Sugar and Spice

by Shandi Boyes

  Getting messy isn’t the only thing I achieved, though. I twanged a set of lusciously plump lips, flicked a bra strap, and acted like a man I once hoped to be.

  It is fortunate the fire in Harlow’s eyes matches her personality, freeing me from the worry of being sued—again. I can’t recall the last time I acted so childish. I didn’t even behave like a child when I was one. Harlow brought out a side of me I haven’t seen in decades.

  I’ve heard many things about the woman behind the helm at Harlow’s Scrumptious Haven, but I was certain they were exaggerations. Very rarely are rumors true, but in Harlow’s case, they’re spot on.

  Her hair, pulled back in a low ponytail, isn’t quite red, but it’s not conservatively brown either. Her eyes are as unique as her hair color: an eclectic green with brown flecks. And her body. . . sinful enough that ruining a three thousand dollar suit with egg yolk can’t stop my zipper from biting my cock.

  I guess that’s my excuse for acting so idiotic? I either flicked her bra strap or removed it with my teeth. Considering the reason I arrived at her bakery well after closing hours is far from upstanding, I figured it’d be best to downplay my visit. Thank god my assistant Peta ordered a batch of unwanted cupcakes earlier this week, or I’d have no excuse for my late night arrival.

  “What is it with unexpected visitors tonight?” Harlow mumbles to herself as she attempts to stand.

  Her bare feet failing to gain traction on the tiled floor shouldn’t be entertaining, but it is. I didn’t just bruise my ass when I hit the floor with an almighty thump, my ego sustained a massive dent as well, so seeing her face the same issues is both refreshing and entertaining.

  “I’ll be right there,” Harlow shouts, projecting her voice into the main area of the bakery. Her tone isn’t high nor overly nasal. Her perfect pitch reflects her elevated confidence but not in a snooty, look-at-me type of way.

  Her visitor mumbles a reply, but since I’m too busy calming my raring pulse from her egg-soaked skirt sticking to her sultry hourglass figure, I miss what he says.

  The dangerous thump of my heart increases when Harlow precariously balances on her hands and knees. If I were a gentleman, I would offer her assistance, but with her backbreaking position amplifying the uncomfortable pinch in my crotch, I must remain seated.

  After several near misses, Harlow stands to her full height, which I’d guess to be around five foot eight without shoes. She clears the yolk from her hands by dragging them down her loose-fitting sweater, then she offers them to me. I accept her assistance, fighting the urge to pull her back into my lap where she was seated mere moments ago. If my common sense hadn’t arrived with her unexpected guest, I would. But with reality comes clarity.

  I just need my body to get the memo that I’m not here for Harlow, and don’t even get me started on my fucked-up heart. Instead of appreciating the extra thump our impromptu exchange generated, my heart is assessing every snippet as if they are signed guarantees of future exchanges. They aren’t. I’m not in a position to take on more work, and Harlow won’t just add issues to my current payload, she could completely obliterate them.

  Furthermore, I don’t chase my heart’s desires. I beat them into a pulp.

  “Thank you,” I praise when Harlow drags me to a vertical position, proving her strengths aren’t just internal.

  With my tongue hanging out of my mouth, I slide across the egg yolk, using its gooey substance to my advantage. If I didn’t loathe my father, I’d give him credit for my above-par skating abilities. Not every child gets to train with professional hockey players when they are only ten. It is a pity my father died years ago. It is also a pity I can’t stand the guy—dead or alive.

  “Good idea,” Harlow murmurs, copying my skiing moves.

  If you ignore our ruined clothing and sticky hair, we might look like a couple spending our first date at the Rockefeller Center ice rink. We have the cliché Christmas movie vibe down pat—huge smiles and all. Harlow’s nonchalant composure is refreshing. She’s covered head to toe in goop, yet her toothy grin never waivers. She either has the world at her feet, or she’s in the wrong industry.

  Because the bakery’s kitchen is so small, it only takes us a few glides to reach the other end. While I toe off my slosh-covered shoes, Harlow rolls neutral-colored stockings down her thighs. I don’t bother hiding my hungry gawk. No sane man would. Harlow is drop dead gorgeous, and she has a body the devil would wear a halo for, so you can be assured I’m watching in full anticipation, praying her panties soon join her discarded stockings.

  I’m left hanging when Harlow tosses the bunched-up nylon into a sink on her left. When her eyes drift to me, I nearly angle my body to the side to conceal a response a grown man shouldn’t have over a pair of stockings. The only reason I stay put is because I remember her staring at my crotch earlier. Now we’re even.

  “Oh, for the love of sugar,” Harlow mumbles, her voice void of shame as she stares at me.

  I eat businessman for breakfast; I transfer assets worth millions of dollars multiple times a day, but I’m left void of a retort to her unexpected but highly sought-after praise. I can also feel my cheeks heating.

  What.

  The.

  Fuck?

  I don’t blush. I’m a man, for fuck’s sake. Men don’t blush. We get red with anger or exertion. We. Do. Not. Blush.

  Before I can conjure a plausible excuse for my red cheeks, a cough breaks the silence. When Harlow’s eyes snap to the man standing at our right, the heat from my cheeks transfers to hers.

  With clenched fists and a jaw just as firm, she growls, “You again! I told you this morning, my business is not for sale.”

  The man chokes on his response when I pivot on my heels to face him. He recognizes me as quickly as I identify him, but before he can credit our association, I slant my head to the side and glower at him. Now is not the time for official introductions.

  After an inconspicuous nod, Levi returns his focus to Harlow. “I recall in utmost detail your response to my visit this morning.” His tone indicates Harlow’s earlier refusal wasn’t as polite as this one. “I just figured there was no harm in popping in to see if you’ve glanced at the latest proposal yet. The company I am representing has been very kind with their offer. I’d hate for you to mistake their generosity as desperation.”

  The way he snarls “hate” makes the throb in my cock extend to my jaw. He’s not goading Harlow; he’s degrading her. If I hadn’t met her in person, I’d step back and let them handle their business—there are no friends in this fickle industry—but now it seems wrong to watch someone belittle her. I was literally seconds away from kissing her before Levi interrupted us, so how can I not defend her?

  “A respectable company would allow time to look over the proposal outside of business hours before strong-arming a vendor for an answer.”

  Levi’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down before his head joins the bobbing party.

  “Perhaps if you hand Ms. Murphy your card, she’ll call you once she has examined the offer more thoroughly. Until then, your purchaser must wait. No business matters, whether large or small, happen without legwork. You haven’t given Ms. Murphy the chance to stretch her legs, much less her brain.”

  I inwardly cringe, mindful I disclosed Harlow’s surname. I didn’t mean to. I was just caught up with formalities, it slipped out before I could reel it back in. Not once, but twice.

  Mercifully, Harlow is so thrilled by my dressing-down, she fails to notice I used her name. Pretending he doesn’t have sweat beading on his brow, Levi digs into the breast pocket of his jacket, then jots down his cell phone number on a business card before handing it to Harlow.

  With the determination of a woman with nothing to lose, Harlow stares into Levi’s eyes before ripping the card in half. Not wanting him to misconstrue her silent rejection, she places the two torn strips together before tearing them in half once more. She follows the same routine another two times before releasing the card
board from her grip.

  Levi watches the remains of his business card haphazardly float to the ground before raising his eyes to Harlow. “My number is also on the purchase contract. Call me if you have any questions.”

  Snubbing her un-choked growl, he spins on his heels and exits the bakery as swiftly as he entered it. He’s barely stepped onto the sidewalk when Harlow whines, “Argh. Seriously. The gall of that guy. I don’t know how many times I have to spell it out to him. No amount of money will change the fact that my business is not for sale.”

  She throws her arms into the air before stomping into her kitchen. Forgetting the floor is covered with eggs, she does a weird splits, wild arms flapping thing. Thankfully, my lightning quick reflexes help her regain her footing before she stumbles to the floor.

  I wait for the panic to clear from her face before possibly increasing it. “Are you being hassled into selling?” I ask, pretending I don’t know the answer to my question.

  “’Hassled’ is too nice of a word for that guy’s tactics.” She nudges her head in the direction Levi just went before crouching down to clean up the mess we made.

  “What do you mean? What tactics?” The tick of my jaw resonates in my tone.

  Harlow dumps a handful of eggshells into a bin under the kitchen counter before raising her eyes to mine. “I really shouldn’t say hassle. He just won’t get the hint. A change in figures won’t alter my mindset.”

  “Why?” I’m not asking to be nosey. I’m genuinely interested in her reply.

  I’ve seen firsthand the amount properties like hers fetch in Ravenshoe area. Instead of adding to the dark rings circling her eyes, Levi’s proposal could have her living on easy street, so why isn’t she considering his offer?

  “Because money won’t make me happy.” Harlow’s tone indicates she isn’t one hundred percent confident with her reply. She wants to believe what she is saying is gospel, but she knows as well as the next person that we live in a money-oriented world.

  “Money won’t make you happy,” I agree, my tone more buoyant than hers. “But a sturdy foundation can.”

  I bob down to assist her in cleaning up the mess. My suit is already ruined, so what are a few more stains between friends?

  “If you’re treading in waters out of your depth, is it wrong to accept a lifejacket?”

  I expect her to take a moment to deliberate my question, so you can imagine my surprise when she instantly replies, “Yes.”

  “How?” My tone reveals I think her answer is ludicrous. “If you’re drowning, there is no shame in accepting assistance.”

  “Colt Enterprises isn’t offering me a lifejacket; they want me out of the pool altogether.”

  Now I’m the one sorting the facts. She has a point. A very solid one.

  Although I somewhat agree with what she is saying, it doesn’t stop me from asking, “So baking cupcakes is more important than living comfortably?”

  Harlow’s eyes rocket to mine. Her snarl tells me she didn’t miss the disbelief my deep tone couldn’t stifle.

  “You’ve got to understand my astonishment! You’re sitting on a goldmine.” I gesture around her bakery that doesn’t just need an update—it needs demolishing. The space is spotlessly clean, but it doesn’t have the means to cook a Sunday roast, much less the products required to fill its cabinets every day.

  “Yes, I am, “ Harlow agrees, nodding. “The foundations of my bakery are solid; it just needs some TLC—”

  “Or a match and some gasoline. . .”

  My reply falls short when the only egg not ruined during our tussle lands on the top of my head. Harlow mushes it in deep, ensuring it will take me at least an hour to remove the shards of shell from my hair, not to mention the ones her pained eyes stabbed my heart with. This isn’t just business to her. This is as personal as it gets.

  Satisfied I’ve absorbed the silent warning that our conversation about her selling is over, Harlow rises to her feet. “I’ll have your cupcakes ready for pick up at 8 AM.”

  Her dismissive tone hurts me more than my backside’s collision with the ground. Gone is the woman who stole the air from my lungs with one glance of her face, exchanged for one who appears lost and vulnerable.

  After clearing away the remaining mess, I join Harlow at the stainless steel counter she is peering at, lost in thought. I want to kiss her until the impish gleam her eyes held earlier returns stronger than ever, but since I’m treading in foreign waters I swore I’d never wade in again, I harness my desire—barely.

  Kissing her won’t make matters better. If anything, it will make them ten times worse. So, no matter how badly I wish it weren’t true, I can’t kiss her. Not now. Not ever.

  I push down my disappointment with a quick swallow before advising, “I won’t have time to pick up my order tomorrow. Can you have them delivered to my office? I’m happy to pay for the courier service you generally use.”

  While striving to ignore the gnawing sensation deep inside me, I hand my business card to Harlow. Although I’d give anything to experience this crazy, indescribable feeling again, the anxious knot in my gut is warning me to place distance between us before things grow more complicated than they already are.

  This is a connection unlike any I’ve ever had. It is more emotional than impassive—which, if I’m totally honest, scares the shit out of me. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt this alive, but I’m certain it comes at a cost. One I’m not willing to pay again. So for that alone, I must trust my instincts instead of my heart.

  “My business address is on the bottom of the card; anyone can accept delivery, just tell them they are for me.”

  Although Harlow’s lips twist as she takes in my credentials, she remains as quiet as a church mouse. I’ve never been a fan of noise until now. I’d rather have her girly giggle piercing my eardrums than be bound by her silence. It reminds me of a quote my mom always said, “At the end, you will not remember the words of your enemies, only the silence of your friends.”

  “McGregor?” Harlow murmurs a short time later, blessing me with her syrupy sweet voice.

  I nod, praying this is one time my infamous surname remains anonymous.

  Before I can ask what caused the extra flutter in her thin neck, Harlow asks, “You’re a talent scout for Destiny Records?”

  The confusion in her tone makes my lips arch. “Not exactly.” When she glances at me with her adorable nose screwed up, I explain, “It’s a long story. One neither of us have time to tackle right now.” Even more so since glimmers of the woman I was interacting with earlier have resurfaced. I’m glad she’s back, but I’m also aware it only gives me seconds to flee before I once again become snared by her hunter’s trap.

  After glancing at the clock displaying it is nearly 10 PM, Harlow nods in agreement. I thought her earlier mention of being awake since 3 AM was an exaggeration; only now am I realizing it wasn’t.

  “I could arrange to have your order delivered, but I’m not sure I should trust couriers with your shipment. They barely deliver my cake boxes in one piece, and they’re empty during transport.”

  “Then why don’t you bring them?” I suggest before I can stop myself.

  I mentally slap myself. I’m supposed to be putting distance between us, not encouraging additional visits.

  Harlow glides her hand around her scarcely lit bakery. “This doesn’t run itself.” She swivels on the spot as she silently contemplates. “I could deliver them before I open? It will be early, but your order will arrive safely.”

  “Alright, that could work. What time?” I try to act as if I didn’t hear the hope in her voice. My attempts are half-assed.

  She props her hip on the glistening counter before suggesting, “Around seven?”

  I cringe. There is only one reason I wake up that early. It isn’t for sugary bundles of joy. Although from the way Harlow’s teeth rake her bottom lip as her eyes continually scan my body, I begin to wonder if cupcakes will be the only sweet thing on
offer tomorrow?

  Snubbing my disturbing—and highly wishful—inner monologue, I mutter, “I’ll make sure someone is at my office then.”

  “Okay,” Harlow agrees again, nodding more assertively this time. “Then it’s set. I’ll meet you at your office at 7 AM tomorrow.”

  Stealing my chance to reply that from here on out I must avoid her like the plague, she presses her lips to the edge of my mouth. Any hang-ups I’m having vanish in an instant when her sugar-scented breath fans my lips. She smells as scrumptious as I’m sure she tastes.

  Pretending I don’t have hair full of egg and a heart just as messy, I return her embrace before promptly retreating. With the business side of my brain overruled by its less astute counterpart, faking disinterest seems more of a choice than a requirement. I want to know if she tastes as sweet as she smells. I just wish I could find out without complicating things.

  “Until tomorrow?” Harlow murmurs, her voice ten decibels lower than mine and one hundred times hotter.

  Even though I command my head to shake, it bobbles instead. “Until tomorrow,” I parrot, unworthy of the fight.

  After a dip of my chin, I make a beeline for my town car idling at the curb. Harlow and I started our night as strangers, but I already know her well enough that I don’t need to look at her to know she’s eyeballing my backside for the umpteenth time this evening. The heat of her gaze is felt from my egg-covered scalp to my sock-enclosed feet.

  When I hit the sidewalk outside her bakery, I keep my eyes locked on my driver, praying his leering expression will stop me spinning on my heels and finishing what I started. I asked to kiss Harlow. She gave me permission without any hesitation, so why the fuck am I parading around town with an egg-smeared face and an erection?

  The solution for my predicament is a more-than-willing participant, yet I’m walking away from what could potentially be something great because I’ve either become more like my father than I’d care to admit, or I’m even more spineless than I was when he was alive.

  My driver’s smile grows the closer I get to him. My staff have never seen me like this—wild and carefree. They see the man I had intended to show Harlow tonight. I’m not stern. I’m just smart. Well, I was until a woman who is as beautiful as she is mischievous blindsided me.