by Sabrina Sol
I would love to know how it feels to plunge my cock between your thighs.
She’d need another hour in the cooler, at least.
After a good ten minutes spent inventing every cupcake concoction she could think of—including a few flavors she wouldn’t dare sell in a store, but sounded great for, say, licking off of Eric’s abs—she felt cool enough to take a step backward, shut the door, and go back to the counter. That’s when she noticed the bag with the muffin still sitting there—a reminder that there’d be no escaping Eric. He was back in her life for good.
Well, at least for the next few weeks.
She’d have to figure out a way to handle being around him. Because even though he was the one trying to do the convincing this time, she knew by the way he looked at her that he still wanted her. And that knowledge alone made heat pool between her thighs.
She ran back to the refrigerated case and stuck her head inside one more time.
…
Amara watched Daisy nibble on the last of the buñuelos she’d made that morning and had put out on a plate for customers to sample. Now, only small, shattered pieces remained of the fried tortillas sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar.
“Since we don’t have any customers, why don’t we brainstorm some more marketing ideas?”
She’d overheard her parents the previous night, talking about being short for this month’s loan payment. If they couldn’t pay back the loan on time, the bank would foreclose on their house. Her parents would be forced to live in the small apartment above their nice, newly remodeled bakery. It was filled with cobwebs and boxes and layers of dust, and Amara doubted if any people had ever lived there. Her mother had hyperventilated at the thought of being the first.
She’d left Chicago to save the bakery. It was time to get serious.
“Fine,” Daisy groaned and dusted the cinnamon sugar from her hands. “How about we change the name of the bakery to something more…more sexy.”
Amara rolled her eyes. “Okay, first of all, a bakery is not sexy. And second of all, my parents would never agree to change the name. Period. Try again.”
“Excuse me, but a bakery can be sexy. Look around you. Whipped cream? Stuffed rolls? Hot buns? That’s it! We can call it ‘Robles’ Hot Buns’.” She looked at Amara and they both burst out laughing.
“I don’t care what you say,” Daisy continued after they calmed down. “I think that would be a fabulous name for a bakery. And I think that guy Eric would be the perfect poster boy. Just think about it. We could stick his buns on fliers, billboards, on these napkins. What woman wouldn’t want to put their lips on his fine ass?”
Her cousin had a valid point. But Amara wasn’t going to give her any more ammunition. After Eric had come back that morning to retake some measurements, they’d done an awkward dance of “Let’s not say too much or get too close.” Daisy had grilled her as soon as he left. Amara denied that there was anything between them.
“The fact that you are neither confirming nor denying the hotness of his buns leads me to believe that I was right the first time—there is something going on,” she pushed.
“I already told you—”
“Correction. You already lied to me. I know he’s the guy you and Trina were talking about the other day.”
Amara ignored her and walked into the kitchen to get more sugar packets. Daisy followed her.
“Okay fine. You won’t tell me what really happened, so I’ll have to let my wild imagination take a guess.”
Amara grabbed a handful of packets from the box in the pantry and headed back to the front of the bakery with Daisy on her heels.
“Let’s see. You guys hooked up after you saw him hammering something…hard. Nah. That’s too boring,” she said. “Did he take you on the kitchen counter? Ooh, or maybe right here against the display case?”
“We didn’t have sex!”
“Ah, is there a ‘yet’ at the end of that sentence?”
“What? No. Of course not.”
“Why not? He’s hot, and judging by the way you stammered when he asked you where he could leave his tools for tonight, you are obviously into him. So what’s the problem?”
“He’s not my type.”
“Puh-leeze woman. He’s everyone’s type! Try again.”
“That’s exactly what I mean. He can have any woman he wants. He probably does. And I don’t do casual, uh, sex.”
“Again I ask, why not? I don’t care what battery operated toy you might have in your drawer, nothing beats the real thing. Even if it’s only a one-time thing.”
Amara couldn’t hide her shock even if she tried. Her cousin was a year younger than she was and Amara had always thought of her more as a little sister—innocent and naive. Obviously, that wasn’t the case anymore.
Daisy continued. “Besides, who said it would have to be casual? Maybe it could turn into something more? You’ll never know if you don’t at least try.”
“No, it would never work. My parents…”
“He’s not a serial killer, Amara. He’s not a felon, right? What’s the problem? And anyway, who cares what Ricardo and Consuelo think?”
“I know them. It would just turn into a big deal, and for what? It’s not worth it.”
“But how do you know for sure?” Daisy walked over and took the sugar packets out of her hand. Amara rolled her eyes, but her cousin didn’t give up. “You know when you opened that little cupcake shop downtown? I was so proud of you. You were finally doing something for you, just you. But then…”
Amara cocked an eyebrow. “It crashed and burned and I lost all of my parents’ money?”
Daisy pointed a handful of sugar packets at her. “Hey, that wasn’t your fault. You were just ahead of your time. Look at all of the cupcake shops now. They’re on every corner, just like freaking Starbucks.”
“You know my mom wouldn’t talk to me for a week after that? And it doesn’t matter that I already paid them back. She still brings it up when she’s really mad.”
“The point is, you did it. And when it didn’t work out, you picked yourself back up again and got that job in Chicago. But now it’s like…”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re settling for what your parents always wanted for you—to take over the bakery, get married to someone like your brother, and pop out a few grandkids,” Daisy said, setting the sugar on the counter. “I’m just wondering when you’re going to stop doing what everybody expects you to do and start doing the things you want to do?”
She bristled at her cousin’s words, but only because Daisy was right.
It was time to shake things up around here. Expect the unexpected would be her new motto.
And the first unexpected thing she was going to do was convince a certain dark-haired devil that a good girl could be very, very bad.
Chapter Seven
Eric replayed the sentence in his head one more time just to make sure he’d heard it right. As much as he tried, no other word combination came close. His ears hadn’t deceived him. His abuela had really just told Amara, “My mijo says you have the best besos.”
They had stopped at the bakery on their way to the market. His mother had argued with his abuela that they didn’t have time for a visit because they had a lot of errands to do on her only day off. But his grandmother had insisted the bakery’s pan dulce was fresher and cheaper than the sweet breads at the market. Of course, he’d taken his abuela’s side.
But now, as he watched Amara’s face turn the same shade of pink as the bandana she wore on her head, he’d wished he’d agreed with his mother instead.
“He said what?” Amara asked, shooting him a couple of eye daggers. She probably thought he said something about the night of the baptism. He hadn’t. Not a word, not to a soul.
But instead of saying anything in front of his mom and abuela, he pointed to the display case and the dome-shaped pastry and jam sandwiches rolled in coconut, which sat neatly stacked inside. Amara saw the “k
isses” his abuela was referring to and her face returned to its normal caramel color.
“Are they piña or fresa?” she asked Amara, clapping her hands and bouncing like a kid about to get candy. He couldn’t help but smile when Amara grinned at his abuela. He recognized that delighted sparkle in her eyes. No wonder she was so good at baking. She baked because she loved to make people happy.
“I only have strawberry,” Amara explained. “I’ve never made them with pineapple before.”
Abuela sighed. “Not many people do anymore. I used to eat them all of the time when I was pregnant with my Diana here. Piña is my favorite, but I like fresa, too.” She smiled again. “Por favor, dame tres.”
“Are you sure three is all you want, abuela?” he asked. “It’s my treat. Fill up the box!”
“She shouldn’t eat that much sugar,” his mother warned.
He didn’t care. He loved seeing his grandmother so excited. “She can eat half of one in the morning and the other half after her lunch. It will be fine,” he insisted. When his mother turned her attention to the free samples of cut-up pastries displayed on the opposite end of the counter, he lowered his head and whispered in his abuela’s ear, “Don’t worry, you can also have one after dinner.” Then he planted a big kiss on her cheek.
He looked up and saw Amara staring at him with an expression he couldn’t quite describe.
“So Eric, what is it that you’ve been doing here at night? I’ve only been in here a few times but I don’t really see much difference.” The suspicion in his mother’s voice grated on his nerves. He tried to deflect his growing irritation by rolling his eyes at Amara and attempting a smile.
He opened his mouth but Amara jumped in. “He actually already fixed a lot of things in the kitchen for us. And he’s replacing the molding and paneling in here this week, right Eric?”
His mother looked at him to answer. “Yeah, that’s right,” was all he said.
“The real work, like the painting and flooring, will be next. I’m sure you’ll be able to notice a big change after that stuff is done. My dad tells me every day how impressed he is by Eric’s work. Your son really knows what he’s doing.”
Eric nodded sheepishly at his mother, while his grandmother beamed with pride. Why Amara was rambling and gushing, he didn’t know. It’s not like he asked her to justify his work, or help him impress his mother. Still, he admitted, it had been nice to hear those things. Especially from her.
They left the bakery a few minutes later, his abuela very satisfied with her purchase of besos, bolillos, and corn muffins. He opened the passenger door of his mom’s Toyota Corolla and helped his abuela inside. After shutting her door, he went to open his own when his mom said, “Amara’s all grown up, isn’t she?”
He stared at her across the roof of the car. “What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing. I guess I’m just noticing, that’s all.”
“Okay,” he said with a shrug, and opened the door.
“She seems like a nice girl,” his mother continued.
“She is. What’s your point, Mom?”
“My point is that for her sake and the sake of your job, I hope the only besos that girl is giving you are the ones filled with strawberry. I know what I saw in there, and I’m just telling you to be careful.”
He didn’t say anything so she got into the car. He stayed outside, trying to push down his anger and frustration before making a scene in front of his abuela.
Why did she have to go out of her way to tell him that Amara deserved better? He didn’t need reminding. So what if he constantly kicked himself for not taking her that night in the shed? What would’ve happened if he had? Would Miguel have ever agreed to meet him? Would he have ever offered him the remodel job?
He’d done the right thing for once in his goddamn life, no matter how badly he wanted to pin her against the nearest wall and kiss her senseless every time they were in the same building. He didn’t need anyone telling him that he didn’t belong with Amara.
He already knew it.
But on days like today, when she stood up for him and made him feel like what he did mattered, it was definitely harder to accept. He should at least thank her for the kind words.
Eric bent down and knocked on the car window. His mom rolled it down. “Yes?”
“I need to talk to Señor Robles about something. I’ll be home later.”
Before she could answer, he ran back inside the bakery in search of Amara.
He would say thank you and leave. Nothing more, nothing less.
Hopefully.
“I’ll be out in a few seconds,” he heard her yell when he walked through the door.
If he waited, he’d second-guess what he was doing. He headed from the empty bakery toward her voice and found her walking out of the kitchen’s pantry with a stack of foam coffee cups.
“Eric. What are you doing back here?”
He answered by taking the cups out of her hands and setting them down on a nearby counter. He’d only planned to talk to her. But knowing they were alone and this close was more than he could stand.
“Screw being a decent guy.” He threaded his hands through her hair and brought her lips to his. It should have only been a quick kiss—just enough to let her know how much her words had meant. But the longer he tasted her, the more he wanted to keep tasting her. He expected her to break the kiss any second, to tell him he’d had no right to say one thing and do another.
Until then, he’d take his fill.
He moved his hands from her head to her ass and grabbed hold. She moaned into his mouth and he grabbed harder. Maybe she deserved better than him, but he’d bet every dollar he’d ever made, no one else could make that sound come out of her.
“God, you make me so crazy when you moan like that,” he said as he moved his lips to her neck.
“You make me crazy when you say things like that,” she said on a sigh.
Crazy. That was the perfect word for what they were doing. What he was doing. He’d promised Miguel he’d stay away from Amara and he was pretty sure that meant not sticking his tongue down her throat or squeezing her nipple through her shirt. If someone walked in on them right now, he’d have hell to pay for defiling the neighborhood saint.
And he was flat broke.
He stole one last hard kiss and pulled her hands off his chest. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have done that. But you’re so goddamn sexy, sweetheart, I just couldn’t resist.”
“Then maybe it’s time to just give in,” she purred and put her hands on his shoulders. “It can be our little secret. I promise I won’t tell.”
He shook his head and took her hands off him for the second time. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
“You don’t fit into my plan.”
She frowned. “What plan? The remodeling plan for the bakery?”
“No, the do-over plan for my life.”
She shook her head, obviously still confused.
“Move back home. Check. Get a job. Check. Screw my ex-best friend’s sister? No way.”
She put her hands on her hips and basically dared him not to look at her pouty lips. “I’m more than just your ex-best friend’s sister, Eric.”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
Then he turned around and walked away from her. Again.
Chapter Eight
Amara looked up just in time to see her mom charging across the street toward the bakery. It was Thursday, but it felt like a Monday. A really long and awful Monday. She’d already burned a tray of corn muffins and dropped a gallon of milk on the floor and it was barely nine in the morning. Thoughts of that last kiss with Eric had her head all screwed up. The last thing she needed was whatever it was that her mother was about to tell her.
“What is this I hear about you charging Señora Rios two hundred and fifty dollars for a cake!” Consuelo yelled as she came barreling through the front door. “We charge one hundred for a sheet
cake. You know that.”
Amara’s stomach fell. “How—? Wait, did she call you?”
“Of course she did! Now tell me why on earth you would charge her so much for a sheet cake?”
“Because she didn’t order a sheet cake. She decided on a three-tier cake with fondant.”
“Fondant? Qué es fondant?”
“It’s a thicker type of frosting. It requires a lot more work and time. That’s why I have to charge her more.”
“But Señora Rios is the president of the women’s club at church! She is a longtime customer and we need to charge what we’ve always charged her before she decides to stop ordering all of her cakes from us.”
Her mother turned on her heels and walked into the kitchen. Usually, that meant the conversation was over. Maybe it was Eric’s kiss or the fact she’d been excited to work on a fondant cake again, but whatever it was, Amara had had it. She was done letting others tell her what to do—inside and outside the bakery. Her fists balled up and her chest tightened.
She decided that this time, the conversation wasn’t over.
Amara followed her mom into the kitchen. “Two hundred and fifty is a fair price. A cake like the one she wants would normally cost her five or six hundred dollars somewhere else. And it’s not like she can’t afford it. The Rioses own properties all over town.”
Her mother spun around. “Why are we still talking about this? I already told her you made a mistake and the price is one hundred dollars.”
“But I didn’t make a mistake.” Amara put her hands on her hips and stood her ground. “You’re the one making a mistake by charging people prices from the 1990s!”
“Amara!”
“I’m sorry, Mom, but it’s true.” She waved a hand at the aging appliances, the not-yet remodeled flooring. “This bakery is never going to start making money if you don’t increase some of the prices. The cost of ingredients alone has gone up and we need to account for that. Otherwise…well, you know.”
“I understand that you are trying to help, but have you ever owned your own business? That’s right, you did. And what happened? It closed after only three months. So I think I’m the one who knows best here. I’ll talk to your daddy about changing some of the prices, but that will be a discussion we have, and we will let you know what we decide. Don’t forget that this is still our bakery.”