The Cake King (Sugar & Spice Book 1)

by Rosie Chase

  “Fuck, you’re so fucking…” he muttered, breathless. “Fuck.”

  And my hips pushed up. Into the vibrator. And Michael leaned forward, taking his hand from my knee and sliding two fingers inside me, as deep as they would go. And my nipples ached and my clit throbbed and he said, “Fuck yes, Sam. That pussy is so fucking tight. Come on my fingers Sam, come on me all over again.”

  And I did. I felt my sex wrap around his fingers. I jerked and spasmed and moaned and writhed and then I felt the hot spurt on my belly as Michael came.

  He groaned and held onto my knees, hovering over me. God, he was gorgeous. I watched him breathing deep as he collected himself. Finally, he met my eyes and grinned.

  “Fuck me,” he breathed.

  “I kinda just did.”

  “Yeah, kinda…” he laughed. Sitting back on his heels, he mopped his brow with the back of his hand and then stumbled off the bed, his jeans half off. I lay there still wrapped in bliss while he went into the bathroom, cleaned off, and came back with a warm washcloth.

  “I’ll get us some water,” he said, opening my mini-fridge again and pulling out a fourteen dollar bottle of fizzy spring water. He cracked it open, took a swig, and watched as I wiped myself off. He handed me my t-shirt and I pulled it on and sat beside him against the headboard, our legs stretched out on the twisted bed clothes.

  “Here,” he said, handing me the fizzing, sweating bottle. I took a long, long drink and then he scooted into the bed beside me. I realized I loved the feel of his body beside me, loved the smell of him, loved the closeness.

  “That was awesome,” I said. “Thanks.”

  He chuckled.

  “Sam, you don’t have to thank me. I didn’t—”

  “I know. But… you’re you. You know?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a sigh. “Yeah, I know.”

  “Am I going home tomorrow?”

  “Oh, Sam… no. No, of course not. Why…”

  I shrugged like I didn’t know the answer. Like I didn’t understand exactly why I was the way I was. Like I didn’t know the things that had broken me, a little at a time, until I was this weird, delicate pile of shards.

  Michael’s phone buzzed. He ignored it, pulled me into the crook of his arm so I could hear his heart beating. Strong and steady.

  But then the phone buzzed again.

  “Take it,” I said. “It’s ok.”

  He pulled it from his pocket and I saw his famous sister’s picture on the screen before he answered.

  “Megan? I’m kinda—No it’s ok. What’s up? Well, what’d he do?”

  I heard a tinny echo of her voice as he maneuvered off the bed and into the bathroom. I took the time to drink down the rest of the water and then opened a bag of chips from the basket on top of the fridge. Damn, sex made me hungry.

  A few minutes later, Michael emerged.

  “Sorry, Sam. I’ve got to run. Are you ok?”

  I smiled around a mouth full of kettle chips.

  “Dude come on, I’m totally fine. That was some fucking awesome almost-sex.”

  “Ok, Sam,” he said, laughing softly. “See you tomorrow.”

  I saw him to the door and managed to gulp my chips down before he kissed me. And this time the kiss wasn’t hungry and messy and greedy. It was soft. Sweet. Gentle. The kiss of lovers.

  I wandered into the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and closed my eyes, replaying everything Michael had said and done while we’d fucked. It was, unquestionably, the best sex I’d ever had and I never even touched his dick. I sighed, crawled into bed, and wondered who would be gone the next morning.

  But, when I came into The Bakery still bleary-eyed and tired, all of the bakers were still there.

  The only person missing was the Cake King.

  Chapter Seven

  “Good morning,” Oliver Kline said, addressing the room with his characteristic rich boy snarl that made everything sound sardonic and mean.

  In spite of the deliciously filthy sex I’d enjoyed the night before, it didn’t seem like a good morning at all. Everything felt off-kilter. Like I was about to topple. I knew the feeling. I knew it intimately. But, always, it was because of my circumstances. Never because of the traitorous designs of my own heart.

  “He’s under your skin,” Rei whispered.

  “I don’t want to like him,” I said.

  “But you do.”

  I had fallen asleep, exhausted but restless, and dreamed about Michael and the feel of his warm, soft leather jacket against my cheek. The zooming rush of the bike as we sped through the streets. The electric heat that jolted through my body when he pressed his lips to mine. The delicious, dangerous kinship I’d felt with him when he held me close while I came. The way his smile went straight to my heart, chiseling away at walls that had always held strong.

  And now where was he?

  Thankfully, I wasn’t the one who asked.

  “Where is Mr. Godwin?” Maya piped up, her insatiable curiosity overriding her better judgement.

  “He was called away,” Oliver Kline said. He sounded bored, detached. He looked around the room and his eyes held mine for a moment too long. A moment too meaningful. “Today, Mr. Godwin would like for you to prepare…” He opened his phone as if reading a text straight from the Cake King and then said, “A fruit custard tart.”

  He glanced at Tom, smiling cheerfully and holding the clipboard to his chest. And then turned on his heel and left.

  “Good luck,” Tom said, “And good bake.” And then he sat down in the chair at the front of the room. Typically, he sat there with his laptop or an ebook, not saying anything. Occasionally he would walk around the room, still not saying anything but keeping a steady eye on everything we did. Tom’s nearness always brought the kind of reassurance that only a stammering, grumpy British man can bring. If Michael wasn’t there, at least Tom had this thing on lock-down.

  I looked down at my counter, took inventory of the ingredients with which I’d been provided: Flour. Sugar. Vanilla bean pods. Salt.

  My hands went, almost involuntarily, to my hips.

  How the hell was I supposed to make a fruit custard tart without fruit or fats?

  I scratched my head then turned to see Rei examining her own ingredients: Butter. Eggs. Whole Milk. Lemons. Raspberries.

  “Ah,” I said, just as, in front of me, Adrienne’s voice went to a high pitch.

  “Damn it,” she whined adorably. “Is it a mistake?”

  I surveyed her counter. Adrienne had the same ingredients as me. So did Maya. Danielle and Jasper, like Rei, had fruits and fats. Tom pushed his glasses up his nose and went on reading his ebook as if he couldn’t hear this conversation.

  “No,” I said. She turned to face me. “We’re supposed to partner up.”

  Rei met my eyes. She could partner with me, Adrienne, or Maya. And then I’d be left with Jasper or Danielle.

  She was the best of them. Her custard work was top-notch. But I wasn’t going to beg, plead, or even ask. I would probably be fine with Danielle or Jasper. They were both capable. But, damn it all, I wanted to work with Rei.

  “Come over here, Sam,” she said.

  I breathed out a sigh and did as she asked.

  Adrienne partnered with climber bro, Jasper, and Maya teamed with Danielle, the self-titled Cupcake Queen. I didn’t miss the forlorn look they both cast toward Rei as they joined up with their new partners and we all got to work as Tom walked around the room, taking notes.

  “Where do you think Michael is?” Rei asked as we chopped butter.

  I shrugged.

  “His sister called him last night.”

  “After you guys boned?”

  I gave her a withering look and we went about planning our recipe.

  “Jesus, this whole thing is so fucking weird,” she said.

  I agreed.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised by how well Rei and I worked together, how easily our hands cooperated, how we laughed over stu
pid stuff like I’d always thought old friends would. It was, though, an experience I’d never had.

  I’d always baked alone. Even at Nellie and Eric’s, I’d always come in early. I always thought I would hate having anyone else’s hands in my dough. Turns out I was wrong.

  At the end of the day, the six of us left our tarts on the counter.

  “You wanna get some dinner?” Rei asked.

  “Yeah, ok.”

  “I promise I won’t ask you about the Cake King’s dick.”

  “Which means you definitely will.”

  “Now you’re catching on.”

  I rolled my eyes and she led the way out of the hotel.

  “So what’s the deal?” Rei asked half an hour later. The restaurant buzzed around us and she was looking at me over her third slice of pineapple and pepperoni.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Danielle’s a Bakestagram star. I work for Velvet. Adrienne and Maya both work for well-known French patisseries and Jasper owns that sweet treat truck that rolls around at festivals. And you…”

  I laughed and sprinkled red pepper flakes on my second slice.

  “I work in a little restaurant, in a little town in the mountains in North Carolina. I help out with meal prep but I also do almost all the desserts. And we have a bakery counter where we stock fresh bread and cupcakes and whatever else I feel like making.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “Apple Butter,” I said.

  “How’d you end up there?”

  “Is this an interrogation?”

  “It’s a thing friends do. You might have heard of it. Most people call it, ‘Getting to know each other.’”

  I chomped down on a bite of pizza and took my time chewing before I asked, “Why do you want to get to know me?”

  “Oh my god, Sam. You’re impossible. I’m curious about you, that’s all. I like you. I just want to hear your origin story. I have no ulterior motives. I promise.”

  Letting out an irritated breath I said, “Okay. Fine. I started at Apple Butter when I was a teenager. I uh… didn’t know my dad. My mom was kind of a trainwreck. She kicked me out when I was a kid. I lived with my grandma. And I loved her. But then she died when I was fifteen. I went out on my own. Nellie and Eric took me in.”

  “They just… were you in the foster system?”

  “No. My turn.”

  “Fair enough,” she said with a shrug.

  “Where’d you learn to bake?”

  “My uncle. He’s a tow truck driver in LA but he’s always had a passion for traditional sweets. He made me uirō-mochi for my ninth birthday and I was hooked. I started helping him cook and after high school I went to work for Velvet before they, you know…”

  “Became mega famous?”

  “Yeah. And from there Evelyn Kashima trained me. But I’ve never heard of Apple Butter.”

  “Yeah, I doubt Michael Godwin has either.”

  “So how’d he hear about you?”

  I shrugged. I couldn't imagine how I ended up here.

  The server brought our check and Rei picked up the bill. We went back to The Bonneville but parted ways outside the elevator.

  “See you tomorrow,” Rei said.

  “Unless they hate our tart.”

  “Are you kidding? I picked you because I knew we could win. Your pastry work is the best in the room.”

  My mouth fell open at the unexpected compliment.

  “Get some sleep, Sam. We’ll be back in there tomorrow.”

  And we were. But Adrienne and Jasper were both gone.

  Chapter Eight

  Two days passed in a blur. No one else left. Michael Godwin didn’t return.

  And now it was just me and Rei, Maya and Danielle.

  The prompt on the first day simply read, Megan Godwin’s favorite flavor is star anise.

  The letter that arrived on the second day said, Take the day off.

  I spent the entire day watching baking shows and taking notes. Just in case. Also, I took a long bath, used my vibrator, pictured Michael the whole time. Tried not to think about the fact that I’d already let him get too close, already let him in. Used my vibrator some more.

  On the third day, the letter said, Go shopping. You are making breakfast.

  I made sausage biscuits and gravy because… well, I might as well admit it, I was homesick. I could make the dish on auto pilot, blindfolded. And, as I stirred the gravy, I couldn’t help but think about my life at Apple Butter. And the life that had led me to Apple Butter.

  I couldn’t help thinking about the love I didn’t have. The love I found with my grandma. The love I lost and then found with Nellie and Eric and all the cold nights I spent alone and afraid between my grandma’s death and the moment I decided to take Nellie and Eric up on their offer.

  I texted Nellie as soon as I left The Bakery, the plate of food still steaming and fragrant behind me.

  Sam: I made biscuits and gravy this morning.

  Nellie: My biscuits and gravy?

  Sam: Yeah.

  Nellie: For competition?

  Sam: Yeah.

 

  Sam: I miss you.

  Nellie: We miss you too. I wish I could be there with you.

  Sam: Everything ok there?

  Nellie: Same as ever.

  I sent three pink hearts and pressed send just as I bumped into something big and warm and hard.

  Oh, of course, it was Michael Godwin’s chest.

  “Where have you been?” I asked, not bothering to hide an annoyance I hadn’t even realized I felt.

  “My cousin needed me in LA. He’d said he’d be fine but Megan was worried about him so I had to go help him out.”

  “Oh,” I muttered.

  “Why? You miss me?”

  “You dragged us all away from our lives for some mysterious hot baker contest and then fucking disappeared without a word.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “You wish.”

  “Yeah,” he said, meeting my eyes. His mouth was hitched up into a little half smile. A smile of warmth. Sincerity. Again, I was struck by the uncommon candid way he had, the earthy quality that made me feel seen. Known. “Yeah, I do wish.”

  I shrugged, tried to shake off the way my skin sparked and tingled. The way I couldn’t catch my breath. The way I wanted, more than anything, to touch him. To let him wrap his arms around me. Feel the warm comfort of his body around my own.

  It was a fantasy. A dream I’d never let myself have.

  You couldn’t be got rid of if you never gave yourself to anyone.

  “What’d you make today?” he asked, looking past me at the door to The Bakery.

  I told him.

  “You fucking kidding me?”

  And then he barreled past me, through the double doors, and I followed him.

  “This looks amazing,” he said, opening drawers until he found a fork. He dug in. “It’s still hot, too. I’m glad.”

  “I had no idea when it would be judged. I just… I wanted to make something I loved. This is my friend Nellie’s recipe.”

  “From Apple Butter?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him, crossed my arms over my chest.

  “Yes.”

  He opened the drawer again and took out another fork then poked it in my direction.

  “Here,” he said.

  I took the fork but didn’t join him.

  “You made this because you’re homesick, right?”

  “I—” My lower lip began to tremble and I looked away.

  “Come on, Sam,” he said, waving me toward him.

  Leaning against the counter, I put the fork down and tore off a chunk of the warm, fluffy biscuit, dragged it through the still hot gravy, and pushed the gooey goodness past my lips. I moaned in response. The savory, salty, fatty taste of it brought tears to my eyes. I closed them. Pictured myself in Nellie’s kitchen. Eric standing at the stove, tending a big kettle of grits. Nellie standing by the table,
watching me, a pot of coffee in her hand. The bustle of the morning rush on the other side of the wall. A world away.

  And so close.

  “There it is,” Michael’s voice said, a low, gentle rumble.

  I opened my eyes to find him watching me, a soft smile on his lips.

  “You know,” he said, “I do the same thing whenever I eat shrimp and grits.”

  “You don’t have, I don’t know, gold flake crepes with truffle butter for breakfast every morning?”

  He shook his head, still smiling.

  “I don’t really understand who… or what… you think I am, Sam.”

  I shrugged and took another bite. Oh man, it was good.

  “You’re rich and famous,” I said around a mouthful of peppery sausage gravy. “I don’t know what rich and famous people do. So I just have to use my imagination.”

  “You’ve got a pretty lively imagination.”

  “Why did Adrienne go home?”

  That paused his merry mood. And, admittedly, I was a little sad I’d asked once his smile faded and he put his fork down and those warm brown eyes met mine.

  “She wasn’t cutting it, Sam.”

  “Was it the cream puffs?”

  I’d been worried that we’d helped Adrienne “cheat” since that day.

  “A good chef needs to know when to ask for help. So, no.”

  “Oh.”

  “Adrienne has been struggling for a while. Her flavors tend to be off. A little too sweet, usually. Cloying. She has a lot of potential but she just wasn’t hitting the mark.”

  “And Jasper?”

  “Why do you care about Jasper? You weren’t hanging out with him.”

  Now I stood up straight, tried to get the measure of him.

  “Why do you care who I’m hanging out with? How do you even know that? You just swan in here and give us impossible tasks—”

  “Not impossible—”

  “And then eliminate us one by one without a word while you dangle a job over our head. While you dangle our future over our heads. And you don’t even know how this kind of thing could—”

  “Yes,” his tone stopped me dead but it wasn’t unkind. Just firm. He sighed, scratched at his stubble, looked at me like he was trying to decide whether to tell me something important. Whether he could let me in.