Sugar and Spice

by Shandi Boyes

  That’s better. Confident yet friendly.

  “Why do I need a shirt?” Colby stands from his seat and moseys my way. Just like his brother, he has the eat you alive with my eyes look down pat. "You seem to like what you're seeing, so why hide? That would be cruel, and I'm anything but mean. . . unless you want me to be."

  He takes three steps back when I loudly heave. "Please tell me women don't fall for lines like that?"

  His lips curl as his brows waggle, responding without words.

  “You’re disgusting.”

  He takes my criticism as a compliment. His smile grows as his eyes flare with happiness.

  I cross my arms in front of my chest. “It wasn’t praise.”

  “I know,” he replies, grinning larger. “But I’m one of those spoiled little rich brats that’s a little fucked in the head. I don’t want your approval, Harlow. I’ve got ass kisses coming out of my ass—”

  “That must hurt.”

  He continues talking like I never spoke, “—so I don’t need anymore.”

  He curls his arm around my shoulders. After making sure our fit is extra chummy, he heads for the door.

  “What are you doing?”

  His strides are so long, we are halfway down the hall before he says, "Showing you to Cormack's room. I hope he is there. I've been waiting years to discover if his jealousy cheeks are as bright as his angry ones." His steps slow as a mischievous glint detonates in his eyes. "Actually, you're the perfect woman to ask."

  “Ask what?” I ask suspiciously.

  Colby’s eyes drop to mine, his smirk the largest I’ve seen. “My cock is bigger than Cormack’s, right? Only around half an inch, but I’m certain mine’s bigger.”

  Stunned by the nonchalant way he asked his question, I sock him in the stomach before pulling away from his side. He laughs, assuming he has me running scared. He doesn’t know me very well.

  Colby stops snapping at my heels when I say, "Half an inch sounds about right." His lack of clothing makes the swell of his chest easy to see. It stands tall and proud, making its fall even more noticeable when I add on, "Don't be too hard on yourself. You're only half an inch short. What's a half-inch between brothers?"

  Grinning at his horrified expression, I hotfoot it to Cormack’s room. It’s one hall over. That can’t be too hard to find, surely. Colby’s ego on the other hand. . . it may take a little longer to recover from the loss.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Harlow

  Several hours later, I'm staring up at the ceiling rose in Cormack's room. Ruel was extremely apologetic when he discovered his blunder. I told him not to worry, but he was adamant I accept his apology in the form of a fruity bottle of wine and a cheese platter. I didn't want to hurt his feelings, so I accepted his generosity by extending an invitation for him to join me.

  To my surprise, he accepted my invite. Although he entered my room with suspicion, our easy conversation meant he left with the same level of respect I have for him. Ruel is a handsome man. He loved his wife with every essence a husband should. He spoke of her fondly, his memories of her at Mummo Koti one of the reasons he has continued working well past retirement.

  Although having Ruel to talk to lessened my curiosity on Cormack’s whereabouts, my thoughts often strayed to him. He said he had a few things to take care of, but I figured Ruel’s late departure would have occurred within minutes of his return.

  That wasn’t the case. Ruel left over three hours ago.

  While blowing an unruly hair off my cheek, I shift my eyes to the iPod dock on the bedside table. It is a little after 2 AM. With the grumbles of my hungry tummy fueling my campaign, I clamber out of bed, slip on a satin robe, and head for the door. I can only hope the mud map Ruel traced on a napkin earlier is accurate, or I may never be found.

  Twenty minutes later, I merge into the main kitchen. I didn’t get lost; that is how long it takes to move from the sleeping quarters of Mummo Koti to the core of its operation.

  With the late hour, I barrel through the swinging door without a second thought. My abrupt entrance startles a lady with wiry silver hair and bright blue eyes. Her tiny frame is covered by a ruffle-edged apron, and a pair of frameless glasses sit on the tip of her nose. Her high cheekbones and ringlet hair reveals she would have been a looker back in the day. She is still gorgeous now; her beauty is just enhanced with the wealth of age.

  “I’m so sorry for startling you,” I apologize, grimacing.

  She eyes me with caution when I tiptoe across the kitchen. Her stare doesn’t have the same evil glare I received numerous times earlier today. It is more curious than mean.

  I'm planning to grab a quick snack and leave, but the distinct smell of rum and ginger turns me in my tracks.

  “Are they Runeberg tortes?” I ask, peering at a cylinder-shaped dessert sitting on a circular dish at her right.

  Runeberg tortes are a famous Finnish dish named after a poet who reportedly consumed them every morning for breakfast. They are typically served with raspberry jam spooned into a sugar ring. They are spicy, aromatic, and rarely consumed since they're only sold in Finland from January until February 5 in celebration of the poet's birthday.

  "Are you sure?" I ask when the gentle-eyed lady gestures for me to take one of the tortes. "I've never had one before. I'm dying to see if they taste as good as they look."

  With a grunt, she shoves me into the chair I am standing next to. For a lady with a short height and tiny frame, her strength packs a real punch. My stomach grumbles when she selects the most perfectly crafted torte to place in front of me. Consuming it should be illegal. The effort that has gone into the presentation alone fills me with guilt, let alone the late hour, but the temptation is too high.

  The most unladylike moan I’ve ever delivered ripples through my lips when the delicious flavors engulf my taste buds. I am super hungry, but that isn’t the reason my mouth is salivating. The flavors are explosive, a mix between a cake and a cookie. It is crumbly and sweet, but packs enough punch a second serving may put me on my ass.

  After gobbling down the entire torte like a little piggy, I lift my eyes to the unnamed lady. "That was delicious."

  Her face lights up from my praise. We were strangers only minutes ago, but she knows my compliment was genuine. We are bakers, so you can be assured when it comes to treats, commendations are only given to those who deserve them. She deserves my praise—wholeheartedly.

  When she sets another torte on my plate, I shake my head. “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly eat another. I’m already tipsy from that one.”

  Her laugh is as elegant as her worldly eyes. I wish I were joking. My head is already fuzzy from minimal sleep, so the alcohol content in the torte has put me way over the limit.

  “Have you ever tried making them with amaretto instead of rum? I’ve heard it gives it the same texture but minus the oomph.”

  When she peers at me in confusion, I pace into a walk-in pantry at her right. Massive is too small of a word to describe the size of the room I am walking into. Every spice, condiment, and ingredient you can imagine is presented before me. Thankfully, it is also in alphabetical order.

  After securing a bottle of amaretto in my grip, I return to the unnamed lady’s side. "May I?" I request, pointing to the sugar, flour, ground almonds and eggs spread across the counter.

  A huge grin spreads across my face when she eagerly nods. I’ve felt so out of place today, but even with this kitchen being three times the size of the one in my bakery, I’m flooded by a sense of home when I crack my first egg into a stainless steel bowl.

  K and I work side by side for the next hour. Considering our ages vary by fifty plus years, we get along remarkably well. The love of baking does that to people. It could end wars if dictators would just give it a chance. Although I am fairly sure K doesn’t speak a word of English, our conversation has been plentiful. I told her about my bakery in Ravenshoe, and how an unexpected late night caller altered the course of my dreams.
She listened attentively, smiling in some sections, while grimacing in others. Even though our conversation was one-sided, it didn’t seem that way. Not every person on the planet needs a voice to articulate themselves. K is living proof of that.

  “Be honest if you don’t like it, K. You won’t hurt my feelings.” Although K tried on numerous occasions to advise me of her name, her heavy accent hindered her efforts. It starts with a K, but that’s as far as we got. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem put off by me referring to her by “K.”

  My heart jolts into my throat when I push my rendition of a Runeberg torte to K’s side of the counter. Her glistening blue eyes lift to mine for a mere nanosecond before her fork slices through the sugary ring on the top of the oval-shaped dish. I feel like a contestant on a cook-off show when her teeth crunch into the crumbly product. The right amount of crunch sounds from her mouth, so I’m confident I didn't undercook them, but she fails to moan as I had hoped.

  “Kaunis.” She stares at me, her eyes widening. “Täydellinen.”

  Smirking at the confused crinkle of my nose, she raises her hand to her mouth to do the universal sign for delicious.

  "You like it?" I don't know why K's praise is so critical, but it is.

  She air kisses another two times before shuffling around the counter to wrap me up in a firm hug. She is so short, the top of her head only comes to my chest—thank god, because I’d hate for her to see the tears looming in my eyes right now.

  To others, it appears as if I baked a simple dish. But to me, it means so much more. I challenged myself to step outside the box, and I came out the other side victorious.

  Let’s hope this isn’t the only victory I have this weekend.

  Just like my rapidly forming relationship with Cormack, my connection with K is immediate and just as strong. After helping me make another two batches of amaretto tortes, we set to work on preparing a feast fit for a king. Many of the items we baked are served in my bakery every day, but there is a slight variance. These aren't made for profit. They are made for love. Perhaps if I spoil Cormack’s guests with an array of delicious treats, they’ll open their mind to the possibility that I’m not a bad person. Food is the common ground between all classes. It is the thing that binds us together regardless of background. I hope to prove its magical properties today.

  Before we know it, every counter in the kitchen is covered with an array of scrumptious treats. K looks as ecstatic as me. She also looks just as tired.

  After wiping her powdered sugar-coated hands down her apron, her glistening eyes stray to mine. She doesn’t need to speak for me to hear the words her mouth is failing to produce. “What now?”

  “Now we wait?” When she grimaces, I quickly add on, “Or sleep? Whatever tickles your fancy.”

  She dips her chin, wordlessly agreeing with my last suggestion.

  My heart melts when she wraps her arms around my torso and squeezes me tight. The admiration in her hug proves language isn’t a barrier when it comes to showing your affection.

  “Thank you for your help.” I add some extra oomph to my squeeze to adequately express my sentiment.

  Without her help, I wouldn’t have stood a chance of altering Cormack’s guests’ opinions. Now, I’m in with a decent shot. The appreciative moans I’ve heard spilling from the dining room the past hour reaffirms this opinion, much less the praise I’ve received. Many of the diners have mistaken me for the help, but I’m okay with that. I’m not trying to jump teams; I just want to be judged fairly—if I must be judged at all.

  The little frog in the back of my throat demanding for a chance to croak changes to a hyena when K’s exit from the kitchen occurs with the theft of numerous treats. She doesn’t just borrow one or two of the delicious treats we baked; she steals a half dozen.

  Upon hearing my giggles, her eyes drift to me. I nod when she lifts her finger to her mouth, requesting for me to keep her secret. She slaved in the kitchen for hours, so at the very least, her effort should be awarded with sugary bundles of goodness.

  With a smile that reveals her gratitude, she exits the kitchen as abruptly as I entered it hours ago.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Cormack

  “Fuck!”

  I throw a wad of documents onto my desk before slouching into my chair. I had hoped what I saw earlier today was wrong, but I can no longer deny the facts. Isabelle is an FBI agent.

  “How long has she been with the Bureau?”

  Maximus, head of security at Attwood Electric, shrugs. “Her stuff is buried so deep, it took our guy over eight hours to find what he did. If you didn’t see her ID in her purse today, we’d still be seeking a needle in a haystack.”

  I wiggle my tongue around my mouth, eradicating the cotton wool feeling inside, before asking, “Is she one of the agents on Isaac’s case?”

  Maximus remains quiet, preferring to deliver bad news without words. Isaac has been aware of the FBI’s interest in him the past few months, but I doubt he realizes how deep their interests go.

  I swallow down the lump in my throat. “How many people know about Izzy’s placement?”

  Maximus throws open the document on my desk until it stops on page four. "Only one as far as we can tell. She's a long-serving member of Ravenshoe PD." He points his index finger to a lady with skin as dark as his. "Her name is Regina. She picked Isabelle up from the airport four months ago."

  His reply lightens the weight on my chest, but it doesn’t entirely erase it. With how close Harlow and Izzy are, I automatically assumed Harlow was aware of Izzy’s double life. As the hours move on, my assumptions are weakening. The worry in Harlow’s eyes when she glanced up at me in the limo hours ago awarded me my first doubt; Maximus’ reply just hit me with a second dose.

  “That was the day Isaac met Isabelle. Do you think their meeting was staged?”

  "Perhaps." Maximus flicks over another two pages. "Isabelle's tickets were upgraded by a man named Alex Rogers. Although the funds came from his private account, he's not just a field agent. He is the man behind the helm of Isaac's investigation."

  “Fuck!”

  I scrub my hand over my tired eyes, hoping I’ll be excused for my profanities at this late hour. With my private investigation into Isabelle occupying my last eleven hours, I am beyond exhausted.

  “What are you going to do?” Maximus asks.

  I throw my hands into the air, utterly clueless. “I guess I should tell Isaac?” The unease in my voice makes what should be a declaration sound like a question.

  “Now?” Maximus asks when I stand from my chair and make a beeline for the door.

  “Why delay the inevitable?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. The fact it is 4 AM is a good start.” The glibness in Maximus’ reply is new. Usually, he is as hard as a rock and straight as a board. Nothing fazes him.

  I stop charging down the hall and pivot around to face him. The disapproval on his face shocks me. “Don’t you think Isaac has a right to know he is being played?”

  I don't need Maximus’ support, but since he isn’t just a long-term associate of mine, he is also my friend, it would be nice to have it.

  Maximus nods in agreement. “Yes, he does.”

  His agreement doesn’t match his facial expression. His lips are hard-lined, and a deep wrinkle is carved between his black brows. The reason for his grim expression comes to light when he adds on, “Just like Harlow has the right to know about the nasty side dish you tried to serve her.”

  His accusatory tone tightens my jaw. “Serving someone a dirty dish and forcing them to eat it are two entirely different things. What occurred between Harlow and me isn’t close to the shitstorm Izzy could bring down on Isaac.”

  “That would depend on whose ears are absorbing the facts. I’m sure if you asked Harlow, she wouldn’t agree.”

  “Izzy is an FBI agent weaseling her way into Isaac’s life with ratty, underhanded tricks. I tried to buy a bakery, for fuck’s sake. I didn’t set out to ruin
Harlow’s life.” I lower the severity of my tone when I hear the untruth in my reply. “I stopped trying to ruin Harlow’s life when I realized who she was.”

  “Exactly,” Maximus agrees, stepping closer to me. “Who’s to say Isabelle won’t do the same thing for Isaac?”

  I look at him like he is insane. “Izzy is pursuing Isaac solely to take him down. She has no interest in him whatsoever.”

  The daft expression on my face changes to Maximus’. “I don’t know what program you’ve been watching, Cormack, but it is clearly a different channel than the show I’ve been binge watching. I haven’t even seen Isabelle awake, and I still know you’re lying.”

  Spotting my confusion, he slaps his hand on my shoulder and squeezes tight. "Who asked his security personnel to tail her since the day she stepped foot in Ravenshoe? Who put up flyers for an apartment in every store within a twenty-mile radius of her work, then denied every applicant that wasn't her just so she'd be forced to live in one of his buildings? And last, but not at all least, who instigated this getaway?"

  My silence is more because I'm eating my words than an inability to speak. Everything Maximus said is true. If I sat down and assessed the number of times Isaac has pursued Izzy, I'm reasonably sure his campaign would outnumber hers two to one. But if push comes to shove, will Izzy choose Isaac over her career as I have Harlow? Or will she walk away, leaving him more broken than he was when Ophelia died?

  Before I work through my first set of questions, Maximus says, "Isabelle isn't here because she's on duty. She's here because every man under the age of thirty lacks common sense."

  His reply makes me smile. Not because it is true, but because it is a saying my grandfather often quoted.