Copyright © 2019 by Phoebe Alexander
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Mountains Wanted Publishing
P.O. Box 1014
Georgetown, DE 19947
www.mountainswanted.com
To all the single parents out there making the best lives possible for your kids.
Don’t forget to take care of yourselves too!
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
EPILOGUE
About the Author
Also by Phoebe Alexander
One
“And that’s why you’re our first choice for going undercover in the park,” my dad announced, pinning his dark gaze on me.
“What? No, I’m going to Greece next month to study sculpture with Kristoph Kostopoulos,” I protested in a voice seemingly borrowed from my first-grade self. Damn it, I sounded whiny.
“Greece? You just went to Tahiti two months ago,” my oldest brother, Carson, piped up from across the table. He turned toward our parents. “Cy hasn’t done anything to support the business since he got out of college—which has been two years now!”
My middle brother, Clem, was quick to add his two cents: “It’s about time you start pulling your weight around here, Cy. Last time I checked, we’re all due to inherit an equal share of Sweet Enterprises, so it’s time for you to step up.”
My mother laid a soft hand on top of mine, forcing my eyes to snap to hers. “They’re right, Cy. It’s time for you to step up. I know you’re the youngest, and we’ve given you some time to ‘find yourself,’ or whatever you want to call it, but if you want to be part of this family business, you have to do your fair share.”
A dramatic sigh huffed out of my mouth as I resigned myself to whatever this stupid plan was, but I wasn’t done arguing my point just yet. “I don’t think studying art is a bad excuse,” I offered. “After all, maybe my newfound knowledge of sculpture could benefit the park in some way.”
My oldest brother rolled his eyes so hard, it hurt to watch.
“Is there any chance I can wrap this up quickly and still make it to Greece next month?” My eyes darted between my parents, begging for their blessing.
“Tell you what,” my father said, leaning toward me with his hands clasped together, fingers entwined, “you infiltrate the employee clique and identify the ringleader who is threatening to organize a strike, and you’ll not only get to Greece on time, but we’ll give you a twenty-five thousand dollar bonus. Sound good?”
Oh, it did sound good. Very good indeed!
This is where I confess I’ve never had a manual labor-type job, and I’ve never had to wear a uniform. My parents have owned a kiddie theme park my entire life, and when I came of age, I got some sort of cushy summer job in the park, usually in “security.” My brothers and I would sit high up in the control center at the top of Cotton Candy Castle and monitor all the cameras surveilling different areas of the park. A lot of times that simply meant zooming in on all the MILFs with spectacular cleavage. Nice work if you can get it, eh?
That is why, as you might imagine, I was particularly mortified to look at myself in the mirror before heading into the park for my first day undercover. I stood there, trying to look as tough and businesslike as possible in my cheesy pink polo shirt with its white collar and the Sweetopia logo on the breast. Even worse, when I arrived for my orientation, I would be assigned a pink and white candy-striped apron to go over the entire disgusting ensemble. I looked like a Ken reject in the bargain Barbie bin at the local toy store.
No one knew who I was, either. The bakery manager who would be my boss thought she was getting a new seasonal employee. The only people who knew about my undercover boss assignment were the ones in the boardroom when the decision was made: my mother, father, and my two older brothers, Carson and Clem.
I had to physically walk from the employee parking lot into the park. Walk! We had our own golf carts to carry us around the grounds, which, of course, I wasn’t allowed to use. I rolled my eyes at the absurdity of it all as I made the trek from my beat-up Dodge truck—my parents wouldn’t even let me drive my classic ’69 Camaro—toward the huge fuchsia, purple and teal arch that read SWEETOPIA in gigantic curly-cue letters.
I stopped at the gate with my hat pulled down low on my face. My parents insisted I disguise my identity, so I grew out my facial hair and found a pair of black plastic-framed glasses. They didn’t want anyone to have a single inkling that I could be Cyrus Sweet, the owners’ youngest son, but now I looked like a douchebag hipster.
“Hi, I’m Marcus Young, reporting for duty,” I chirped in a British accent, giving the Sweetopia employee a mock salute. Where the fuck did that accent come from? I’m not British. Shit.
Getting through this without my typical brand of sarcasm was going to be an Olympic-caliber feat.
The employee, a skinny chap with huge gray-blue eyes looked down at a clipboard. “Got ya,” he said, barely looking up. “You’re assigned to The Bard’s Bakery in the—”
“I know where it is,” I retorted, trying not to sound like an asshole, but very much sounding like an asshole. A British one at that. The skinny dude gave me a shrug, and I was on my merry way to Cotton Candy Castle, the spires of which were gleaming silver in the morning sun.
The bakery was just inside the front entrance of the castle, which was where little girls and their families congregated to see The Red Velvet Queen. There was also a ride inside, one of those where you got on a boat and went through a tunnel with piped-in music and animatronic characters. This particular ride showed how The Red Velvet Queen and her friend Donut Dragon had defeated an evil sorceress to claim the throne of Sweetopia. #Girlpower and all that.
I began to head straight to the bakery when I remembered that my oldest brother, who was in charge of casting for the park’s costumed characters, had hired a new Red Velvet Queen six months or so ago. The one we’d had for years had, frankly, aged out of the role. Once the makeup could no longer conceal her wrinkles, she was asked to retire. Tough luck, right?
Anyway, I had an insatiable curiosity about what the new queen looked like because both Carson and Clem had agreed she was hot—and they had notoriously different tastes. It was early, and I didn’t know if the queen would be out of makeup and perched on her throne, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to steal a glance to see if my brothers’ story could be corroborated. If she was a dog, I thoroughly planned to give them hell about it. My oldest brother was married, so I was sure his wife would love to hear Carson’s thoughts on the matter.
I tiptoed down the hallway, realizing if any of the other employees caught me back here, I would be in “big trouble.” I didn’t want to make a bad impression on my first day, but—curiosity killed the cat and all that. I slowly pushed open the heavy doors that sealed off the queen’s throne room and scanned the long, elegantly appointed chamber for...
My eyes landed right on the gold throne. There, regally perched in the center of the plush crimson cushion was the most beautiful, elegant, royal creature I had ever seen in my life. She had glossy black hair falling in big, sumptuous curls around her ivory shoulders; lush, creamy décolletage spilling out
the top of her red velvet corseted dress; and the most exquisite red lips I’d ever seen. Her nose, cheekbones, and graceful neck were sculpted by a master artist, and most entrancing of all were the glittering gemstones looking at me from behind thick, dark lashes. Her perfectly groomed eyebrow shot up as soon as she saw me.
“Oh, sorry, wrong room!” I called out in that blasted British accent and went flying back through the doors as though I’d just seen a ghost. Okay, maybe not a ghost, but she definitely had to be a mythical creature of some sort!
I’d never been startled—or even slightly taken aback—by a woman’s beauty before. I guessed there was a first time for everything, but I was simply in awe. Maybe it was just the costume, but I’d never seen anything quite like her. Clem and Carson said she was hot, but they didn’t say she was a goddess. Despite my lowly stature as a seasonal bakery cashier, I would have to find a way to make her acquaintance...the sooner the better.
No, wait. I’m going back to talk to her right now. If I’d learned one thing since becoming an adult and traveling around the world it was there’s no time like the present.
I swear to god the guy who just came in here had a British accent. Where the hell are they getting these employees? Apparently hiring American doesn’t mean anything to the Sweets.
I finished up my internal rant, erased any lingering thoughts of that rude interruption, and tried to look regal as my colleagues fixed the red velvet curtains around my throne area and adjusted the lighting so it pierced straight into my retinas. I was usually half-blind by the end of my work day, and I couldn’t even get vision insurance.
“You all ready, Jolie?” the throne room manager asked. She reached up to brush a stray hair out of my eye. “Our guests will be here any minute.”
I nodded, affixing a royal smile to my face and warming up my wrists to do my queenly wave approximately five zillion times throughout the course of the day. The hundreds of little girls (and a few little boys, don’t want to leave them out), who made my throne room their first stop of the day in Sweetopia were the real die-hard fans. They’d read all my books. Seen all the cartoons. They probably owned a Red Velvet Queen doll or two. And a lot of the girls showed up wearing their own Red Velvet Queen dresses. It was an adorable sight, seeing them all lined up out the throne room door. They were always so excited to meet me, and I wanted to be everything they imagined I would be.
The only reason they picked me to play this part is because I looked good in a corset, had a pretty face, and little kids weren’t scared of me.
But trust me, I’m no queen.
I was all set to greet my subjects when I noticed the British guy pushing through the red velvet curtains again. What is this dude’s problem? He gave me a sheepish smile, and I noticed he was cute in a quirky sort of way, with the beginnings of a beard and black plastic-rimmed glasses. He had that sort of hair that always looked a little tousled, long on top and like he’d been running his fingers through it all morning. And he looked younger than me, maybe mid-twenties? I couldn’t deny that I sort of wanted to hear his accent again, but he appeared to be waiting for me to speak.
“Yes?” I ventured, hoping that would help him relax. I was sure he was new around here and probably a bit disoriented. This place could be overwhelming at first. I remembered my orientation all too well.
Upon hearing my affirmation, he approached me with his hand outstretched. “Good morning, I just wanted to introduce myself.” He kept walking and talking, but when he reached me, he just stood there awkwardly with his hand out.
Boy, that accent sure does funny things to the area the V of this corset points toward. I took his hand into mine to shake because I didn’t think he’d ever work up the courage to touch me. His eyes were certainly glued to mine, though. He had no shyness when it came to eye contact. They were so deep and brown, I was afraid of getting lost in them, so I quickly averted my gaze to his lips.
Nope, that was a landmine too as they were outlined in manly scruff and looked so damn kissable that I once again moved my focus to someplace that would allow me to keep my cool: the Sweetopia logo on the breast of his pink polo shirt. Ah yes, work—nothing was more effective at dousing any flames of desire I might be feeling than the thought of the fucking Sweets and their fucking lame-ass evil corporate empire.
“Well, are you going to tell me your name?” I prompted him.
He straightened up immediately, though he was still gripping my hand tightly. “Yes, ma’am. I’m Marcus Young.” His grin never faltered. “I’ll be over at The Bard’s Bakery if you should ever require my services.”
As though he had finally managed to gather his wits about him, he raised my hand to his lips and pressed those beautiful plump babies against my skin, making my insides turn to goo.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Marcus.” And, boy, did I mean that. It would be nice to have a polite, handsome gentleman over at the bakery. I couldn’t go there during work hours, of course—what queen visited a bakery when there were servants to deliver anything she could possibly desire? But I did stop in there before and after work pretty often. Even queens needed their coffee fix.
“Oh, where are my manners? I’m The Red Velvet Queen,” I told him in my royal voice, trying to stay in character. It was only seconds before the ropes dropped and my fangirls (and boys) came squealing into the throne room.
“I assure you, Your Highness, the pleasure is all mine...”
Two
It’s a pleasure to meet you, Marcus.
Her words were still echoing in my head the entire time my new boss, Colleen, was trying to train me on how to operate the cash register. Who knew cash registers could be so fuckin’ difficult to master?
This whole day had been a huge eye-opener to me, actually.
It wasn’t any secret that I was born with somewhat of a silver spoon in my mouth. Okay, maybe it was a big-ass silver spoon. But I knew how hard my parents worked to build their empire. I didn’t really remember them struggling, but I’d heard stories about how they were living on ramen noodles when they first opened the park. They were able to secure a couple of loans that made all the difference for them, but my dad regularly pulled seventy, eighty-hour work weeks when I was growing up. I hardly ever saw him. If I wanted to spend time with him, I had to go to Sweetopia.
Not a bad place for Take Your Kid to Work Day, if I do say so myself.
But the people in The Bard’s Bakery, where I’d been placed for this whole undercover mission thing, they were really working their asses off too. This place was hopping from the time we opened the doors at nine this morning till we closed them at seven tonight. I couldn’t believe I just worked ten hours. I felt like I might collapse at any moment, whereas Colleen still looked fresh as a daisy, like she was just getting warmed up. She was used to this kind of work and putting in these long hours.
Whatever we paid these people, it was not enough. I’d have to speak to my father about that.
“So what did you think of your first day at Sweetopia, Marcus?” Colleen asked as she wiped down the stainless steel counters in the prep area.
“Well, I thought—” I forgot to use my accent. Fuck. I repeated myself, this time with a heavier sprinkling of British spice. “It was bloody busy in here, but I think I caught on right quick, if I do say so myself!”
It looked as though Colleen was struggling not to roll her eyes at me, her lips quirking up in lieu of an eye roll. “Well, hope you’ll come back tomorrow,” is all she said.
I shrugged. “I don’t have much of a choice, to tell you the truth.”
And that was definitely the truth. Twenty-five Gs on the line was a pretty big incentive. Not to mention staying in my parents’ good graces.
I lifted the candy-striped apron over my head and set it on the counter. I wondered if The Red Velvet Queen was still perched on her throne. I hadn’t been able to get the image of her with her long, curly black hair or the feel of her delicate hand in mine out of my head all day.<
br />
“So now what?” I asked Colleen, who was still standing there looking at me like she’d never seen a dude take off an apron before.
She laughed and shook her head. “Now you can leave, Marcus. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
That was weird. I gave her a fake salute and hightailed it out of the bakery, trying not to slip on the sparkling clean tiles I’d just mopped. I had never used a mop before. Colleen, in her infinite patience, had to show me how. No wonder she was looking at me like I was a freak of nature. Who doesn’t know how to use a mop, right?
In seconds I made it out into the main corridor of Cotton Candy Castle. To my right was the entrance for the boat ride I mentioned earlier. Straight ahead was the queue for the throne room where the beautiful queen I’d met earlier that day might still be lingering. Guess where I headed?
I had to see if she was still there.
I parted the plush red velvet curtains and walked down the crimson and gold carpet that led to the shiny gold jewel-encrusted throne. I’d never noticed the exquisite craftsmanship of this piece in all my visits to the throne room, and I certainly didn’t notice this morning when I was here. At the time, I couldn’t take my eyes off the gorgeous woman perched upon it. I was so overwhelmed by her beauty, it actually took me a few moments to get my swagger on so I could talk to her and not sound like a complete idiot. It was literally the first time that has ever happened to me in the history of all my flirtations—and trust me, there have been a great many.
She liked me though, I was sure of it. I didn’t know why I chose to cop a British accent for this undercover role, but the Man Upstairs must have known a beautiful lady was waiting to be seduced by it. And by Man Upstairs, I didn’t mean my father, whose office was on the top floor of the castle. I meant a Higher Power.
I scanned the throne room looking for her, but it appeared to be empty. It was just as well because I knew there were cameras mounted in the corners of the room, and if we did end up conversing—or other activities—I really didn’t want my brothers, who were now in charge of park security and HR respectively, to know about it.
Sugar & Spice (Spicetopia Book 1) Page 1