by Scott, D. D.
Jules re-tightened her grip around the candlesticks, surmising an even better use for them.
Opening and closing her fingers against the sun-warmed silver, she squeezed the life out of the sticks as if they were lemons instead of chunks of metal, visualizing Jacques’ head as the unfortunate fruit.
Jacques walked the distance between them as if he were sauntering a runway to the flashes of the blinding bulbs of his favorite critics.
Wrong reality show, Jules thought. He’s not a potential candidate for America’s Next Top Model. He’s the next Gordon Ramsey of Hell’s Kitchen.
“Jules, how wonderful to be working with you again,” Jacques said, smiling big, bold, and brash like the cover-worthy playboy he thought he was.
“I’m thrilled, Jacques. Simply thrilled.” Jules met the challenge in his voice with her sweet-as-sugar cream pie, don’t-fuck-with-me serenade. “I wasn’t aware Mrs. Cruz hired a wedding planner.”
“So sorry for the slip in communication, Darling. Maureen saw my Food Network debut and just had to have me.”
His snow white veneers sparkled like South African diamonds — brilliant, beautiful but deadly if obtained.
Two weasels and a wedding had Jules worried, her confidence a wee bit wilted, her wishes for Sweet Destiny’s success wallowing in a well of bewilderment. But she was hell-bent on beating these wacky odds.
A surge of confidence swelled and stirred her soul from the chance to go up against Jacques.
“Diesel, I need you to show me to the kitchen. And Cody, if you’ll come with me, I need some help with the pudding.”
Jacques may have made hell of her days at the French Culinary Institute in New York City, but she’d made a fantastic new life in Nashville. With Sweet Destiny’s launch ahead of her and the support of Cody and the rest of her friends, Jacques would work by her rules this time. It was his turn to squirm.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” Jacques sidled up alongside Cody.
Sensing the competition in the air for testosterone supremacy, Jules stepped between the two men, using her body as the unfortunate conduit of their mating joust.
“Jacques, this is Cody — my partner,” Jules said in a playfully evasive tone, dangling alternative interpretations for Jacques to decode as to what kind of partner she was insinuating.
“You’re a lucky man.” Jacques shook Cody’s hand.
Leaning into him as if they were sidekicks in some great conspiratorial adventure, he continued, “Just don’t take it personal when she abandons you in favor of her next hot dish.”
“Funny how two people’s recollections of the same situation can be vastly different.” Jules draped her arms on Cody’s shoulder and brushed her lips against his cheek.
Feeling Cody’s body jolt from her unexpected touch, she searched his eyes, begging him to play along with her charade.
Cody raised his eyebrows then shrugged his shoulders as if to say ‘what the hell’ then turned his attention back to Jacques.
“Jules tells me she’s never had it so good,” he said, patting Jacques’s shoulder. “She’s not going anywhere.”
“We’ll see.” Jacques tossed back his head until his Matthew Mcconaughey, surf-boy locks fell into a GQ-perfect, disheveled mop. “This is going to be some kind of job.”
“Speaking of the job,” Jules said, feeling way too hot under the collar of her coat to remain idle, “it’s time we head for the kitchen.”
“You two go on. I’ll finish up out here.” Jacques flicked his hand as if to shoo them away in the same manner he would pesky, winged creatures.
“Jacques, that won’t —”
“Jules, trust me, I want to get paid in the end of all this too. I have my own stellar reputation to uphold. I’m not going to screw with you — well, not in regards to the Cruz events.”
“Forgive me for learning my lesson where trusting you is concerned.” Jules reached for Cody’s hand and left Jacques staring after them.
Too young for hot flashes but ripe for anxiety attacks, Jules fanned her arms and hands in front of her face. Beckoning a cold current to cool her heated cheeks, she marched into the Cruz’s kitchen. Giving up on regulating her own body temperature, she opened the freezer door and stuck her head inside. The icy blast ricocheted off her brow bone, damn near knocking her to the floor.
Bad idea.
She reached for the counter and held onto the air-conditioned chilled granite until her skull recovered from the subzero shock of the freezer plus learning she’d be working with Jacques.
“So I take it we have more to worry about than my past with Sienna?” Cody topped the pudding with cream.
“Looks that way,” Jules said, unsure what or how much about her and Jacques’ history she was ready to divulge.
“You know I don’t believe what he said about you.” Cody finished the last dessert cup then turned her to face him.
“Thank you for that. Love ‘em and leave ‘em isn’t my thing.” She dabbed at the corner of her eyes with a dish towel, sure the moisture was frost melting from her battle with the freezer and not the start of a misplaced tear.
“This job is going to be no picnic, Cody,” she said, sorry she’d drug him into the storm brewing. “I’ll no longer hold it against you if you’re ready to run.”
“Contraire, JuJu Bee.” Cody tipped his hat. “If I couldn’t take the heat, I wouldn’t have agreed to share your kitchen — again.”
“Okay, Cowboy.” Jules sniffled back her reservations, letting Cody’s support bolster her spirit. “Let’s see what we’re made of.”
Chapter Three
“The Kardashians of Nashville, huh?” Jules’ best friend Roxy asked, her eyes lighting up like a one hundred-watt bulb in a sixty-watt max socket.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Jules said. “And unfortunately you’re right. Sienna Cruz and her sisters would be the perfect walking billboards for Raeve. They’re certainly stunning.”
Stunning enough that Sienna had in the not-so-distant-past sure caught Cody’s eye, Jules thought, although she kept the thought to herself, not able to take conversation onto that point right now. She had to keep the focus on the business side of her life.
Jules sighed then sucked up the reality of Cruz Control.
Sienna and her family were necessary pieces of her success puzzle but also, though she hated to admit it, wouldn’t be bad additions to Roxy’s master plan. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Like Jules, Roxy gave everything she had to her creations. She spared no passion in her eclectic and sophisticated line of clothing and accessories, making her boutique Raeve one of the premier shopping destinations for Nashville’s elite. The Cruz girls would look fabulous in Raeve couture, as if they needed help turning heads.
Jules looked across the table at Audrey, the other vital link to her sanity.
“I see those wheels spinning under your ball cap,” Jules said, anxious to hear Audrey’s sure-to-be-brilliant marketing idea.
“Girls like Sienna and her sisters would make waves wearing Raeve,” Audrey said. “They’d be perfect for the national ad campaign I’m planning.”
“They’d definitely compliment Raeve’s image, but I guarantee they’re not poster chicks for Sweet Destiny.” Jules savored another bite of The Pancake Pantry’s chocolate chip pancakes. “Their bodies have never seen the likes of the sugar and butter dreams I create.”
“Maybe so.” Audrey picked at the omelet on her plate. “But we can still use the fact that your bakery and catering company is on their It-List Radar.”
“Do we have to bring up catering?” Jules asked. “I’m trying to enjoy my breakfast.”
“I’m still not sure I get how Jack-Off Jacques ended up in Nashville for just one event. It’s not like him to set his sights so small.” Roxy tossed her napkin on the table even though she still had a plateful of food.
“Think about it, Rox. He’s not here for just the Cruz wedding.” Jules rolled her
hands as if she were playing Patty-Cake, prompting Roxy to peruse her mental gossip bank for back issues of the New York Post’s Page Six.
“Shit. How could I forget?” Roxy nodded her head as if to say well-don’t-that-beat-all. “He retired from culinary teaching thinking he was the next Colin Cowie and ready for coliseum-sized events, right? No way. Surely not. You’re thinking he might be interested in Fan Fest?!”
“Not sure. But you betchya I’m gonna find out.” Jules’ mind spun like it did from a sugar rush, although the pain wasn’t the consequence of a sweet surge, but rather the downward spiral of repressed aggression making a glutton of her Jacques Marentino memories.
“I know you’re guts are much stronger than mine, Jules, but how could you accept working with him?” Audrey asked.
“C’mon. I’m not that dumb and delusional. Maureen didn’t tell me she’d hired him until after I’d signed the contract. And now since I roped Cody into helping me, the bastard got a two-for-one talent deal.” That is if Cody didn’t bail on her like any normal, self-preservation-concerned guy should after coming face-to-face with his Ex plus Jacques.
“I don’t even think Sienna knew she had a wedding planner,” Jules continued, almost feeling sorry for the Cruz girls after meeting their mother in the flesh. “I’m fairly certain those girls do whatever Mommy Fairest of All says.”
“Well, the whole thing sure has made a mockery of my martini-half-full attitude,” Roxy said. “I might need therapy again after living through a repeat Jacques performance.”
“That animal is taking advantage of your talent and work ethic just like he did when you were dating five years ago.” Audrey moved large pieces of her omelet across her plate, spearing the eggs with the tines of her fork, still having more bites left than she’d eaten. “If he thinks he can set himself apart from the competition by using you again, he’s more of an idiot than I even gave him credit for.”
“Well — I can tell you one thing for sure. If he’s vying for the same gig as you, Jules, his competition is stiffer than your Aunt Tulip’s patients after they’ve completed one of her sex therapy sessions,” Roxy said, setting her coffee cup on the table with enough force to slosh a good bit over the brim. “He shouldn’t have messed with you the first time. But he’s even more of a dumb ass for attempting it twice.”
Realizing comfort was in short supply, and she should utilize all sources of reinforcement, Jules dug into her last pancake. To hell with the carbs — as if a pastry chef could make a decent living counting sugar grams. That’s why yoga was invented.
But if she wasn’t careful, her decision to take the Cruz gig would wreak havoc on her waistline as well as her coping mechanisms.
Since signing the agreement last Friday, her internal thermostat had been giving misguided readings, bouncing all over the damn place, surging and dropping with her mood swings. Hot with motivation to succeed. Cold with fear. Hot with determination to make Sienna and Evan’s wedding a showcase of Sweet Destiny’s ability. Plus, a sweet shot of potential to sugar-coat her Fan Fest application. But ice cream cold with bringing on the ideas to get the recipes and party plans rolling.
With Jacques now added to the mix, all elements of control were up for grabs. The man was human refuse. And yes, she knew that that type of thinking wasn’t part of her Buddhist lifestyle. But at the same time, it was living her truth — which was quite Buddha in thought. Besides, Buddhist or not, acknowledging her disdain of the man gave her an unparalleled drive to achieve success no matter the costs.
“We love you, Jules, and are here for you. Together, we’ll deal with Jacques Ass and give Nashville a wedding they’ll never forget followed by a new Fan Fest food service queen.” Audrey squeezed Jules’ hand, her voice wrapped in its normal sweet, upbeat tone but with a twinge of doubt dragging it down an octave. “Somehow, someway we’ll beat that jerk for good.”
Taking the last bite of her pancake, the flavor melted across Jules’ lips, sending a shiver from her tongue to her toes. Devouring the syrup-drenched goddess didn’t cure her problems, but the sugar and chocolate chips certainly shored up her courage.
“Thanks, guys,” Jules said, “I don’t know where I’d be without you.”
“Lucky for you, you’ll never find out.” Roxy pat Jules’ shoulder.
“Guess I’d better get home. I’ve got wedding cakes to experiment with and a bakery to get up and running if there’s a chance in purgatory to secure Fan Fest. Plus, speaking of purgatory, Aunt Tulip’s due in this afternoon.”
“That’s right. I can’t wait to see her. Noon tomorrow at The Lunchbox, right?” Audrey grabbed the check before Jules could stop her. “We’ll give her the perfect taste of Nashville.”
“You betchya,” Roxy and Jules said in unison then laughed, each knowing, without saying, that their minds were forever synchronized.
“This will be a hoot,” Roxy said.
“A hoot?” Jules mocked then giggled. “I’m fixin’ to think you’re right, Cowgirl.”
“Stop it,” Audrey squealed. “You two are killing me. Listen to us. Who’d have thought three Manhattan prep school girls would be the new Belles of the South?”
Walking out of the pancake house, arms linked and contemplating the unexpected turns bringing them all to Music City, Jules knew she could handle everything on her plate as long as she had Roxy and Audrey.
The three of them couldn’t be any closer if they were sisters.
Jules’ heart pitched.
From the disconnect she’d seen between the Cruz girls, they didn’t know what they were missing without that unspoken bond.
Jules had learned at a young age that family was a relative term.
• • •
The oven timer’s ding interrupted the scenes floating through Jules’ mental scrapbook, providing a momentary escape from her past, but an abrupt return to her in-over-her-head present.
Baking filled the void left in the wake of her tragic childhood.
Opening Sweet Destiny was her hope that the sweet comforts she created soothed her customers’ souls like they had always bandaged her ravaged heart. But right now, she couldn’t produce that comfort fast enough.
Slipping her hand into her oven mitt, she opened the door. The blast of heat mixed with vanilla almond warmed her spirit.
Removing the first of the fifteen or so cakes she’d try until she found the perfect one for the Cruz wedding, she placed the pan on a cooling rack.
Surveying her creation, a satisfied thrill sparked her confidence.
Perfect color. Perfect texture. Well done, Ace.
She’d done right choosing the professional-grade kitchen suite for her new home. Without sacrificing her interior design principles, she’d achieved the high performance she had at Sweet Destiny. Not only could she do some of her baking at home, but the bronze and copper-toned appliances gave her psyche a touch of Tuscan comfort.
She tapped the oven mitt to her forehead, catching the beads of moisture before they gave into gravity. At least something was heating her up.
If her sex life matched the piping hot steam rising from her cakes, she’d be in much better shape. But unfortunately, she had only her yoga to keep her fit. And yoga with no need for the tantric poses she knew well.
Not that she’d admit as much to Aunt Tulip.
‘Course she wouldn’t have to say anything to Tulip.
The woman knew it all — every morsel of Jules’ life — almost. And wouldn’t hesitate to ask about the things she didn’t know and had no business asking.
“All unpacked, Sweet Girl,” Tulip said, coming into the kitchen, mischief sugar-coating the laugh lines surrounding her whiter-than-white, porcelain veneer-packed smile. “What’s up? You always turn to baking when it’s love you’re craving.”
“Just because you’re the sex therapist in the family, doesn’t mean I’m your forever practice patient,” Jules said, glad Tulip was visiting but dreading the inevitable, impromptu therapy sessions.
“So I take it you haven’t been living the Kama Sutra with the cowboys in Music City?” Tulip’s voice was as carefree as if she were discussing fall in Tennessee, not her niece’s sex life.
Like she had time for The Spanish Omelette or other tantric gymnastics, Jules thought, sticking a toothpick into the middle of her cake.
“My sex life isn’t an issue. I don’t have the time or energy for that luxury. As sad as that is,” she admitted, depressed having acknowledged as much to Aunt Tulip, Rosalind Focker’s unscripted twin.
“Ignore me for now. But you’ll talk soon enough,” Tulip purred, brown sugar packed like dynamite around her vocal chords. “You’re suffering from our chat session withdrawal as much as I am. And from the looks of things, there’s more than that you’re doing without.”
“Could you quit calling our conversations ‘sessions’?” Jules removed her chef coat and headed for the coffeemaker. “You make my life sound so clinical.”
“Fine. But how about we talk through your issues? And don’t skip the details. I’ve got the rest of the year to fix you.”
“Trust me — you can’t fix this,” Jules said, knowing damn well Tulip would spend the next three months trying to butt-in and make things all better.
“Grind those beans into dust,” Tulip hollered over the machine’s buzzing blades, “but you obviously need to get these feelings onto the table or between the sheets.”
Jules’ eyed the rolling pin hanging on her utensil rack. Thwacking her well-meaning aunt probably wouldn’t result in good karma. And she needed all the sweet karma she could capitalize on.
Dr. Cohen, aka Aunt Tulip, used to be a reasonably sane woman. Senility or empty nest syndrome must have swept her sexual liberation philosophies to absurd heights.
“Who I take between my sheets and how often is none of your business,” Jules said. “I asked you to come to Nashville to help me with the bakery. I don’t need or want your professional opinion on my non-existent sex life.”
Tulip rummaged the cabinets, china clinking and clanging, cupboard doors banging shut.