Sweet Seduction

by Camilla Stevens

  The O that formed in the mayor’s mouth almost made Patrick laugh, but he kept a professional expression on his face. “Nothing too terrible and I’m afraid it was partially my fault. All the same, I’d hate for any, uh, hinderance to keep us from filming here,” he hinted.

  “Oh, you leave it to me,” Olaf said with a grim expression, which somehow only made him seem even more comical. “I know everyone here and everyone knows me. I haven’t run unopposed for fifteen years straight for no reason! Now who is the little trouble maker.”

  Patrick smiled at the application of the term trouble maker to the woman he’d run into yesterday. “Well, I believe she works at the Di-vine Delectables bakery?”

  “Di-Anne?” the mayor asked blinking rapidly in surprise. “Oh wait, was it Layla? or perhaps Bree? I can see Bree maybe causing a bit of trouble, but she’s a sweet girl.”

  “Shoulder length hair, late 20s early 30s?” Patrick said helpfully.

  “Oh that would be Layla. She’s new here, but a darling woman all the same. She gives anyone a free cupcake on their birthday. I personally love the key lime but others swear by her Dutch chocolate. I think for my next birthday I may try the….”

  Patrick had already tuned him out. Layla. Layla Brown, owner of Di-vine Delectables according to the final release he had yet to get signed. So she was the owner after all.

  His job had just become that much more difficult.

  Layla was off to a late start, but both Di-Anne and Bree had stepped in to cover the bakery duties as always when Layla had worked a wedding the previous day. They were both familiar with her Girls' Night ritual with Blaire.

  However, Eliza Hawthorne was celebrating her Sweet Sixteen tonight and was expecting a spectacular cake to help get her through the milestone: One layer with pink and white latticework on the sides and pink roses on top.

  Layla was in the back of the bakery getting the ingredients in order. Since she had no plans to work in the front this morning, she was dressed casually. The black tank top and denim shorts were worn to offset the heat of the early summer day mixed with the inevitable rise in temperature that would occur once the ovens got going. The mandatory hair net had her hair plastered to her head like a helmet. Jewelry wasn’t allowed back here and she hadn’t bothered with makeup.

  She opened the bag of flour and a poof of white smoke erupted from the top covering her black tank top and arms. No doubt it was all over her face and hair as well. Oh well, that’s why she had Bree and Di-Anne to handle customers up front.

  The bell over the front door rang, but she ignored it as she measured out the flour.

  “Layla!” she heard Bree shout from the front a few moments later.

  Layla grimaced. Di-Anne and Bree knew she wasn’t to be bothered when she was baking a cake. Both of them were perfectly capable of handling most transactions, even orders for special occasion cakes. Wedding cake appointments were always scheduled ahead of time through Blaire.

  There was absolutely no reason for Layla to be needed out front, something she was just about to tell them as she headed toward the swinging doors to see what the issue was. She pulled off her apron and hung it up on the hook by the door as she pushed her way out to the front.

  She stopped in her tracks as she saw him.

  Mr. Two Hundred Thousand Dollar Car.

  What the heck was he doing here? He was wearing the same dress shirt, sleeves rolled up and a pair of jeans. He also had those same blue eyes and thick, wavy hair, and that damn smirk. A smirk which became a confused grin as he took in her appearance.

  Layla could very well see what she looked like in the expression of the two women who were supposed to be handling this customer instead of her. Di-Anne, never one to be caught with a strand of hair out of place, simply pressed her lips together in grim disapproval. Bree’s eyes pretty much said: Oh honey, you need help.

  Layla instinctively snatched the hair net off of her head. The way the netting tugged at her tresses, she knew the result was hardly an improvement on things. She looked down and saw the flour all over her tank top and arms. It had even made it’s way down to her legs, which she realized were all too visible in the incredibly short, cut-off shorts she had chosen to wear today.

  “What in the world are you doing here?” she asked, finally giving up on worrying about her appearance.

  “Layla Brown?” he asked, despite the fact that she was the only one who had come running in response to Bree calling out her name.

  She nodded suspiciously. Was this about the car again? How had he learned her name? Was he really planing on suing? The car hadn’t even had so much as a scratch! Frankly, she should be the one suing, considering the heart attack he had nearly caused her. She felt her temper rising.

  “I actually came to see you,” he said. “Patrick Fitzgerald.”

  He came closer to the counter, reaching out a hand. Layla stood firmly in place. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Di-Anne wiping her left cheek as a clue. Layla brought her hand up to wipe away whatever was there and frowned when her former nanny just winced in response. She looked down at her hand which was covered in flour. No doubt she had just made things worse.

  She turned her attention back to Patrick whose face was now a mixture of amusement and embarrassment for her.

  “I’m from Lion Studios. As you know, we are set to start filming here—”

  “Yes, yes,” Layla said impatiently. She was getting sick of everyone in town going ga ga over this movie that was set to be filmed this summer.

  “Well, I’ve got the release here for you to sign. Basically it gives us permission to—

  Layla laughed. “Oh, now you want to make nice?”

  Patrick paused then gave a sigh. She watched him shake his head with a rueful smile. “Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot here.”

  “Well it wasn’t my foot that was pressed firmly on the gas pedal.”

  He gave her that damn smirk again and she felt something go through her. Maybe it was the way it made his eyes twinkle.

  “If I admit culpability for the near disaster of your confectionery masterpiece, will you make my life easier and sign the release?”

  She hadn’t been expecting that and wasn’t quite sure he wasn’t being facetious. “Are you mocking me?”

  “No, I’m just an attorney. We use big words,” he said, that smirk getting wider.

  Layla put her hands on her hips, but before she could respond Di-Anne spoke up.

  “Why don’t you give me the paperwork and I’ll have her look it over and sign,” Di-Anne said. “Will you be here later today?”

  “I’m here all weekend,” Patrick said, smiling at Di-Anne graciously. He handed her the paper. Then he turned back to look at Layla, the smile turning into something a bit more wicked. “In case you need anything.”

  Layla just stared at him, completely reading the underlying statement there. She heard Bree chuckle off to her side.

  “While I’m here I think I’ll try one of these tempting cupcakes,” he said looking down at the case. Then his eyes shot back up to Layla. “From what I hear, the chocolate ones are to die for.” He shot her a wink and his eyes wandered down her legs.

  Layla gasped, then felt her face get warm at her own silliness. She was almost 30 years old, well past the age to blush over such obvious come-ons. All the same, she wished she wasn’t showing quite so much skin…or at least as much of it as could be seen underneath all that damn flour.

  “Thank you for the release,” Di-Anne said, giving him a sharp look. His gracious smile returned as he paid for the cupcake.

  “Ladies,” he said, nodding as he backed out of the bakery. He gave Layla one last look as his tongue darted out to lick the frosting off the top. Then he pushed back through the door with a final grin and spun around to walk out.

  All she could do was clamp her legs together.

  “Well, that one is awfully fresh, isn’t he?” Di-Anne scoffed, and Layla could have sworn there was a
touch of admiration underneath all that scorn.

  “So do I even want to know how bad I look?” Layla asked watching him walk down the street through the glass windows.

  “It wasn’t too bad, sweetheart,” Di-Anne said in her reassuring tone, as she looked her up and down.

  “Girl, you are a hot mess!” Bree laughed, completely contradicting Di-Anne.

  “Bree!” Di-Anne chided.

  Layla ran to her purse hanging on one of the hooks behind the counter and pulled out her compact.

  “Ohh,” she groaned at her appearance. The flour on her hand had in fact made things worse when she wiped her face. She looked like a clown who had haphazardly removed their makeup. On top of that, her hair was in complete disarray.

  “Wow, he is cute,” Bree sighed, ignoring the plight of her boss. “Patrick Fitzgerald. Too bad your name isn’t Olivia. We could have our very own Scandal here in little, old Olla, even if it is his last name instead of his first,” she laughed.

  Even Di-Anne chuckled at that one. “Well, Olivia Pope is fond of wearing white.” That got an even heartier laugh out of Bree.

  “Et tu, Di,” Layla said, frowning. She gave a sigh. What’s done was done. Once again “Patrick” was out of her life, hopefully for good this time. “Anyway, I have a cake to make. Back to work!”

  She grabbed her apron off the hook and pushed her way through to the back, but not before sticking her head back and throwing them a parting line.

  “Besides, everyone knows Jake Ballard is a million times better than Fitz,” she said sticking her tongue out at the two of them.

  5

  “Hey, Ma,” Patrick said, settling down on the leather couch in his high-rise condo with his cell phone to his ear. He stared out into the deepening shadows along the Hollywood Hills that his windows overlooked.

  “Patty,” his mother answered with her Brooklyn accent, using the nickname that she, and only she, was allowed to use. “How are things? You being good?”

  He smiled into the phone. It was always the first question she asked followed by the next sentence.

  “Neva mind, I don’t want to know what you get up to out there. City of Angels,” she huffed. “They oughta be ashamed a themselves calling it that, the things that go on in that place.”

  It was her not-so-subtle hint that, even fifteen years after he’d headed out here to attend U.S.C. law school, she still didn’t approve of his choice of locales to settle down in. As though New York, where he grew up, was so much better.

  His mother, Marjorie Fitzgerald, still lived in the small Bay Ridge townhouse in the southern part of Brooklyn that he’d grown up in with his six brothers and sisters. His father had been a firefighter who had died of a heart attack five years ago. Patrick felt the loss almost everyday. Now, he made sure to call his mother once a week so he wouldn’t regret lost time with her, despite living on opposite coasts.

  “Just so long as ya going to confession?” It was less a question than a mandate.

  The Fitzgeralds were a strict Catholic household. This was no doubt why Patrick lived such a wanton lifestyle. A body could only handle so much abstinence from sin.

  “Of course, Ma.” Like all Catholics, lapsed or otherwise, the lie didn’t come easily. And his mother knew him too well.

  “Don’t you lie to me Patrick Christopher Fitzgerald.”

  He winced and grabbed the bridge of his nose. So it was going to be one of those phone calls. He braced himself.

  “Sorry, Ma. I do try though, it’s just that work has me—”

  “Work, work, work. Do you think our Lord and Savior is going to care that you got some actor outta some pickle when you head up to those pearly gates?

  “No, Ma,” he said, smiling at that image. “I promise I’ll try.”

  That was enough to assuage her. Still, he heard a heavy sigh on the other end.

  “I got the money you sent, Patty,” she said, shifting topics. “You spoil me. What am I going to do with all that money, go to Vegas? Buy myself a Chanel outfit to wear to the opera? You should be giving it to the church.”

  “Ma, I already give plenty to the church. Buy something for the kids,” he offered. Between all his brothers and sisters he had eighteen nieces and nephews. He was the baby of the family and the one holdout thus far with regard to marriage and kids.

  “You should be saving it for yourself. You never know when a rainy day fund may come in handy. Trust me, Patty, I know. It wasn’t easy raising seven kids on a fireman’s salary.”

  Patrick again had to smile at that. Last year he’d made over $10 million in bonuses and stock options alone, on top of his $800,000 salary. He wasn’t going to be hurting for money for quite some time.

  “What you should be doing is saving it for your wedding.”

  Here we go.

  “I mean, I don’t know what kinda girls ya dating out there,” her tone indicated she knew exactly what type of girls he was dating, and for the most part she was correct, “but one day you’ll find someone special, and ya gonna want to give her that perfect day. All’s I’m saying is, you should be putting a little away for that.”

  Patrick thought back to Layla Brown and her two thousand dollar wedding cake.

  “You might have a point there, Ma,” he laughed without thinking.

  There was a pause at the other end, and he mentally slapped himself.

  “Well, I suppose it’s too much to hope that she’s a good Catholic girl. At least tell me she’s old enough to drink, this one?”

  The woman really did know him too well. Time to head her off.

  “Oh Ma, what woman could possibly compare to you? You’ve ruined me for everyone else.”

  He heard a snort on the other end. “That silver tongue a yours worked when you were five, Patty, but you were a lot cyutah then.

  “I’ll stop bugging you about a girl for now. Heaven knows I don’t need any more grandchildren, although it would be nice to see you settling down and having a few kids a ya own,” she laughed. “I just want to see you happy Patty. Growing old alone is no fun for anyone. At least I have memories of your fatha to carry me through.”

  That sobered Patrick right up. If there was any relationship that defined perfect partnership it was his mother and father’s.

  He thought back to Layla, the way she’d poked him in his chest, the way her face had looked covered in flour. He had finally had a glimpse of those brown legs and they were even better than his imagination had predicted. Something about the flour sprinkled across them had made it all the more sexy.

  He felt his dick start to twitch in response to the memory.

  It was definitely time to get off the phone with his mother. He didn’t need that kind of guilt on top of everything else.

  “Alright, Ma, I should get going. I’ve got a…meeting with some friends tonight.”

  “Meeting, huh?” she said, again in a tone that said she wouldn’t be surprised if he was headed out to a satanic orgy, especially considering the city he lived in.

  “It’s poker, Ma,” he said to absolve himself of at least some unwarranted judgement.

  “Alright, then,” she said, somewhat placated. “You know I only get on your case because I love you, Patty. I just want to see you happy.”

  “I know Ma, but don’t worry about me. I’m quite happy.”

  She gave an unconvinced hum on the other end. “Okay, enjoy ya cards, Patty. I love you.”

  “I love you too, Ma,” he said, hanging up the phone.

  Later that night, Patrick was happily dipping his toe in and out of at least three deadly sins, four if you counted the mental image he still had of Layla.

  “Alright fellas, I get just this one night a month, so let’s make it good,” Ross Steinberg said, shuffling the cards.

  Patrick was sitting at the card table in the “man cave” of Ross’s house sipping on thousand-dollar-a-bottle whiskey. Actually, it was the guest house transformed into a serious bachelor heaven in back of the Hollywo
od mansion that Ross shared with his wife, Denise.

  Jake Cavanaugh, otherwise known as Jake Steele, sat across from Patrick and was the one who had introduced him to Ross. He was the author of the book the movie that would soon be filming in Olla was based on. Jake’s wife Natalie was best friends with Denise.

  Jake and Patrick had met when Lion Studios had optioned the film rights for In the Heat of the Moment, the first book-to-movie they’d filmed. Patrick loved the no-bullshit attitude of the man which was a refreshing change from the duplicity that was rife in the industry.

  Their fourth was Brett Larsson, a stuntman who was a dead ringer for the lead character Nick Zane in the Jake Steele movies, with his blonde hair and sharp blue eyes. He was refreshingly adept at keeping the prima donnas in Hollywood in check, even more so than Patrick was. He wasn’t sure if it was the man’s imposing physique or his usual brooding silence.

  “All right, ya filthy Micks—”

  “Woah,” argued Brett, looking up from the cards Ross had just dealt. “What the hell is Irish about Larsson? I think my Viking ancestors might have something to say about that.”

  “Oh please, all of you are the same with your blonde hair—”

  “My hair is more of a light brown,” Patrick pointed out.

  “—and blue eyes—”

  “My eyes are green,” said Jake, joining the fun.

  “Okay, okay,” Ross said, laughing with his hands up in surrender. “Do you really want to start comparing Aryan features here? Because that didn’t end so well for my people last time.”

  They all had a good laugh as they inspected their cards.

  “So how was Napa?” Jake said, pulling two cards from his hand and sliding them over to Ross to be replaced.

  “Well, your movie will get made. This is why they pay me the big bucks fellas.”

  “Tough job,” Jake teased. “It’s gotta be hard getting paid to drive up to Napa.”

  “Says the guy that takes the family on vacation for ‘research,’” Patrick tossed right back at him. “Where was it last time? The Cayman Islands?”