Sugar and Spice

by Shandi Boyes

  “Most staff members don’t arrive until ten, but there are always a handful of eager beavers who want to get a jump on the rest of us,” Cormack answers before joining me tableside.

  I accept the top two boxes from his grasp while saying, “The early birds do get the worms.”

  My already uncomfortable body temperature notches up when Cormack smiles. “They do, but it is the second mouse who gets the cheese. Everyone has their place, whether they are first or last.”

  “True,” I reply, smiling. I’ve never heard that reference before. “But who in their right mind would want that chunk of cheese? It’d be covered with blood and god knows what else. Yuck.” I screw up my face, adding to my fake disgust without words.

  I give myself a mental pat on the back when Cormack briefly shakes his head, hoping it will conceal the grin stretching across his handsome face. It doesn’t, but I’ll give him three points for trying.

  Pretending I can’t feel his watchful eye heating up every inch of my skin, I commence stacking together the cardboard racks I supply with every order. I have a million questions streaming through my head, but I’m more interested in discovering why he frosted the wall than why his name is above the door of an establishment he pretends to be a talent scout at.

  I don’t understand why he is hiding his connection to his business. The wall of photos I glanced at during our brief trip to the conference room weren’t by any artists I’ve heard of, but that doesn’t make his company less worthy of commendation. Whether it is a struggling bakery or a multimillion dollar entity, all business owners face the same quandaries, so we must stick together.

  I return from the land of fairies when Cormack leans over my shoulder to place a cupcake onto the top rung of the stand I’ve just assembled. The proud smile he is wearing lessens my dissatisfaction, but it doesn’t completely erase it.

  “Hold on,” I murmur, freezing his placement of a second cupcake midair. “I can’t serve that. It looks revolting.”

  “What’s the problem?” If my skyrocketing pulse didn’t already alert me to Cormack’s closeness, it is even more noticeable when I go cross-eyed to return his confused stare.

  “Look. It’s squashed. I can’t have my name associated with garbage!”

  Cormack chuckles, not understanding I’m being serious. I’m not exaggerating. Presentation is as important as taste in my industry.

  “People expect their cakes to be both visually satisfying and delicious. If I serve them something that looks revolting, it won’t get within an inch of their lips, which means they won’t become a sugar addict who waits outside my doors at 4 AM just for their next hit. It must look both presentable and. . .”

  My words trail off when Cormack snatches the cupcake off the stand and raises it to his mouth. “What are you doing?”

  My mouth gapes when his tongue delves out to lick the marshmallow frosting. At first, I assume he is sampling how yummy it is so he can adequately argue quality over appearance. It is only when his tongue swirls the flattened frosting into a peak do I realize what he is doing. He’s making them both presentable and scrumptious.

  I squirm uncontrollably. The skill of his tongue is mesmerizing. The room spins as my body temp climbs. I’ve never seen such a sexually stimulating image in my life. Who knew a cupcake could be more than just a cupcake? I’ve always loved baking, but I’m never going to see it in the same light now.

  Once Cormack has the cupcake half-presentable, he holds it out in offering before locking his eyes with mine. “Better?” he asks, his lips curving into a smirk.

  “No,” I lie, my short reply almost a moan. “You made it worse. I’m not serving that.”

  I snatch the cake from his grasp and place it next to undamaged the boxes. I could discard it into the bin under the table, but I’d hate for it to go to waste. Cormack had his mouth on it. That makes it invaluable. Furthermore, I’m suddenly starving, but it isn’t a hankering for food.

  “Do you have a zip lock bag and a pair of scissors? I have enough time to re-pipe the flattened ones. They won’t look as good as the originals, but they’ll be more presentable than they are now.”

  After taking a deep breath to calm my spiked pulse, I spin back around to face Cormack. He has a second cupcake in his hand, but this time, he’s not fixing the frosting with his tongue; he’s devouring it.

  “That was too good not to have a second taste. What is that?” he questions through a mouthful of cake.

  “Marshmallow fondue, as requested.” I step closer to him, adoring the pleasurable moans simpering from his mouth. “Up to your standards?”

  He nods. “It’s really good. Scrumptious indeed.” He pops another generous helping into his mouth before muttering, “It’s not quite what I woke up craving this morning, but it’s pretty darn close.”

  I try to make my pout look sexy. It’s a woeful waste of time. The only way it could achieve sexy would be if Cormack’s slid his frosty fingers into my mouth instead of his own.

  “I have some fresh sandwiches in one of the boxes, but if you tell me what you’re craving, I could make you something more satisfying.” My heart lets out a yearning sigh, aware I’m offering more than just a savory treat.

  Cormack licks the last smidge of frosting from his finger, swallows with a groan, then connects his eyes to mine. Time freezes when our eyes collide. His look as hungry as mine; I just don’t know if he’s hungry for food.

  “You want to cook for me?” His throat is awfully dry for a man who devoured a butter-laden cake.

  Incapable of speaking through my equally parched throat, I nod.

  “Now?” I can’t tell if his high tone is from shock or excitement.

  “Not right now, but my doors are always open.”

  I inwardly curse. I’ve never been one to stand back and watch a good opportunity pass without some consideration, but my response couldn’t have sounded more desperate if I tried. Just like the shameful “throw a dog a bone” plea I served Izzy months ago, this one was just as desperate.

  I don’t realize I’m glancing at my feet until Cormack pops his hand under my chin to lift my downcast head. His eyes dance between mine when he says, “Thank you for the offer, but no matter what you cook, my craving would never be satisfied.”

  I’m glad I can see his eyes, or I may have mistaken his reply as a brush-off. His eyes confirm what his mouth refuses to acknowledge. I’m not the only one blindsided by the crazy connection buzzing between us. He is as confused by it as me. He honestly looks torn between wanting to kiss me and throw me out of his office. I’d be lying if I said that doesn’t excite me as much as it devastates me.

  I’m thankful I’m not the only one struggling, but I don’t understand his hesitation. I may not be as affluent as the women who usually grace his arm, but I’m not seeking a long-term commitment. Why can’t two people of opposing social statuses come together for a little bit of fun? With an attraction this strong, ignoring it seems more torturous than exploring it.

  “Denying yourself never works. It only makes your cravings more intense. Every man knows that the forbidden fruit is the most desired one.” My voice is so husky with need, it is barely recognizable.

  “You don’t succumb to temptation, Harlow. You yield to it.” Cormack’s throat is as raw as mine, his heart rate just as high. “But every sacrifice comes at a price. Until I’ve paid mine, I can’t profess more.”

  His eyes bounce between mine for another thirty seconds before his hand drops from my face. His Adam’s apple descends as quickly as my heart rate when he takes a reluctant step back.

  If we weren’t strangers only hours ago, I’d fist his shirt and force him to explain his jumbled comment. But since I am as lost as I am intrigued, I murmur, “Zip lock bags?”

  Chapter Four

  Harlow

  It takes nearly forty minutes, but with a boiled sandwich bag and a trusty emergency Wilton piping tip I keep in the glove compartment of my car, I re-pipe the half-dozen cup
cakes flattened by Cormack. It is lucky I’m professionally trained or the fire-sparking intensity bouncing between us would have had the frosting skidding off the cupcakes as badly as my heart has skipped beats this morning.

  It took approximately thirty seconds for the lingering awkwardness of our exchange to vanish. From thereon out, it was smooth sailing. For a man who seems wealthy, Cormack is extremely down to earth. While watching me coerce frosting into obedience, he shared he chose “Talent Scout” as his job title because he loves the arts so much.

  I also discovered he has three younger siblings and that he has resided in the Hopeton/Ravenshoe area since his final year of college six years ago. He briefly mentioned that his mother was unwell, but his father’s whereabouts never came up.

  With our time limited, we never revisited our discussion of his family lineage. But, to be honest, even if we had as many hours as he has dollar bills, I don’t think we should open that can of worms just yet. Cormack appears to be brutally honest, so I’m confident his evasion wasn’t accidental. Since I’d rather him disclose his life history when he feels comfortable, I refuse to strong-arm him into sharing.

  “So your brother is a freshman at Calton Tech?” Cormack asks, swiveling in his chair to face me head on.

  I smile, proud as punch. “Yeah. He was awarded three scholarships his final semester of high school. After a lengthy discussion with our mom, they decided Calton Tech was the right fit for him. I’ve always believed when you know, you know, so I went along with their decision.”

  “And your dad?” Cormack asks, his tone genuinely interested. “Was he happy with their choice?”

  I smile again, but this time it’s a sad smile. “My dad passed away three years ago.”

  Cormack’s spine stiffens with remorse. “I’m so sorry; I didn’t realize. You talk of him so fondly, I didn’t make the connection.”

  “It’s fine, really,” I assure, waving my hand through the air. “It’s been three years, but I often forget he’s gone.”

  “That influential?”

  The distress in Cormack’s tone surprises me, but it doesn’t stop me from saying, “More than he ever realized.”

  I don’t grasp I’m on the verge of crying until Cormack drags his finger across my cheek. No tears have fallen, but he is ready to catch them if they do. His attentiveness is a welcome hit to my stomach. It reminds me that there are still good guys in the world; you’ve just got to shovel through the shit to find them.

  I’ve never had an abusive boyfriend or a jerk who mistreated me, but I’ve never met a man who can read my emotions as well as Cormack can. It is bizarre—a little creepy—but mind-blowing at the same time.

  “I’m good,” I assure Cormack, hating that he sees the moisture in my eyes as sorrow instead of fondness.

  My father was a brilliant man whose final wish was for his family not to mourn his loss. Although I miss him every single day, any tears I’ve shed since his death were done with love and admiration, not sorrow.

  Needing a moment to calm my heart rate from Cormack’s caring touch, I nudge my head to the cupcakes sitting proudly on a table at our left. “That funky mottled cake you asked about earlier?”

  I wait for Cormack to nod, acknowledging he is aware of which cake I am referring to before disclosing, “That’s my dad’s recipe. He created it one Halloween for our annual street party. Without frosting, it resembles dog food, so no one was game to taste it but me. My god—it was better than any cake I’d ever eaten. It’s been my all-time favorite since.”

  “All-time favorite out of all the cakes in the world?” Cormack double-checks.

  With a grin that shows the absolute honesty of my words, I nod.

  My eyes follow Cormack when he stands from his seat and makes his way to the cake stands. If the contrast in our heights didn’t award me a glorious visual of his backside, I’d join him tableside.

  “This one?” Cormack asks, pointing to a green, seedy creation.

  I nod again, loving that out of all the cakes displayed, he picked the correct one.

  My brow rises in suspicion when he plucks the cake from the stand before slowly pacing back my way. With his attention on prying away the thin wrapper circling the cake, he fails to spot my fifteenth appreciative gawk of his body in the past thirty minutes. Even with my eyes weighed down with exhaustion, his appeal doesn’t fade. He is indisputably gorgeous. I should be ashamed to admit I’ve been eyeballing him like a nymph all morning, but I’m not.

  Cormack’s gazes may not be as brazen as mine, but they are still there all the same. I don’t even need to see his eyes to know I’ve captured his attention. The heat of his gaze tells me everything I need to know. Our perving tally is precisely even, in both length and dedication. I’m not ashamed when he catches my appreciative stare. I wouldn’t necessarily say Cormack is embarrassed either, but I’ve never seen a man blush like him before. You can sure as hell guarantee I’ll aim to see it once a week from here on out.

  I lick my lips. My dry mouth isn’t what you’re thinking. It isn’t Cormack’s panty-wetting features drying up all the crevices in my body. It is from him inching my most favorite treat in the entire world toward my mouth.

  “Ladies first.” His throaty croon makes it seem as if he is offering me something more risqué than a cake I spent all night perfecting.

  With my eyes locked on his, I take a generous bite of the witch puke-inspired dessert. A moan rumbles up my chest when a burst of flavor activates my taste buds. Pure heaven.

  My hearty moan escalates when I spot Cormack’s flaring nostrils. He’s not angry. He’s merely sucking in air to cool his flaming cheeks for the fourth time this morning.

  I clamp my hand over my mouth to conceal my rudeness of talking with a mouthful. “It’s really good, but it’s nothing like my daddy used to make. No ingredients can replace the love he put in every batch.”

  I remove the sliver of cake I didn’t devour, then spin it around to face Cormack. My heart shudders in my chest. I’m anticipating a rejection, but silently praying it’ll never come. I bit into it first, so I’ll understand if he’s not eager to share.

  Cormack continues surprising me. He doesn’t glower at my offer or screw up his nose in disgust; he merely accepts it—throaty moans and all. “Ohh. . . Mmm. . .”

  I squirm uncomfortably, my body incapable of hearing his gruff groans without responding. His sultry moans shoot down to my groin, adding to the sticky mess his gorgeous face already created in my panties. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard such a provocative noise. I can only pray another two years don’t pass before I hear it again.

  “You’re right, Harlow. That was even better than the first six cakes I ate.”

  I laugh, even though he is being one hundred percent honest. I thought I was the only resident in Ravenshoe who demolished sugar as if it is packed with good nutrition. My love of treats has nothing on Cormack’s sweet tooth. If I hadn’t scolded him for eating before his guests arrived, I have no doubt he would have demolished half the cupcakes by now.

  My laughter melds into a moan when a pleasing zap dances across my cheek. Not that I mind, but Cormack is once again touching me without permission.

  “More egg?” I ask, my voice as frisky as I’m feeling.

  When Cormack nods, I arch a brow, calling out his deceit. His smile turns blinding as the mischievous glint in his eyes triples.

  His lack of coyness has me asking, “About last night. . . The more I think about it, the greater your web unravels.”

  Cormack retakes his seat. His smile isn’t as bright, his eyes not as dazzling. “My web?” His voice is still sexy even though it reeks of suspicion.

  Enjoying the switch in power, I let him stew for a little bit.

  Seconds have never felt like hours until now.

  Realizing self-restraint and I will never be friends, I blurt out, “The egg on my face last night, was it yolk or straight up egg whites?”

  “What?” He
sounds shocked. Rightfully so. Our conversation did just do another one-eighty flip. I thought he’d be accustomed to the rapid switch in our exchanges since he is the one who instigates them.

  “The egg you removed from my cheek last night. Was it yellow or clear?”

  Cormack sits straighter in his chair, aligning our eyes with sheer perfection. It is a smooth move on his behalf as now I’m too busy calming my surging libido to remember the point of my interrogation.

  It is fortunate Cormack’s thought process doesn’t slip off the tracks as often as mine. “What makes you ask?”

  I shrug. “I’m just wondering, that’s all. It seems a little strange I got egg on my cheek when mine wasn’t the one cracking them.”

  Cormack’s lips spasms as he strives to conceal his smile. “Maybe it was leftover residue from the one you fused with my face.” His chest rattles as abruptly as mine, our conjoined laughter unheard but visible.

  “Hmm. . . Maybe. . .?” My eyeroll looks more mature than my nearly twenty-six years.

  “You don’t believe me?” Cormack intuits, his smile shifting from wary to playful.

  “I’m not saying that—”

  “You’re just implying it.” His interruption isn’t made in malice. He is merely adding to the sexual energy teeming between us with a playful game of tit for tat.

  “Not at all. I’m just wondering if I had frosting on my face, or were you just looking for an excuse to touch me?”

  “I need an excuse to touch you?” His voice lowers to a growl, stimulating my senses as well as his smile is.

  “Not. At. All,” I repeat, the need in my voice unmissable.

  My heart does a crazy boom-boom, skip a beat, boom-boom pattern when Cormack scoots to the farthest edge of his chair. His eyes remain locked on mine as his hand lifts to my face. I’m saved from making a fool of myself when the quick stroke of his thumb across my lips stops me from nuzzling into his embrace. I’ve never been a fan of cuddling, but I’m confident I could snuggle into Cormack’s side for years and never grow bored.