The Cake King (Sugar & Spice Book 1)

by Rosie Chase

  “I’m not here to blow some rich guy,” I said as we rounded the corner. “I’m here to win this job.”

  “Why can’t it be both?” Rei chuckled. It was the same thought I’d had last night. The same thing I couldn’t make myself dismiss.

  We stopped at the door to my room and I slid my key card. It beeped and I turned the handle with a sigh. I stepped inside and prepared to shut the door in Rei’s face but, when I caught a glimpse of her again, her brassy facade was gone and those deep brown eyes were nothing but sincere.

  “I don’t know what you were doing before you got that letter, Sam. But I get the impression it hasn’t been easy for you. If you like someone, and you want to spend time with them, then why not do it? Take something for yourself. Enjoy a night on the town. And, if you don’t have a good time?”

  “Come back to your room?” I let out the breath of a laugh. “We’ll have a pity party?”

  “That’s right, Pink Hair. I’ll wait up for you. Actually…”

  She took my arm in her hand and a pen from her pocket and wrote her number on my forearm like it was 1995.

  “From everything I’ve read, Godwin is a prince. But, if he isn’t?”

  “You’ll be my knight in shining armor?”

  “You know it. Now go take a shower. You smell like choux.”

  I rolled my eyes and closed the door, stepped out of my clothes, and jumped in the shower. I dried my hair, less pink now than it had been when I started this crazy endeavor, and then checked my phone while I brushed my teeth.

  A text buzzed.

  Nellie: Hey, kiddo. You ok?

  Sam: Yeah.

  Nellie: I hope you’re getting some rest between all the baking.

  Sam: Actually have a date tonight.

  Three dots. And then a surprised face.

  Nellie: Wonders never cease.

  I sent a hair flip emoji and then nothing came from Nellie. I dabbed lip balm on, fluffed my shoulder length hair into its usual, beachy waves, and was walking around in my third-best bra when the next text came.

  Nellie: Make sure you take protection.

  I snorted and threw the phone down on my bed before catching my reflection in the mirror and deciding, finally, to put on my actual best bra. A little lacy and the same rose gold as my hair, I felt inherently, effortlessly sexy in it. Would Godwin see it? I decided I didn’t care. Tonight, I was wearing it for me.

  I sighed as I looked through the rest of my clothes. Just what the fuck did one wear on a date with a bad boy biker baker billionaire?

  My daily uniform consisted of a black v-neck t-shirt and jeans or denim shorts with beat up hiking boots. I’d brought one black dress (borrowed from Nellie) in case we had to do anything fancy and slid it over my head. It was a size too big and I felt like a fool as I turned around and around in front of the bathroom mirror. I stripped it off just as the knock came at my door.

  “Just a second,” I shouted. I dragged my least threadbare shirt over my head, pulled my jeans over my ass, and stepped into my boots. I grabbed my bag and was still a little breathless when I whooshed open the door.

  And there was Michael Godwin. He wore yet another roughed-up t-shirt and jeans but tonight he also wore a black leather jacket that looked as supple and soft as swiss meringue.

  “I didn’t have anything fancy,” I blurted, completely without prompting. “So… if you want to go somewhere fancy I—”

  “You look great, Sam,” he murmured. And my knees nearly buckled. It was the easy way he had. The deep rumble of a voice that could be threatening but, instead, was gentle. The sincerity in his eyes, his smile, that said he’d actually looked at me and not through me. Appreciated and not just appraised. That he really, truly saw me.

  I started to come out into the hall but he stopped me.

  “You’ll need a jacket.”

  “Okay.”

  I dashed inside, not realizing until I was standing at the closet, that I’d let the door slam in his face. I held my bag in my mouth while I wrestled into my ancient, patched-up, exceedingly comfortable wool jacket, and opened the door again.

  “Much better,” he said, reaching forward to button my jacket all the way up. “Don’t want you getting cold.”

  And there was a protective gleam in those dangerous brown eyes. I was bundled up but a delicious shiver traveled down my spine. Why? Maybe it was just the unfamiliar nature of that look. That feeling. Maybe I just hadn’t been looked at that way. Ever.

  He offered me his arm like we were in a regency romance novel and I took it and before long we were exiting the swanky lobby and approaching the street where a valet approached… on Michael’s speed bike.

  “Oh…” I muttered, my heart pounding. I’d never been on a motorcycle. Never even considered it. Since a bicycle accident as a kid, I’d given up all forms of two-wheeled transportation and stuck to the big, beefy, gas-guzzling second-hand sedans I could actually afford/survive a crash in.

  Michael casually tossed me a second helmet, much heavier than I’d thought it would be, and, in spite of my racing heart, I found myself climbing on the back and wrapping my arms around his rock solid waist. Was this guy made of stone? No, he was far too warm for that.

  “You ready?” I heard, muffled, from just in front of me.

  “Uh… yeah.”

  And we were off.

  Chapter Five

  We zipped away from the hotel in a high-pitched roar.

  I tried to breathe deep and calm my racing heart. I tried not to cut Michael’s upper body from his lower with my death grip but, at least at first, that was impossible. I was too frightened. I’d walked the razor’s edge my entire life and I’d always played it safe to keep from slipping. But Michael Godwin had thrown me a helmet and I’d tossed caution to the wind and now we were zipping through the streets and slipping past buildings and cars and lights and people so fast I was dizzy.

  And, I realized, as we leaned into a curve and emerged unscathed and my heart pounded against Michael’s back, some deep down part of me was enjoying this.

  Michael slowed the bike as we came into a shabbier, lower part of town. Here, at least, I was a little more familiar. The section of town we’d been in featured mostly hotels, art galleries, and touristy stuff in addition to menus where none of the prices were labeled. It all sent a message that said, If you have to ask how much it is, you don’t belong here.

  The lights above this restaurant blinked a little bit behind the sign and the familiar scent of home-cooking flooded out. Simple ingredients. High fat. Cheap food that filled the belly and comforted a person from the inside out.

  “This okay?” Michael asked as he helped me from the bike.

  I nodded but my huge smile had already given him the answer he needed. I gave him my helmet, smoothed down my hair, and we headed inside.

  “This looks amazing,” I sighed, as I looked at the big illuminated menu behind the tiny food prep counter. Nothing cost more than twelve dollars and I laughed at the thought of Michael getting his own soda from the self-serve fountain. I carried our paper cups and our order number to a little formica table but looked back in time to see him pay with a fifty and put the entirety of the change in the tip jar.

  An oversized plate of shawarma later, I was scooping up the last of my hummus with the last bite of pita. Golden, spicy rice stuck to my fingers and I licked it off, smacking my lips.

  I looked up to find Michael staring at me, stifling a laugh.

  “It’s good, right?”

  “Oh my God,” I moaned. “I really thought you probably took all your dates to the kind of places where water only comes out of glass bottles and all the napkins are made from cast-off celebrity bed sheets or something.”

  Michael snorted into what was left of his broiled chicken.

  “I don’t like those places,” he said plainly, then wiped his mouth with a paper napkin.

  “You’ve got us staying in one of those places.”

  He shrugged.
“I wanted everyone to be comfortable. Besides, Ollie cuts me a deal.”

  “Ollie meaning Oliver Kline.”

  “You say his name like you got a problem with him.” He was half-smiling but genuine curiosity came through.

  “He kind of… he’s intimidating.”

  “He’s had to learn how to be, Sam.”

  He said it with a sort of finality that wasn’t unkind but also brooked no further questioning about his friend. Then he scooted out his chair. “You ready for dessert?”

  “I’m always ready for dessert.”

  He led the way outside. Another bike trip. Another ten minutes spent holding Micahel’s waist. Now it was less ‘hold on for dear life’ and more ‘isn't this nice.’

  But I couldn’t let myself fall into some kind of fantasy about Michael Godwin. He was a rich guy. He was used to having his way. He was probably just interested in a piece of ass. I was here for a job. If he wanted a one night stand… well, I wasn’t ruling it out. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to start having daydreams about running away with the Cake King. Becoming the Cake Queen. I couldn’t afford dreams like that. They cost too much.

  I could never afford them.

  I was jolted out of my reverie as Michael brought the bike to a stop in front of a house. Cars were parked up and down the block and the pale streetlights illuminated a somewhat shabby neighborhood. Aging volvos with NPR bumper stickers were parked beside chained up, fixed-gear bicycles. Planters full of pansies and mums were abundant and, as Michael led the way up the concrete steps to the house, I heard live music drifting out.

  I took a deep breath. Another first, I figured. I’d never been to a house party.

  “This is my friend Nicki’s place,” Michael said with a grin. “She makes ice cream.”

  “She— what?”

  But then he knocked on the door and someone hollered that it was open. We stepped inside and there were tons of people milling around, talking, holding drinks in their hands. Or… holy shit. It wasn’t drinks. It was ice cream. Cups or cones. Waffle or sugar. Heaped up with whipped cream or topped with little bits of… something? What the hell kind of party was this?

  Michael’s hand found my own and he guided me, with easy grace, through the crowd and into a well-lit kitchen. Out the French doors, a band was playing. One girl played a fiddle while another banged on a keyboard and another rattled off lyrics into a scratchy mic.

  This was, I realized, the coolest fucking place I’d ever been.

  Nicki turned out to be a supermodel type with sleek black hair and a laugh that shook the house and she churned up wild flavors of ice cream in her remodeled hipster test kitchen before serving it at her boutique ice cream parlor downtown.

  “Where you from, baby?” she said to me, her voice deep and sultry.

  “Appalachia,” I said, because people had heard of Appalachia and never the name of my actual, podunk town.

  “North or South?” Nicki asked.

  “South… not far from Asheville,” I said. That always got an interesting reaction. Rich folks had been there on vacation and just loved the Biltmore house. Poor people always heard it’s so pretty there.

  “Oh damn, baby. I got shit-drunk in a bowling alley there once!” Nicki said, belting out that cackle again. Then she went to the counter behind her, rolled a scoop of rich-looking ice cream into a waffle cone, and handed it to me.

  “Here, baby. You look homesick.”

  I tasted it because I had to do something with my mouth besides gape and words were certainly not a thing that was happening. The chilled cream sent waves of pleasure and, yes, homesickness through me. Notes of sorghum syrup coalesced with streaks of vivid blackberry and rich, full-fat cream. The ice cream tasted wild and homey. It tasted like the end of summer. Like the beginning of something new.

  It brought tears to my eyes.

  And then Michael’s hand was on my lower back. And we were walking out of the kitchen and onto the back patio. He held a cone of something else in his hand and steered me away from the crowd, to the very edge of Nicki’s property.

  “She’s kind of a genius,” he said simply as we sat down on a couple of overturned flowerpots.

  I nodded, licked up more of the ice cream, tried to keep the choked feeling from reaching my mouth, the tears from streaming down my cheeks.

  “I’m glad I brought you here,” he said after a while. The band played on and the fiddler traded her violin for a kazoo.

  “This is, by far, the strangest date I’ve ever had,” I said, taking a bite of the waffle cone, hoping its crisp, jagged edges would bring me back to reality. “Actually, this is the strangest week I’ve ever had. What the hell are you doing here, Michael?”

  “What do you mean?” His voice was innocent but his smile definitely was not.

  “I mean… this isn’t a fucking normal thing to do. Rounding up a bunch of bakers from around the country—all of us hot according to Rei—and telling us to bake for our lives.”

  “Not for your lives.”

  “Yes, Michael. We all need this job. Some of us more than others.”

  “I have my reasons,” Michael said simply.

  “Rei thinks you’re developing some kind of hot baker harem, I think.”

  He snorted, then popped the last bite of his ice cream cone into his mouth with a crunch.

  I’d wanted to shock him, unsettle him. Get him back for… what? Taking me to an awesome restaurant, feeding me amazing food, introducing me to his friend, helping me get over a fear of motorcycles, a fear of adventure? Get him back for being interested in me? Making me want something?

  That was it.

  He made me want things. Made me want him. Made me want him when I knew I could never have him. Never have the things he had. Never have it so easy.

  Michael wrapped his arm around me, leaned close. His mouth was close, so close. His breath was warm and his lips soft as they caressed my ear. “I’m not putting together a harem of sexy bakers,” he said, backing away just enough that I could look into those warm, beautiful eyes. “But I am looking for something.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said, still a rumbling whisper. “But it might be you, Sam Davis.”

  I managed to get out the barest breath of a laugh before he brought his hand up to cradle my cheek, to pull my lips up to meet his. I’d fantasized about kissing the Cake King a million times but not one of my filthy daydreams had prepared me for kissing Michael Godwin.

  His kiss was fire. It was soft and smooth and delicious. His lips were gentle but under it all, was the sharp edge of his power, barely restrained. His tongue rasped against my bottom lip.

  I opened my mouth to him. Let him in. Let him know just this tiny part of me.

  Michael pulled me closer, kissed me deeper, sweeping into my mouth. Claiming me. And with any other guy, I’d pull away. Wouldn’t I? I didn’t want this kind of attachment. This kind of passion. I just wanted to keep going. One foot in front of…

  Ohhh but fuck, his lips were soft and so playful.

  And when he pulled away, I knew I’d never have told him to stop. I’d have let him kiss me forever. I’d have made him kiss me forever.

  “I knew I wanted you, Sam…” he breathed against my neck. He nibbled my earlobe, kissed the spot just below my ear, the edge of my jaw, “I knew I needed you from the second I saw you…”

  Wanted me?

  Needed me?

  I felt something within me flicker to life. Deeper than pure, hungry lust. It was a kinship. But I couldn’t understand it. Not even a little bit.

  Finally, I pulled away from him.

  “You can’t want me,” I breathed. I was saying words from a script. They didn’t feel true but that didn’t stop them coming out.

  “Why not?”

  I shook my head, still trying to clear the spinning stars left over from that kiss and the way he’d held me and the words that still clung, like golden, sticky honey, to my insides.
/>   “I don’t belong in your world, Michael.”

  “Maybe you don’t know my world.”

  He said it without any bitterness. Without any rich boy privilege. Any angry disappointment. And I was so confused as he stood up and I stood with him. He took my forgotten, half-melted ice cream from my hand and licked up every bit that was dripping.

  “Delicious,” he said. “Is that sorghum?”

  I nodded, mute. I was surprised he knew the taste of sorghum. Didn’t he mostly sweeten things with shaved unicorn horn or something?

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said. He offered me the cone and I shook my head. I didn’t need another taste of home when I felt so incredibly, impossibly far from it. He ate the rest in two bites and then led the way back through the house and to his bike.

  “You ok?” he asked, as he handed me the helmet.

  “I’m exhausted,” I said. It was the truth. Mostly.

  I climbed on behind him and the engine rumbled to life. The drive back felt slower, easier. My heart didn’t thunder. Instead, it felt sluggish, slow, sad. Angry. The streetlights went by in a blur and it began to rain.

  I hugged closer to Michael’s body, tried to stay warm, tried to get my earlier excitement back, tried to pull my feelings into focus. But the longer we drove, the more confused I felt.

  The drive wasn’t far but, by the time we pulled up in front of the hotel, I was soaked. My wool coat was heavy on my body and my jeans were sticking to my legs.

  “Sorry about the rain,” Michael said, as I handed over my helmet.

  I laughed with a little bitterness, “You didn’t make the rain, Michael.”

  “I know. But I took you out in it.”

  We walked into the lobby and Oliver Kline was there, standing off next to the entrance of the hotel’s swanky bar, talking to the maitre d’ in hushed tones. When he caught a glimpse of Michael and I, his black eyes narrowed.

  “I need to talk to you Mike,” Kline said, approaching us.

  “I’m going up to my room, anyway,” I muttered, and broke away. I took a few steps toward the elevator before I heard the soft tap of Michael’s boots on the floor after me.