hands, bringing my suddenly sweaty palms together.

  He let out a big belly laugh and leaned back against the cracked faux-leather seat. “I guess so.”

  It wasn't long after that we rolled across the bridge and came to a standalone building. Its front window was done antique style. Inside, the patrons were sitting at carved wooden bistro tables enjoying all manner of decadent pastries.

  “See? I told you you can trust me,” he said with a grin.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I rolled my eyes and paid the driver.

  Drake helped me out of the back seat onto my feet.

  I inhaled deeply. “Oh man, I can smell the sugar from out here.”

  “It gets even better inside.” A bell clinked against the door as he pulled it open for me.

  I marveled at the warmth of my surroundings. With its dark wood floors, white-tiled counter, and antique, glass-front display case, it sported an old-world, country feel. I was in love. It was so inviting that I was sure I could live there.

  “Drake! Thank goodness!” The flustered words came from a middle-aged woman with mousy brown hair, who stood at the counter with her hands on her hips. “You're half-an-hour late!”

  “Sorry, Margot. I got held up.” He lifted the bar which separated the lounge from the staff area, and came up beside her.

  “Christ! What happened to your shirt?” she asked.

  “A little run in with this lady resulted in us both getting coffeed.” He flashed me a grin.

  Her face twisted up. “It doesn't smell like coffee.”

  “That's because you didn't make it,” he sidled up to her and kissed her cheek. “This is Margot, my house manager. She does everything here. Margot, this is Emily.”

  She didn't look happy to see me, but she spit out a “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Don't mind the stink eye. That wears off,” Drake said.

  She nudged him in the rib. “Unless it's for you.”

  I laughed. “Glad to meet you, Margot.”

  “There's a supply order waiting for me to sign, but Jerome is on his smoke break, so I had to run the register. Could you sign for it?” she asked Drake.

  “Sure. Come on, Emily.” He motioned me behind the counter.

  I warily followed his lead, past the barrier, and through the swinging door that read Staff Only.

  Before I could take in my surroundings, he turned and held up a hand. “Not so fast. All chefs must wear an apron in the kitchen.”

  To our right were hooks, and on them hung clean aprons. He took one off a peg and put the loop over my head. He did the same for himself.

  “But I'm not a chef,” I protested.

  He winked. “You are when you're in my kitchen.”

  “What do I do with this?” I asked, holding up my purse.

  “We'll put it in my office,” he said, taking my purse and leading me to a door just beyond the hooks. I slid my phone into my pants pocket and tied the apron around my waist.

  He unlocked the office and went in. I watched as he went around behind a desk littered with papers and tucked my purse in a filing cabinet drawer, which he locked with another key. “There. Safe and sound,” he said.

  Afterward, he backed out of the tiny cubicle and locked the door.

  He stopped and patted his chest. “Now. I think I promised you a cookie, didn't I?”

  “You promised me two,” I reminded.

  “Well, we're making two-dozen, and you can have two of those,” he said with a smile.

  “Is somebody gonna sign for these?” a man in uniform said from the back door.

  “Oh, yeah! I got it,” Drake answered, rushing over.

  As he tended to the signing, I got a good look at the kitchen. There were several people occupying it. A portly man with dabs of flour on his cheeks stood at the counters, which lined most of the walls, kneading dough by hand. A petite woman of advanced years stood at the center stainless-steel island rolling out some kind of white paste on its surface. An iced cake sat on a turntable in front of her, and a sheet of parchment was laid out beside it. On it were some of the most delicate, pretty sugar roses I'd ever seen.

  I smiled at the quaint scene, all the busy bees at work. I watched Drake as he walked up beside the woman's worktable and swiped two sugar roses.

  “Now, those are for the cake, boy!”
the woman said, swatting him on the arm.

  “I can't help it! They're so tasty!” He made exaggerated 'nomming' noises and laid a sugary kiss on her cheek.

  He came up to me with the most innocent, boyish grin on his face.

  “Do you kiss all the women who work for you?” I asked.

  “Only the ones old enough to be my mom or grandma.” He held up the sugar rose. “Say 'ah'.”

  I opened my mouth and he set the sugar rose on my tongue. As soon as I closed my mouth, it melted into perfect yummy goodness.

  I couldn't suppress the loud mmmm I let out in response, the sound of which came from my throat, but the sentiment of which came from my hungry stomach.

  “Okay!” Drake clapped and rubbed his hands together. “Cookie time. What kind is your favorite?”

  “Um. Chocolate chip?”

  “No it's not.” He shook his head. “Any flavor you have to say as a question is not your favorite. Think back to when you were a kid. Did your mom ever make you a cookie that just made your toes curl?” He illustrated this by folding his fingers into his palms in front of his face and squeezing his eyes shut tightly.

  “My mom died when I was really little. I don't remember.”

  “Jeez. I'm really batting a thousand with you today, aren't I?” He shook his head and huffed. “Well, think about it. What cookie has been most influential in your life?”

  I laughed. “Influential? It's just a cookie!”

  “Those are fighting words in this kitchen.” He spun on his heels. “Leroy, are cookies just cookies?” He shouted across the kitchen.

  “No, chef!” the portly man answered, not looking up from his work.

  “Anna, are cookies just cookies?” Drake repeated to the elderly woman.

  “Do I have to really—”

  “Answer the question, Anna!” Drake said emphatically.

  I held back a laugh at his overzealous prodding.

  She rolled her eyes. “No.”

  He turned back to me. “See? Cookies are not just cookies. They are little morsels of chewy, sweet goodness. They can be attached to amazing memories. They fix scraped knees. They make you feel happy!”

  “You're not supposed to eat your feelings, you know,” I chided.

  “We're all about breaking the rules here,” he said, winking at me again.

  There went my legs again, turning into Jell-O. If there was a cookie that made me feel like that, I wanted it.

  A scrawny guy came in from the back door, almost startling the bejesus about of me.

  Drake snapped his fingers at the guy. “Jerome. Coffee, please.”

  “Ooh. Who's your friend?” The kid wiggled his bushy, black eyebrows. He took his hands out of his pants pockets, and adjusted the sides of his denim jacket dramatically. “How are you, ma'am?”

  “Not for you!” He shoved Jerome playfully. “Coffee. And the good stuff, please. Top shelf.”

  “Yes, chef!” The kid saluted and exited the bustling cookery.

  “There you are! Did ya smoke a whole damn pack?” Margot bellowed as the door swung on its hinge.

  “I smoked two!” Jerome's fading voice exclaimed.

  Drake ushered me over to one of the empty counters and pulled down ingredients. “We've got a few industrial mixers here, but I prefer to mix cookie batter by hand,” he said.

  I observed as he cracked eggs, melted butter, and added flour, vanilla extract, almond extract, and a number of other basic ingredients to the bowl. “Now we'll just add whatever chewy awesome things we love to the mix.”

  He did it so quickly that it was all a blur to me. By the time he was done, he'd added macadamia nuts, chocolate chips, almonds and peanut butter chips.

  “Oh my god, this smells amazing.” I was sure I was drooling.

  “Go ahead and mix,” he said. “I've got one more thing I want to put in.”

  I stirred the thick batter as he drifted around the kitchen. He finally returned with a small bag.

  “Bombs away!” he said and held the bag up high, letting non-descript chunks fall into the mix.

  “What's that?”

  There was a glint in his ocean-blue eyes. “Salted. Caramel.”

  My jaw dropped. “Can we just … eat the dough?”

  “Nonsense! The magic happens in the oven.” He licked his lips.

  “We've got bread coming out, Drake!” Anna called out.

  “I'll get it!” Leroy answered, pulling off his latex gloves.

  “I'm going to get a baking sheet. Keep going,” Drake said before disappearing again.

  “Chef!” Jerome's voice came from behind me.

  “What is it?” Drake called back.

  “Cream and sugar?”

  “Emily, cream and sugar?” Drake asked me over the noise of Leroy removing the bread.

  “Oh! Yes, please!” The hectic spirit of the kitchen was contagious. I stirred like a mad woman, until my arms hurt. Everything melted together beautifully into one big gooey mess.

  Drake reappeared with a silicone mat on a baking sheet. “Here we go. Now we'll wash our hands and form little balls with the dough and put them on the sheet. Get just enough to fill the palms of your hands.”

  I did as he instructed, and soon the industrial-size pan was dotted with what would become our cookies.

  He wiped his hands and put the pan in the oven. The door clinked shut and I relaxed my aching arms.

  Jerome popped into the kitchen, this time wearing an apron in lieu of his denim coat. He held out a piping-hot mug. “Here you go, my lady.”

  I snickered and took the mug.

  “My lady.” Drake rolled his eyes. “Get back to work, son.”

  Turning the mug in my hands, I stared at the bustling hive. I'd only spent a short time there, yet I already loved it. I wanted to work there, to smell the sugar, to make mystery cookies, to see Drake's smile every day. I wanted to see him kiss the old lady, and wear that white apron, and hear him get yelled at by Margot, and hear him yell at Jerome in his playful, big-brotherish way.

  “Notice how the kid didn't bring me any.” Drake shook his head. “Try it.”

  I inhaled the aroma, catching the chocolate notes in the brew, then took a small sip. The velvety rich blend was unlike any other coffee I'd ever tried. My eyes rolled into the back of my head. “Ohmygod,” I said in one breath. “This is AH-mazing!” I took several more gulps.

  “I told you!” he said with a grin.

  “This is evil. You've ruined every other coffee for me.”

  “I never promised you otherwise. In fact, I think the only thing I gave you my word on was that it would knock your socks off.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest.

  “Consider my socks off.” I couldn't get enough of the drink. I was pretty sure I'd be taking a cup home with me, and possibly a bag of grounds. I'd also have to find out exactly what creamer Jerome had added to it.

  I heard the back door open and footsteps come in.

  “Oh, you're here!” Drake said, his face lighting up.

  When I turned, I saw a petite, curvy woman step into the kitchen. Her brown hair and light-brown eyes made her look like she was covered in a thick layer of sweet syrup. Her white summer dress made her look young, but judging from the look her face, I deduced she couldn't have been younger than twenty-five. There was an innocence about her, something I liked, but wasn't sure I could trust at face-value.

  I was shocked when Drake wrapped an arm around her and pecked her on the lips. “How was it?”

  “Still the same. Nothing's changed,” she answered, sliding her paisley scarf off her shoulders.

  “Come and meet my new friend, Emily,” Drake said, bringing the woman over.

  I lowered my mug. It'd somehow lost its sweetness.

  To say the meeting was awkward would be an understatement.

  She put out a hand for me to shake and I did so with as much of a smile as I could muster.

  Drake shifted uncomfortably. “Emily, this is Cha
stity, my—”

  “—his friend,” Chastity interrupted.

  Her eyes drifted down to my cup. “I see he's lured you in with the promise of coffee. And—” She sniffed the air. “Are those your famous chewy, salted caramel chunk cookies?”

  “Yup.”

  “Could you bring some home? I think I'll need a few. It's been a day.”

  How was it that I felt like the third wheel, when she was the one who'd walked in our … whatever this was. Was this a date?

  I swallowed hard.

  “Can you handle things the rest of the day? I'm going home. I just came by to get my purse. I left it downstairs,” she said to him.

  “Yeah, I've got it.” He reached into his pocket and handed her a gold key.

  “Emily, was it?” She smiled. “It was nice to meet you.”

  “You too,” I said with absolutely no excitement in my voice. I was lying and I didn't have enough fortitude to cover it up.

  Chastity smiled, nodded, and then walked off in the direction of a door I hadn't noticed before.

  “I think I'd better be going,” I said, holding out the mug for him.

  He looked disappointed, sad even. “But you haven't tried one of the cookies yet.”

  “I just noticed the time and I'm late for something. Thanks for the coffee.” I shoved the mug at him and untied the apron strings.

  “Oh. Well, at least take the cookies with you if you won't eat them here. They only have a few minutes left.” His eyes were pleading just as hard as his voice was.

  “Okay.” I faked a smile. “I'm going to be late though.”

  He chuckled lightly. “They're worth being late for.”

  Without another word, I lay my apron down on the island and exited the kitchen—too fast to avoid raising suspicion.

  I blew through the barrier and sat down at the closest empty table. The last customer's dishes hadn't been cleared yet, but I didn't care.

  Embarrassed, and lost in thought, I sat quietly waiting. He'd woven some kind of spell for me, one which made me feel like I belonged. Chastity's appearance had destroyed that. The magic had disappeared, and I felt like nothing but a third wheel. There was no doubt in my mind that she was his girlfriend.

  I couldn't even reason through why that upset me. Why did it bother me? I was married, so why did it bother me that he had a girlfriend?