Sugar and Spice

by Shandi Boyes

  Although my message isn’t from him, it still activates butterflies in my stomach.

  Izzy: The yelp reviews on that restaurant are great. . .

  You can’t read someone’s tone in a text, but I still hear a “but” hanging in the air.

  Me: But. . .

  Izzy doesn’t keep me waiting long, proving her night was as restless as mine.

  Izzy: Did you scroll through the photos? $135 for steak. I nearly died.

  I giggle. This is why Izzy is my soul sister. She is as cheap as me.

  Me: Yes, I saw the prices, but you don’t need to worry. I know someone who will give us a discount.

  “What are you, a speed-reader?” I mumble to myself when my phone rings two seconds later.

  “A discount? I’d rather go out for pizza and a movie than wash dishes for a week,” Izzy giggles down the line, not bothering to issue a greeting.

  “I’ve got enough dishes to wash. Do you really think I want more?”

  My heart swells when she giggles again. It also proves I’m getting through to her.

  “Come on, Iz. It’s your birthday. Greasy pizza won’t cut it. I want to get dressed up and wear fancy shoes. I want to look pretty.”

  She sighs heavily. “You always look pretty, Harlow.”

  With how gooey everyone’s attention is making me lately, I’ll soon be nothing but goop on the floor. “As do you, but that doesn’t mean I’m not dying to see you out of your favorite jeans and ugly ass t-shirts.”

  “Hey!” I drag my cell away from my ear, her girly squeal too ear-piercing for this time of the morning. “I prefer comfort over glam.”

  “And I’m dying to get laid. Now we’re even.” I snap my mouth shut, mortified I said my private thoughts out loud.

  My diarrhea mouth isn’t surprising. I barely slept a wink last night. My wicked mind was too busy recalling my night with Cormack to sleep.

  My worry about being seen as a tart dissipates when Izzy giggles. “How is that even close to being the same thing?”

  I shrug. “You say potato. I say potato.”

  A stretch of silence swarms us. I thought we became besties because she could handle my crude humor at any time of the day. Only now am I realizing it has nothing to do with that. We’re both equally stubborn.

  “Alright. Fine.” Because I can squeal in excitement, Izzy adds on, “But no cake.”

  I gag. There is no chance in hell I’m agreeing to that. You don’t age without a cake. It is a rite of passage. For the first twenty-one years of your life, you consume cake in celebration of how far you’ve come. For the next seventy plus years, you eat cake in commiseration of growing old and accepting the responsibilities that come with age. But no matter what, you always have cake. That alone makes getting old worth the sacrifice.

  “Promise me, Harlow. I’ll die of embarrassment if you make a big deal.”

  . . .

  “Harlow.”

  . . .

  “I’m not hanging up until you promise.” The ruffling of sheets sounds down the line, as if she is making herself comfortable for the long haul.

  I huff. I’d love to stay stubborn, but I have a business to operate.

  “I love Jason Momoa.” The mumble of my words makes it sound like I’m promising something I’m not.

  “So do I, but that isn’t what I want to hear right now.” Izzy sounds angry, but I know she isn’t. I heard her smile in her words.

  I’m saved from making a promise I have no plan to keep when a knock sounds through my ears.

  “Did you hear that?” I stretch out my hand, ensuring Izzy can hear the brisk tap before drawing my phone back to my ear. “I’ve got customers knocking down my doors. I have to go. Talk to you later!”

  Stealing her chance to reply, I disconnect our call and gallop down the stairs. I don’t know what is more exciting, my sneaky scheme to get Izzy and Isaac in the same room, or discovering who is bashing down my door. Actually, come to think of it, it is neither of those things. It is knowing I’m only days away from seeing Cormack again. I honestly can’t wait.

  I feel like Cinderella when swinging my bakery door open presents me with a massive bouquet of birds of paradise. There are so many of my favorite flowers nestled between two-toned roses and orchids, I can’t see the person standing behind the delivery.

  “Hi,” I greet, my eyes pricking with moisture when a pair of ravenous blue eyes peek through the bouquet.

  “Good morning,” Cormack greets back.

  The rasp of his voice does stupid things to my insides. I honestly don’t know whether to cry or kiss him. If it didn’t make me look like an idiot, I’d do both.

  “What are you doing here?” I accept the flowers before gesturing for him to enter. “It is very early. Aren’t you tired?”

  I giggle when he shrugs his shoulders before saying, “Eh.”

  The electricity that fired between us last night triples when he shadows me into the kitchen in hunt for a vase. “You said last night you’re the only baker on deck every Monday. Since I kept you out past your bedtime, I figured the least I could do was assist you with preparing your morning trade.”

  I bite on the inside of my cheek—hard. I’m hoping a bit of pain will prevent me from crying.

  “You want to bake with me?” I don’t know why I am acting like he offered me a lung. My voice just came out that way.

  Cormack places the massive bouquet of flowers onto the stainless steel counter before tugging me to stand in front of him. Baking is the last thing on my mind when his icy blue eyes collide with my wide gaze. Even though his eyes show his tiredness, they also reveal he isn’t here seeking brownie points. He truly wants to help me.

  Spotting the gratitude in my eyes, he asks, “Where do you want me? I can’t do fancy cake decorating stuff, but I can crack an egg, and on rare occasions, I’ve whipped together a mean batch of pancakes.”

  “Edible ones?” If I don’t jest, I’m going to crumble under his attentive stare.

  Cormack throws his head back and laughs. The old lighting in the bakery reveals his night was as restless as mine, but his dark-rimmed eyes and mottled skin don’t weaken his appeal in the slightest. I don’t even think an ugly baker’s hairnet will dampen his appeal.

  My heart whines in disappointment when I move away from Cormack to secure a hairnet and apron from the shelf in the corner of the room. “Pop these on, then we’ll get you started on the bread. It has risen nicely overnight.”

  Not as effectively as my feelings are rising for him, but I’ll keep that information to myself—for now.

  Chapter Twelve

  Cormack

  After excusing myself from the table Isaac and I have been seated at the past hour, I head toward the bar I informed Harlow to wait at. As far as Isaac and Isabelle are concerned, this dinner wasn’t staged—ever. Isaac is a little hot-headed in general, but when it comes to strong-arming him or swimming with ravenous sharks, I’d prefer the latter.

  Although the restaurant Isaac purchased not long after his nineteenth birthday is full to the brim with patrons, I spot Harlow almost instantly. Just like her favorite black skirt and fitted shirt she dons at her bakery, her fitted fire-engine red dress shows off every spectacular curve of her body. Her long hair has been blown out, leaving it hanging mere inches from her delectable ass, and her lips, although neutral, have a glimmering of gloss I can’t wait to taste.

  I could watch her for hours and never grow bored. I’m not the only man stalking her, though. She and Izzy have caught the attention of quite a few patrons. Men with slick grins swell closer to them for every second that ticks by. They are men I’d usually call acquaintances, but tonight, all I am seeing are enemies. I still haven’t learned to control my jealousy when it comes to Harlow. I’m trying, but the novelty of dating is already confusing; I can’t add more issues to my plate.

  I keep my eyes locked with Harlow as I weave through the throng of people eager to spend their weekend eating overpriced
steak and guzzling pricy cocktails. I used to relish weekends. Now every day is a work day. Even more so since I’ve arrived at Harlow’s bakery at four every morning the past week. My half-assed baking skills won’t clear away the sludge I dragged her through the past nine months, but it is better than sitting back and doing nothing.

  “Do you have a reservation?” the maître D asks Harlow when she inquires if there is a less rowdy section they could sit in.

  The maître D tsks Harlow when she shakes her head. She should consider herself lucky I’m the one approaching them. If Isaac witnessed his staff belittling anyone, reservation or not, he’d toss them to the curb himself. Isaac bought this restaurant because the man who used to run it denied us entry nearly ten years ago. Isaac warned him that he’d be the first person he fired when he was the owner. He kept his word. The ink on the transfer papers had barely dried when Isaac issued his marching orders. That was the day my hunger for business grew. I started investing in projects with Isaac the following weekend. And as they say, the rest is history.

  “Without a reservation, you will not be seated in this restaurant.” The maître D swallows her bitter words when she notices me standing next to Harlow. “Mr. McGregor, how wonderful to see you again. Is something the matter? Your table is nearly ready. It should only be a minute or two.”

  “Is there no availability for these fine women this evening?”

  The maître D’s eyes flick between mine before they dart down to her reservation book. She already knows the answer to my question; she just doesn’t want to disappoint me by saying no. She would hate for anything to ruin her chances of sleeping with me. She shouldn’t worry. That is never going to happen. When you are raised in one of the richest families in the US, you soon discover a love of classics. April is attractive, but Harlow has old school beauty with a slim nose, high cheeks and wildly untamed hair. Add that to the fact her personality isn’t one she found inside a cereal box, and you’ve got the perfect recipe for an ideal woman.

  “Umm. . . no, sorry, Mr. McGregor. We already have four couples waiting at the bar in the hope of a cancellation. I can’t shuffle the seating any more than I already have,” April drones on, forcing my focus on her instead of the smile Harlow is poorly concealing.

  Harlow should be fortunate Izzy is so appreciative of my assistance, she hasn’t noticed the gaga faces she is giving me.

  “Very well.” April’s face lights up, assuming I’m sending Harlow and Izzy on their merry way. She comes crashing back to reality when I say, “Have them seated with me. I’m always up for company.”

  Izzy’s eyes dart to mine when I let out a little squeak. I tried to conceal Harlow’s stomp on my foot with a cough, but her four-inch heels made it an impossible feat.

  “You want them to sit with you?” April snarls, evidently unimpressed.

  My hand darts out to seize Harlow’s wrist when she storms toward April. She looks five seconds from giving her a lobotomy with a blunt spoon. While rubbing my thumb over the throb in Harlow’s wrist, I say, “Yes. Very much so. If they would like to join me?”

  Harlow shifts her eyes to Izzy to seek permission. Her Oscar-worthy performance has me jotting down a mental note to watch her more closely in the future. She is such a good actor, Izzy stammers, “Sure, if you want?” not even two seconds later.

  The first syllable has barely left Izzy’s mouth when Harlow hooks her arm around my elbow and gestures for me to lead the way. Our departure is swift, but not fast enough to save April from Harlow’s vicious snarl. Serves her right. Harlow’s glare will be the least of her problems when I inform Isaac of her conduct this evening.

  “You look beautiful,” I whisper to Harlow when we’re halfway to the booth I left Isaac in.

  I tug her in close to my side when her smile attracts even more attention. “Thank you. You look very fetching as well.” It is the fight of my life not to kiss her when she brings her lips within an inch of my face to whisper, “Did you remember the cake?”

  Before I have the chance to reply, a grumbled, “You’ve got to be kidding me,” rolls up Izzy’s chest. She glares at Isaac, shocked, and if I’m not completely mistaken, a little excited.

  “I told you,” Harlow whispers when Isaac returns Izzy’s greeting by kissing the edge of her palm. “This is as hot as porn.”

  I choke on my spit, suddenly overheated. “You watch porn?”

  When she swings her eyes my way and winks, I uncomfortably grab my crotch. If I don’t tame the beast, I’m going to make a fool out of myself. This woman—god. She is killing me—wholly and without constraint. We’ve grown very close the past few days, but since all our interactions have occurred at her bakery, they’ve never reached the level they did last week.

  You have no idea how hard it is to only kiss her and walk away. Her kisses are whispered promises of more to come, but they are also the ultimate tease of what I am missing out on. I’ve tasted her. I know how yummy she is, so my determination for a second helping is brutal.

  Smiling at the embarrassing color of my cheeks, Harlow whispers, “I don’t watch porn. . .” Using Izzy’s distraction by Isaac to her advantage, she rakes her fingernails across my pecs. “But I would with you.”

  I’m two seconds away from calling in defeat and whisking Harlow home when she shifts her eyes to Isaac. “Harlow, nice to meet you.” She thrusts out her hand in offering.

  Isaac leaves her welcome hanging wide open, instead opting to drag his eyes down her body in a dedicated sweep. Suspicion boils in my gut. This isn’t like Isaac at all. He has the memory of an elephant. He never forgets a face—not once.

  “I’m from the bakery,” Harlow informs him, her low tone indicating she’s panicked her cover is blown. “The bakery you left your card at for Izzy.”

  She continues chipping at Isaac’s resolve without words, certain she has him fooled. She doesn’t, but he plays along. “Ah. The card that has yet to be used.”

  Harlow releases a deep sigh when Isaac finally accepts her hand.

  “He’s scary,” she murmurs under her breath while sliding into the booth before me.

  For the next twenty minutes, I try to keep our conversation in a safe territory. My efforts are dismal. Just Harlow’s husky mention of the pinstripe in my trousers had my thoughts straying in a direction not acceptable for a restaurant full of patrons, and I’m not going to comment on the number of times her nails have raked my inner thigh.

  Overhearing Isaac’s mention of his fighting days gives me an out from acknowledging the thickness in my pants, so I take it. “You didn’t fight; you just showed up.” My eyes bounce between Harlow and Izzy. “Don’t believe anything this guy tells you. He acts all innocent, then bam, you’ll be on your ass before you know it.”

  “Who are you to talk? You’re the one who created the ruse,” Isaac interjects, his tone as playful as mine. I knew Izzy did a number on him, but I had no clue it extended this far. I’ve never seen him so carefree.

  “It worked, though, didn’t it?”

  Isaac throws his head back and laughs. After the rough couple of years he’s had, his laugh sounds foreign. Isaac and I met during our first week of college. I’m not going to lie, when I was introduced to him by our RA, I thought he was a nerd. He studied relentlessly, sun up until sundown. It was only when I noticed the same ramen noodle boxes in the trash every day for the first three months did I realize what he was doing. He wasn’t as smart as some of the geniuses at our university, but he had determination by the bucket load. He wasn’t giving up his scholarship for anyone.

  I didn’t intend to drag him into the underground fight scene. I simply wanted him to live a little. My college fees were paid before I was born. My position in my family company was decided when I was still in my mother’s womb. I never did anything without first seeking permission. The gritty world of underground fighting was my outlet. I had no interest in participating; I just wasted money that wasn’t mine so I could mind-fuck my father as callously as
he had done to me my entire life.

  Everything changed the night I took Isaac to his first underground fight. I wouldn’t say his willpower to better his life rubbed off on me, but it did make me want to be more than just a birthright. I didn’t want to be my father’s minion, so I used Isaac’s fighting skills and my business strengths to push harder. Everything I have today is compliments of dragging Isaac away from the books for a night.

  “Come on, out with it,” Harlow pushes, drawing my focus back to the present. “This is more suspenseful than the Game of Thrones cliffhanger. You can’t share tidbits of information and then leave us hanging. We need details. Very informative details.”

  “Alright.” I lean forward, praying it will conceal Harlow’s clutch on my thigh from the couple seated next to us. “Imagine Isaac all decked out in corduroy trousers, a pair of leather-strapped sandals, a button-up short-sleeve shirt two sizes too small, and a pair of suspenders.”

  “I did not wear fucking suspenders,” Isaac interrupts, his voice stern.

  Wanting his anger as an excuse for the warmth spreading across my cheeks, I say, “It was a few years ago; maybe my memory isn’t as good as it was, but I swear at least once I got you into a pair of suspenders.”

  Isaac glowers at me when Harlow and Izzy’s giggles echo in my ear.

  “Anyway, we have him all decked out like a choirboy about to go to church on Sunday. Isaac arrives on the scene of an underground fight ring, acting all innocent like it’s the first time he’s ever been to an event like that. Only once an impressive purse was negotiated for a fight did Isaac reveal his true self. By then, it was too late for his opponent to back out. An easy five G’s for ten minutes of work.”

  As Izzy stares at Isaac in awe, I slump into my seat and chug down whiskey. I’m not thirsty. But if I don’t do something to douse the fire roaring through my gut from Harlow’s provocative claw of my leg, I’ll spread her across the table and eat her for dinner.