The Cake King (Sugar & Spice Book 1)

by Rosie Chase

  “Yeah, but we’re not biker billionaires.” Adrienne said. “We’re only bakers.”

  “Sexy bakers,” Rei put in.

  Maya nodded and then continued, “What if Michael’s looking for more than just a cake?”

  Chapter Three

  “Were you serious about all that stuff?” I asked Rei as we walked down the hall. Adrienne and Maya were on the floor below and had exited the elevator first while Rei and I, apparently on the same floor, passed pictures of horses and pastures and loads of expensive-looking gilt lights.

  “Of course,” Rei said. “I’m always serious.”

  We came to my door and I stopped.

  “You’re never serious,” I said.

  “You’re never not.” It was just a whisper of words but they glided across my skin and nestled into my ear. It felt like a compliment even though I’m pretty sure it wasn’t. “But I think that wasn’t always the case.”

  “You don’t know anything about me,” I managed.

  But she came closer. Propping her arm on the doorframe next to me. She smelled like we all smelled. Like sugar and eggs and vanilla. But there was something else. Something underneath all the requisite baker flavor. Sambuca, maybe. And strong soap.

  “I know you have pink hair that’s naturally blonde. You have a tattoo of a mountain range on the back of your neck. And you laugh whenever someone says the word, ‘unit.’”

  I snorted in spite of myself.

  “What’s your point?”

  “I think you’re interesting,” she whispered, that smirk getting more dangerous by the second.

  “As a competitor?”

  She grinned.

  “Does it matter?”

  “You could go home tomorrow,” I said.

  “You could too. And all this would be over. No more hotels. No more baking. No more supposition about what Michael Godwin really wants with us. What are you going back to?”

  “Almost nothing,” I said. “You?”

  “A third-rate job in a first-rate bakery. An empty apartment. A pile of bills I already know I’ll never pay off. That serious enough for you?”

  I nodded.

  I’d pegged Rei as a brash and brassy trustafarian and I’d been wrong.

  “Michael Godwin is after more than just cake,” she said. “And he was looking at you with fuck-me eyes.”

  “Really?”

  I’d sounded too excited by the prospect, too overwhelmed by Rei’s honesty to guard against my own. She laughed, loud and sharp.

  “Girl. Yes.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Get some sleep, Sam,” she said.

  I couldn't tell if she was my friend or my biggest competitor. Both?

  I got into my room. Messy as hell. And suddenly remembered I didn’t have any coffee for the next morning. I’d meant to pick some up while I was out but, with burgers and beer and conversations about cake sex, I’d completely forgotten. With a curse and a groan, I grabbed my key card and my bag and trudged back to the elevator.

  Down in the lobby, where everything was marble and glass and gilt surfaces, I waited in line as a group of people checked in. I just needed coffee. And I needed sleep. My arms ached. My wrists burned. I wanted a shower or maybe a soak in the ridiculously oversized Bonneville tub.

  “Sam Davis,” a voice said, behind me.

  Michael Godwin. I’d know that voice anywhere now. That sexy deep south rumble that vibrated through my body and made me shiver? Uggh. I turned and there he was.

  “How’d it go?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “The cake.”

  “Oh. I think it went fine. We don’t have a stand mixer at Apple Butter so I’m used to doing a lot of things by hand.”

  “Okay. I’m actually getting ready to go check the cakes now.”

  “Oh. Uh. Cool, great. That’s great.”

  “Everything okay?”

  I gaped at him like a trout.

  “Because you’re down here in the lobby, I mean. Is everything okay with the room? Should I go get Oliver?”

  Oliver Kline? Who looked like he could actually murder people with his Devil gaze?

  “No!” I shouted then managed to tone my ass down, “I mean, that’s nice of you. But, I’m just out of coffee.”

  “Oh… isn’t the maid service—”

  “I don’t let them in my room.”

  “Uhh—”

  “It makes me uncomfortable.”

  I crossed my arms in front of my chest and my fingers went straight into my extra moist swamp pits. And now I was biting my lip in some kind of anxious loop between fight and flight. Why did I give a shit whether Michael knew about my hang-ups? And why was I staring at his mouth? Oh fuck, was I staring at his mouth? Shit. Yes, I was.

  I was thinking about those lips and about what Rei had said and about how strong his hands probably were and they way those dark honey eyes bored into me like he knew every single thing about me including all the extremely filthy fantasies I’d had about fucking him on a stainless steel countertop and then, before my brain could stop my mouth, I was talking.

  “I’m uh… I’ll see ya!”

  And then I bolted. Like a stabbed rat, I was off to the elevators, up in my room, and on the other side of my door with my heart pounding and my breath coming out in fast, ragged puffs.

  “Fuck,” I hissed, running my tired hands through my hair. Pink strands fell in my face and I let out an aggravated sigh. I checked my watch. It was after eleven. I might have been exhausted but I was way too wound up to sleep and I knew it. Only one thing left to do.

  I went to the huge bed, stripping off my sweaty, ganache-stained clothes as I walked, and threw back the luxurious sheets and blankets. I tumbled into the softness naked, and maneuvered to my night bag on the table. It took a little rummaging but I came out with my small, soft, silicone clitoral vibrator and a bottle of lube and then lay back on the bed. A quick exploration with my fingers, though, revealed the current unnecessary nature of the lubricant. I was wet. Hot. Ready.

  My nipples were still soft and I brought my fingers up, pinched and flicked and thought about Michael’s mouth around them. Thought about raking my fingers through those short, dark curls as I held him to my breast. Thought about that mischievous look in his eyes as he moved down, licking and kissing his way over my stomach, my thighs before he…

  I turned my vibrator on. The lowest setting. I touched it, briefly, to my clit. Just a kiss. Then longer. And longer. As I imagined Michael’s mouth wrapping around that sensitive place. Imagined him sliding two fingers through my folds. Imagined looking down at him there, pulling him closer, deeper as he went faster, harder, his tongue lashing me, driving me wild. Driving me. Driving me. Over the edge.

  I came with a shiver, arching off the bed, a little gasp escaping my lips.

  And then there was a knock at the door.

  “What the actual…” I grumbled. I flopped flat and then groaned again before I stood and wrapped myself in one of the plush Bonneville bathrobes that came with the room.

  I swung the door open and there stood Michael Godwin.

  With my senses on edge, still a little out of breath from my orgasm, I was almost knocked back by the scent of him. It was a familiar spice. Clove, maybe. And some citrusy undernote. Bergamot oil. He was only a few inches taller than me but for some reason all I could see were the wide planes of his chest. He wore an old or old-looking t-shirt. Who knows, maybe billionaires paid someone to rough-up their new t-shirts. Some kind of t-shirt enforcer. Fuck, stop thinking about his shirt.

  I forced myself to meet his eyes and then I was in an entirely worse situation. Up close they were even more absurdly beautiful. They shone right at me and then… past me. Into my room.

  “Mr. Godwin… uh… what are you doing here?” I managed, realizing my vibrator and lube bottle were still lying right out in the middle of my obviously disheveled bed. And then it hit me. I was going home. I racked my brain, going o
ver and over the steps I’d taken, the endless whisking, the icing. Did I fuck up the ganache?

  “Am I going home?”

  His dark eyebrows drew up in surprise. “What? No. You did fine, Samantha.”

  Fine.

  I narrowed my eyes, crossed my arms.

  “Okay so…”

  “You never got your coffee”

  He held up a little paper bag and I took it. It was full of coffee sachets. I cleared my throat, tried to get my feet under me. Did the Cake King just run an errand for me? And then my mouth was running again, “Okay, well I guess I’ll see you tomorrow morning then…”

  He nodded and I started to close the door when he put up a hand.

  “Would you go do dinner with me?”

  “It’s like… it’s almost midnight isn’t it?”

  He chuckled and ran a hand down from stubble on his jaw, over his neck, to the back of his head where his short cut black hair raked against his palm and made the slightest rustling sound in the absolute silence of the hotel hallway.

  “Not tonight. I mean, you know, some other time. Like tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “I would but—the competition. Wouldn’t that be kind of against the rules?”

  Another laugh, more confident now. And I almost laughed with him.

  That way he looked at me. Like he knew me. Like he’d known me for years. Like he knew exactly what I wanted and where and when and why.

  “Sam, I make the rules.” That deep south baritone was almost too much. I almost repeated, “I make the rules,” because it sounded that fucking cool and I wanted to hear it again.

  I opened my mouth to speak but he kept going in the rumbly I was forged in a volcano voice so I wasn’t about to stop him. “You went out tonight. With the others.”

  “Yeah. Is that against one of your rules?”

  My hip (completely of its own volition) cocked to the side, saucily, and my robe gaped open just the tiniest bit.

  “Nah, Sam. It’s not. I’m glad to see you making friends, getting out. I know this is a… a weird situation.”

  I made a sound that sort of got confused between pssht or bbrrppp. Michael Godwin was putting me off my game with his eyes and his t-shirt and his hands. Oh they were good-looking hands. I pictured them whipping batter into creamy submission, kneading bread and tying it up in knots, dipping one long, muscular finger into warm, melted chocolate and then…

  “Anyway, I thought you might wanna get out of here for one night.”

  I yanked my mind off Sexy Street and back onto Win The Fucking Competition Avenue but not before a little voice in my head said, Can’t I have both?

  “Wait? Is that how this competition works? To win, one of us has to sleep with you?”

  He laughed. It was a full body, throw your head back so we can see all of your meticulously cleaned chompers kind of laugh. Long and loud and so deep it reverberated through me.

  “No,” he said when he finally settled down. “No, man. That’d be pretty fucking skeezy. Girl, you got a dirty mind. Listen, it’s okay if you don’t wanna. I just thought…”

  “Tomorrow’s fine,” I said. “But I’m not promising sex.”

  I wasn’t not promising sex either if I’m being really honest.

  “Great. I’ll pick you up at eight?”

  “Okay.”

  He turned to go but then turned back, rubbed a hand along his stubble again, seemed to mull something over and then asked, “Hey… you know how to make a croquembouche, right?”

  “A wh— I mean, yes. Yep. Of course I do. Absolutely.”

  “Good,” he said with a wink. “See you tomorrow, Sam.”

  “Alright, we’ll do that then. I’ll be there.”

  At which point I literally covered my mouth to stop myself from saying anymore and managed to get myself on the other side of the hotel room door and headed toward the bathroom for a shower. But, obviously, not before grabbing my handily waterproof vibrator from the bed.

  Chapter Four

  Dawn brought with it a new letter in a new envelope with a freshly pressed gold wax seal.

  Today you are making croquembouche.

  I changed into sweats and then went for a run by the waterfront, still trying to clear the cobwebs from last night.

  I’d spent the last hour before sleep took me reviewing the steps for croquembouche which basically amounted to an ass-ton of choux pastry puffs stuck together with caramel. So, of course I’d proceeded to dream about warm caramel. And… doing things with warm caramel. Like, having it poured over me and then licked off.

  I was still thinking about it now and breathing heavier than I really should. Frustrated in so many ways, I shook my head, turned, ran back to the hotel. I looked again at the notes I’d made about milk steeping time and optimal sugar temperature as I brushed my teeth and dressed and was still pulling my hair up into a ponytail when I stepped into The Bakery and stashed my backpack under the counter I’d laid claim to on that first day.

  I looked around. Rei Silva was there and she gave me a cheeky wink as soon as I met her eyes. I rolled mine and looked forward. There was Maya and Adrienne and, in front of them, Danielle. Jonathan was gone and so was his counter. And now there were five.

  Before I could stop her, Rei marched right over to my counter and leaned against it like we’d been best friends since sixth grade and this was our pre-homeroom custom. I was annoyed but a lot less annoyed than I would’ve been before last night.

  “Did Willy Wonka come to your actual room last night?” she asked in a stage whisper.

  “What?”

  “The Cake King.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Michael Godwin. I came out of my room to get some ice and guess who I saw standing at your door.”

  “Oh my god. Shut up, Rei.”

  “Okay, fine. But did you fuck him?”

  “Just… uggh. Go to your counter. They’ll be here any minute.”

  But then Michael Godwin and Tom were there with their clipboards.

  “The croquembouche,” Tom began, “is a cone composed of custard filled pastry puffs, stuck together with warm caramel. The dessert hails from France and is considered a centerpiece to be served at celebratory events. Your croquembouche will be held to this same exacting standard and should look as if it can be presented to a bride at her reception. You have three hours.”

  Someone always stayed in the room with us. Either Tom or Michael or, most unfortunate, Oliver Kline. Today it was almost exclusively Michael. He gave no hint, however, at the little visit he’d paid me the night before. And I was glad. I needed every ounce of concentration I could muster for this cream puff monstrosity.

  Choux pastry is notoriously finicky. Any little thing: a fluctuation in temperature, the early escape of steam, the addition of too much water or too much egg yolk (which you have to eyeball because every batch is different) or not enough flour and you end up with a soggy or sticky or heavy mess that’s the opposite of the light, fluffy, flaky pastry you’re going for.

  I made cream puffs and eclairs every now and then at Apple Butter but not regularly so, as I added the yolk and stirred, my focus was intense and my lip was sore from all the biting I was subjecting it to. By the end I was dizzy with the smell of hot sugar but my tower was standing up and not drooping.

  “Oh no…” Adrienne said.

  I looked up to her counter. Several of her cream puffs were oversaturated and her tower was listing, drunkenly, looking as tired as we all felt.

  “Oh, Adrienne—”

  Michael’s phone buzzed and he walked out of the room.

  “Here,” Rei whispered. She had a pile of extra puffs and tossed them into Adrienne’s hands.

  I looked at my own countertop. I had three good ones I hadn’t used.

  “Guys, you can’t…”

  “No,” Maya said, bringing a stack of her own over to Adrienne’s counter and putting the tray into Adrienne’s ha
nds. She looked over her shoulder, in the direction of the double doors Michael had just walked through then scurried over to Adrienne’s tower. “Here, just… we can fix it.”

  Maya and Rei added their puffs to Adrienne’s tower, replacing some of the soggy ones with their own. They needed three more at least. Adrienne’s huge blue eyes were wet and her cheeks were splotchy and red and I groaned, inwardly, at what I was about to do.

  “Fuck,” I muttered. Scooping my remaining puffs onto a plate, I carried them to Adrienne’s counter. I could get sent home for this. We all could. I knew it and yet I did it anyway.

  Nellie would want you to help your friend, I told myself. Even though I barely knew Adrienne. Even though I needed this. Even though my family needed this. I needed to succeed but what was the point if I got there by being an asshole.

  I sighed and helped Adrienne add my puffs to her tower.

  When I was done, I looked up. Danielle and Jasper were both gone. They hadn’t donated puffs and that was okay. We were basically helping someone cheat, weren’t we? But it felt like the right thing to do. And, besides, what were the rules?

  I make the rules, Michael had said. The memory of his voice rushed over my skin and I shivered.

  “So,” Rei said as we walked out, “I wanna hear everything.”

  Michael was nowhere to be seen.

  “I gotta go,” I said.

  “No burgers tonight?” Maya asked, looking actually forlorn. Adrienne gave me a pouty face but I waved them both off.

  “I need a shower,” I mumbled.

  No sooner had I trudged through the lobby and pushed the button for the elevator than Rei sidled up beside me.

  “You’re going out with him tonight, right?”

  I was too exhausted, baffled, and annoyed to lie.

  “He said he’d pick me up at eight.” I stepped into the elevator. “But—”

  Rei followed me, obviously unperturbed. “But what? He’s gorgeous.”

  I rolled my eyes as the elevator trundled upward.

  “He’s rich,” Rei said. “He’s mysterious.”

  The elevator dinged and the doors opened onto our floor.