PEERING INTO HIS GORGEOUS blue eyes whisked me back to the first time I saw them.
It was the summer before my freshmen year in high school, and my father had just started a new job. To be closer to that job we moved across town, thus plucking me from my friends and plunking me down into a new school district. As if high school weren’t hard enough, now I had to make new friends. It wasn’t that I had a problem meeting new people. It was just awkward and weird trying to fit in with people who had more than likely been going to school together since kindergarten. Plus, if the freshmen had any older siblings who came before them, that meant they were part of a legacy, and that was a definite advantage. I would be a complete nobody to these people.
The first day of class my nerves got the best of me. I woke up that morning and told my parents I had the swine flu and was too sick to go to school. Unfortunately, I didn’t prepare well. I should have researched swine flu. I had no idea you got it from pigs. I thought swine was the name of the guy who discovered that particular infection. Obviously needing an education and having no choice, I took off for the great frozen tundra of a new school.
Sitting in homeroom I kept my gaze down while students filed in laughing, joking, and talking about their summer adventures. Finally, the bell rang and the teacher did the usual spiel, welcoming us and trying to get us excited about a new school year. After passing out a few papers filled with uninteresting information, the first period bell rang.
The hallway was bustling with activity and I had just enough time to make a quick stop at my locker and grab my Algebra book. I inserted the key into my lock and unhooked it from the door. Lifting my hand, I pulled on the silver handle of my locker. Nothing happened. The handle wouldn’t budge and the door stayed shut. I tried a few more times, pulling on it as inconspicuously as possible. Nothing. Instead of staring at the locker like an idiot, I pulled the lime green scrunchie from my hair, redid my ponytail, and refocused my efforts.
I tugged on the handle again. It didn’t budge. The hallway was clearing, classroom doors were closing, and I was in a panic. Walking in late to my first class was just as bad as being the new kid. I tried the handle again without success. What the hell was going on here? Opening a flimsy run-of-the-mill school locker was not rocket science. The first tear began to build behind my red framed glass. Out of nowhere I heard a deep voice crack from up above. Standing next to me in his blue and gray varsity football jersey was Logan Heath.
I didn’t know him, but I knew of him. He was a junior, the star quarterback of the Trojans, very smart, and the most beautiful teenage boy I’d ever seen up close. I’m talking boy- band cute.
“Huh?” I said, mesmerized by his bright blue eyes peeking out from under his dark bangs.
“I asked if you needed any help.”
“Um… My…um…locker door won’t open.”
“I think you have to lift this up first,” he said while raising the handle and opening my locker.
“Thank you.” My gratitude came out breathy.
“No problem.” He gave me a sweet smile, then walked away.
That was all it took for my teenage heart to open. I crushed on Logan Heath from afar for the next two years until he graduated. He ended up going to Yale and graduating at the top of his class. A couple of years after I graduated from college I stopped tracking him. I was concerned that my stalkerish tendencies were becoming a mental health issue. Plus, as he climbed the ladder of success, Logan popped up on the society page a lot, with a different woman on his arm each time. Though we never spoke again, Logan Heath had stolen a piece of my heart that day fourteen years ago.
Wavy’s sharp tone snapped me out of my bittersweet memory. “Thank you very much, young man.”
I had no clue what her full response had been to Logan’s unsolicited advice, but by her tone and calling him young man, it couldn’t have been pleasant.
Looking down at a scrap of paper, Logan said, “I’d like to speak to the owner, a Miss Eli-phanta-leta Smacker.”
“It’s Elipheleta,” I corrected.
Wavy blew out a breath of annoyance. “Pfft! College boy.”
“You ladies need any help?” Mr. Abrams piped up as he rose from his chair.
“No, Mel. We can handle this.” Wavy sounded annoyed; then again, she always sounded annoyed when talking to Mr. Abrams.
“Okay. I’m headed home. Call me if you need me. Lip, put it on my tab,” he said, waddling out the door.
I refocused my attention on Logan. His gaze dropped, lingering on my mouth for a split second before it bounced back up.
“You’re Lip Smacker,” he said.
There was no way in hell that the Logan Heath remembered me. Our one and only encounter was brief and so many years ago. Sure, it had meant something to me. But I was an awkward fourteen-year-old girl who wore red framed glasses and scrunchies. It was out of the realm of possibilities that he recognized the grown woman standing in front of him wearing red framed glasses and a scrunchie—well, not a lime green scrunchie, it was white with red polka dots twisted around my blonde curls pinned up on top of my head in a stylish manner. And the only reason I wore my glasses today was because last night I fell asleep with my contacts still in and my eyes were all red and irritated. That being said, it was completely far-fetched that he would remember me. That kind of thing only happens in romance novels.
“Same as the bakery,” he continued.
See, I told you it was impossible.
He smiled, enjoying his discovery. “That’s very clever. So what came first, the lips,” he took another glance at mine, “or the bakery?”
I was not very adept when it came to matters of the opposite sex. It was hard to tell if he was trying to be funny or flirty. I gave a little chuckle and smirked at the comment in case he was flirting. After all, Logan Heath the man was just as hot—if not hotter—than Logan Heath the boy.
“Well, the bakery has been around for a year. The lips have been with me for twenty-eight years, three months, and four days.”
Looking directly into my eyes, he responded, “Cute.”
A tingling sensation skipped lightly over my skin at his attention and one-word comment. Using the word cute meant he was definitely flirting. Cute was sweet, sexy, sassy, and a good jumping off point. In the middle of ruminating about the word cute, I realized it was my turn to speak. Something I had not done in approximately ten seconds.
I cleared my throat and pushed through the awkwardness. “What can I help you with, Mr-?”
Play it cool, Lip. You know you know him. But he doesn’t know you know him.
“Heath. Logan Heath,” he said, like James Bond, holding out his hand for me to shake.
When my palm slipped into his large hand a jolt of electricity, the likes of which I had never experienced before, zapped through my body. Logan held my hand for at least five seconds longer than deemed appropriate for an initial encounter. Since it was obvious he was under some sort of spell I had unknowingly cast, I pulled back my hand first, breaking the connection.
Logan blinked several times before his expression went blank. Had he felt the same impact I had from our simple handshake? Was he concerned, surprised, maybe bewildered by the spontaneous combustible reaction? It was really hard to tell until our eyes met again. There was disappointment swirling around in his baby blues, because he was no longer touching me. I’ve disappointed quite a few men in my day, so I know of what I speak.
I quickly glanced down at his business card. Picking it up, I ran my fingertips over the raised gold lettering of his name, address, and phone number.
Fancy.
“I’m here on behalf of Harper Investments,” he said.
I had heard the name Harper Investments before, but couldn’t quite place where.
Harper Investments.
A gurgle began to percolate in my stomach.
Harper Investments.
My skin prickled with heat.
Harper Investments.
The first vib
ration I felt was mild, but quickly escalated as I remembered why it sounded so familiar.
“You’re the jackass who’s tearing up this beautiful historic street to build another giant monstrosity this city does not need.”
“Now Lip, I said I’m here on behalf of—”
“It’s Miss Smacker,” I snapped, shoving the card at him.
“That’s my girl,” Wavy muttered.
“This conversation is over, Mr. Heath.”
“Harper Investments is prepared to up their offer by 10%,” he continued.
“Harper Investments is a sneaky pete.”
“The CEO’s name is Archibald, actually.”
“It started with a letter slipped inside an unassuming envelope. I open it to find that it’s from a legal firm. The first paragraph is very complimentary about me and my business, and just as I’m starting to feel pretty positive about my decision to open the bakery, along comes the whack-a-mole punches, each blow informing me how insane it was to open the bakery, that I’d be better off selling. And when I turn to page two I see the name Harper Investments inconspicuously placed amidst more legal mumbo-jumbo. Now here you come along all charming—”
“You think I’m charming?” He smiled a dazzling smile.
“You, sir, are a Trojan horse.”
A smug smirk broke through his close-shaven impeccably styled beard. “I don’t like to brag, but I have caused quite a few female jaws to drop and eyes to pop out in amazement. As well as a couple of guys at the gym.”
“It’s time for you to leave,” I said.
“You should seriously think over the offer. It’s very generous.”
“It’s not about the money. Have a good day, Mr. Heath.”
His face squished in confusion. “It’s always about the money, honey. You could use it to relocate, upgrade the place, and do some branding.”
Heat shot up the back of my neck, reaching my ears in record time. “Did you just call me honey? Upgrade our branding? Where do you get off—”
“Can I be honest?”
My eyes widened in disbelief. “You mean you haven’t been?”
He smiled, causing a set of dimples to appear on either side of his face. “Cute and feisty. Nice combo. You gotta know the place doesn’t exactly scream delicious cupcakes.”
His audacity pissed me off.
“Get out!” I pointed at the door.
He cautiously said, “My intention wasn’t to offend you, Li… I mean, Miss Smacker. Everyone has their strengths and weaknesses. So branding isn’t your forte; I bet your cupcakes are very tasty.”
His gaze landed somewhere in the vicinity of my chest.
I gripped the edge of the counter. “Are you staring at my breasts?”
His eyes widened. “No!”
“Because it sure appeared as if you were. Right, Wavy?”
“I’m still trying to understand the Trojan horse thing,” she said.
“Look, I don’t want to cause you trouble, but I’ll contact the HR department of whatever slimy law firm you work for—”
“I was looking at your actual cupcakes in the case.”
I couldn’t decide what pissed me off more, his comments about the shop, him not recognizing me, or that he was admiring my actual cupcakes. My feelings were irrational and all over the place. This reunion wasn’t going the way I had imagined it would go. Not that I had fantasized about Logan, at least not on any regular basis. Okay, every once in a while he made an appearance in a dream.
With my hands on my hips, I looked away and blew out a calming breath. A loose curl slipped from my scrunchie and fell over my cheek. When I looked back, Logan’s eyes were glued to it.
I walked around the counter and motioned toward the door. “You need to leave now. We’re about to close.”
“The sign says you’re open until five.”
“Well…um…don’t believe everything you read.”
Placing my hand on his bicep, I escorted him toward the door.
Side note, it was firm, sizable, and I wanted to wrap my legs around it.
“What are you talking about?” he said.
“We have a family thing we need to get to. Isn’t that right, Wavy?” I pulled the door open.
“Yes, we have a thing. A big thing,” she agreed.
I plastered on a fake smile. “I told you. A thing. A big one.”
Standing in the doorway, Logan leaned in close and looked me in the eye. “I can be very persuasive, Miss Smacker.” There was something in the way he said those words that sent a shiver down my spine—in a good way, which was bad. “And more than anything else, I want you,” I swallowed hard, “to seriously consider the very generous amount Harper is offering.”
“Get out!”
“They don’t call me The Closer for nothing.”
“Speaking of closing.” I pushed the door toward him until he had no choice but to step out onto the sidewalk.
Through the glass door he gave me a smile and a wink before leaving. I felt Wavy approach. Sticking both our heads out of the shop, we watched as Logan’s tall frame sauntered down the sidewalk.
“What a cocky jerk,” I said.
“Nice ass, though.”
“Wavy!”
“What? You don’t agree?”
I took one last glance at Logan before he disappeared around the corner.
“It’s a nice ass.”
THAT ENTIRE NIGHT I tossed and turned thinking about Logan. And before your mind goes there, I was not thinking about his sculpted features, piercing blue eyes, or what was obviously a great body underneath his tailored suit. Well, maybe a little bit of the night was spent thinking of those things. Nights could be long and lonely and, I mean, his bicep and ass were quite tasty, so I imagined the rest of him had to be just as yummy. But most of the time I kept hearing him say, “They don’t call me The Closer for nothing.”
Harper Investments had been hounding me for the last six months about buying the bakery. They had already been successful in convincing the other shop owners it would be in their best interest to sell. I did not blame the owners for accepting money over principle. I had entertained the offer for a minute. Lip Smacker’s was struggling to stay afloat. Since construction had started we were doing even less business. People didn’t want to deal with the lack of parking, the dust, and the loud equipment just for a cupcake, even if they were the best in town.
I could take the money, relocate, and rebrand like Logan advised, except for the fact that this building was special to Wavy, which meant it was special to me. This little space that had been reincarnated so many times over the years was our dream. We had walked by it before going to get groceries on those weekends I spent with her. Wavy’s heart was set on the bakery being here. I didn’t care how difficult things were, I would not be the cause of any more heartache or disappointment for my grandmother. She had already had her share in life. Harper was playing hardball sending Logan in. Little did they know my balls were just as hard.
Finally, I gave up on sleep, kicked off my bedsheets, and took a quick shower. After towel drying my hair, I painted my lips with pale pink gloss, brushed a hint of blush over my pale cheeks, and combed mascara through my eyelashes. I dressed in my usual workday attire: comfy jeans, a soft pink T-shirt to match my lip gloss, and a pair of white Keds. Classic.
Before leaving, I filled my travel mug with coffee, grabbed my purse, my keys, and a scrunchie so I could put my hair up at the bakery. I was out the door and headed downtown in minutes. I usually went into work just before sunrise, a few hours earlier would give me a head start on the day and hopefully burn off some of my anxiety.
Dawn was by far my favorite part of the day. Downtown was still, quiet, and cloaked in a bluish gray haze. There was a mystical air to the old mansions looming behind the black wrought iron gates along the Battery overlooking Charleston Harbor. As I drove down East Bay Street, I soaked in the vibrancy of the iconic Rainbow Row with its pastel blue, yellow, pink, and g
reen facades. No matter what difficulties I had going on in my life, viewing my hometown in this early light always made me happy and content.
I parked my car in the gravel parking lot behind the building and entered the bakery through the back door that opened into a short hallway leading to the kitchen. After flipping on the lights I clicked the Spotify app on my phone and chose my Pump It Up playlist. The sweet sound of Taylor Swift encouraging me to “Shake It Off” filled the air.
I gathered my hair into a high ponytail, twisting my pink scrunchie around it. Bebopping and shimmying my way across the room, I collected the ingredients for a batch of my fluffy vanilla cupcakes. While the oven preheated, I combined vegetable oil, eggs, sour cream, and vanilla extract in the stainless steel bowl of my tangerine orange KitchenAid mixer.
As the beater spun around my hips succumbed to the mashup between the music and the rhythm of the motor, causing them to gyrate. Within seconds I was feeling calmer as I got lost doing my favorite activity. There was something therapeutic about being alone in my kitchen baking with my favorite tunes swirling around me. The combination of the two calmed me and lightened my mood. Baking was cut and dry. I could let my mind go and just follow the recipe. As long as I did that, every cupcake would turn out perfect. Then, depending on what flavor I made, I could unleash my creativity with decorating.
I remember being filled with pride every time I showed my parents the sweet delicacies Wavy and I had created. Mom and Dad would beam with excitement, gush, and gobble up the goodies. Knowing I could make them happy in this way was addictive. Before long I found myself wanting to play a part in other people’s happiness.
Turning off the mixer, I scraped the ingredients from the sides of the bowl and added the first cup of flour. I was just about to turn the mixer back on when suddenly there was a thud coming from the back door. For a moment I listened for it to repeat. I wasn’t expecting any deliveries and Wavy liked her sleep too much to come in this early. The clock on the wall had just clicked on 5:30 a.m. There was a slight possibility that the construction crew was arriving, except that they routinely made noise at 7 a.m. on the dot.
Lip Smacker Page 2