by Poppy Parkes
Thank you for downloading His Flirty Fondue
She’s in it to win it.
He’s in it to win her.
Brie takes her fondue to the big city because she has to. But she finds something in San Francisco that she does not expect, and it all has to do with her top rival and newfound arch-enemy, Colby Jackson . . .
Flirt Club is cooking up something special . . . and the secret ingredient is L-O-V-E.
Our latest recipe for romance is a spicy series full of flavor from nine of your favorite romance authors. Get ready for sexy salsas, romantic reductions, and creamy coulis. These short ’n’ searing stories are sure to satisfy all your cravings.
Get your tastebuds ready for The Secret Sauce Series!
Reader Praise for Poppy Parkes
“I give this short instalove story 4.5 stars. The author was able to provide great characters in this short [book] and I enjoyed the epilogue.”
“…Loved this quick little steamy read.”
“…I look forward to reading more from this talented author, whose work I highly recommend for all.”
“HIGHLY RECOMMEND!”
“This book hooked me from the get go. I just couldn’t put it down. I fell in love with these characters and omg what a story. Just a perfect read.”
“…So sweet and sexy and had me smiling from ear to ear.”
His Flirty Fondue
Flirt Club’s Secret Sauce Series
Poppy Parkes
Copyright © 2020 by Poppy Parkes.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is intended for adult audiences 18 years and older only. All characters are consenting adults 18 years and older only.
Cover design by Tracy Lorraine.
Contents
The Oops Club
Brie
Colby
Brie
Colby
Brie
Brie
Colby
Brie
Colby
Brie
Colby
Epilogue
The Secret Sauce Series
A Love Note For You
Also by Poppy Parkes
About the Author
The Oops Club
Find a typo or grammar error? Let me reward you for your skills!
Email a screenshot with the circled or otherwise highlighted error and your mailing address to [email protected]. If you’re the first one to find the error, I’ll send you one of my Kindle books of your choice — for free!
Thanks so much for supporting indie authors!
With love and gratitude,
Poppy
Brie
I’m not supposed to be here, sweating on the BART as the train meanders through San Francisco. I’d rather be just about anywhere than this stuffy car, trying to avoid making eye contact with a man who I’m pretty sure is dressed in a trench coat and nothing more.
No, I’m supposed to be back home in my tiny hometown of Paulson, Montana, whipping up all sorts of delicious goodies — but especially fondue, my speciality — at The Thinking Cup Cafe. It’s the best diner in the Rocky Mountains if you ask me.
Which no one ever does.
That’s exactly how I ended up here.
Instead of making sure it was okay with me, my parents colluded with Reggie, my gay middle-aged boss who is too damn nice to hate, even though I really kind of want to right now, given how Trench Coat Man is trying to catch my eye. They saw a commercial on T.V. about how this big-name culinary school in California is hosting its annual cooking competition, and this year it’s going to be televised.
They saw that and, without asking me, entered me and my best fondue recipe in it.
Of course I got selected to compete. My fondue is legit. People come from five counties over to have it — and Montana counties are big.
I refused to attend, though. A televised cooking competition? Uh, no thanks.
Until I read the fine print.
By entering my recipe, Reggie and my folks also entered into a contract on my behalf.
Guess who has to fulfill it.
Go on.
I’ll wait.
(Here’s a hint: it’s the twenty-something-year-old with knotty blonde hair, a body that’s more like the Venus of Willendorf than the Venus de Milo, and an aversion to all things big city who’s currently getting eyeballed by Trench Coat Man.)
Still, I guess I can’t be all mad about it. As Reggie pointed out, there’s a sizable cash prize. With that kind of money, I could finally get my mom the hip replacement surgery she so desperately needs but she and my dad can’t afford.
My parents work hard for the simple life they enjoy. But it turns out that Mom’s nannying and my Dad’s grocery clerk gig don’t exactly come with multiplying returns.
They’ve got next to nothing, and my mom’s been limping for way too long with her bum hip. I’ve been hustling at The Thinking Cup, but winning the California Culinary Institute’s prize would fully finance Mom’s surgery in a way that I’ve never been able to through diner tips.
And if any of the prize is left over, I could maybe start thinking for real about the cooking bar I’ve been wanting to open, a place for folks to come learn how to create new recipes while enjoying delicious cocktails with their friends.
That will come later, though, if it happens at all. Mom comes first.
I hate big cities. But I’ll do just about anything to make sure my folks are provided for.
Including making a damn fool of myself on television.
Still, I have no doubt that my fondue is prize-worthy. The other competitors in the cheese sauce category of the CCI competition better watch out. They’ve got nothing on me.
Trench Coat Man stands up, eyes locked on me, swaying with the movement of the train. My belly tightens and I get ready to haul ass.
But then the skies part and a miracle occurs — the BART lurches to a halt at my destination. And I do haul ass — off the train and away from Trench Coat Man, who mercifully stays in the car.
The doors close and the above-ground subway trundles off, leaving me to navigate the last few blocks to the hotel near CCI where I’ve rented a room.
Like I said, I don’t like big cities.
But I don’t have to like San Francisco.
I just have to be here long enough to get what I came for.
Then I’m out of here without a second glance back.
Colby
I curl my fingers into fists to stop me from snatching my credit card back from the clerk at the hotel’s check-in. I booked this room months ago when I was still following self-dubbed internet business guru Greg Winger’s advice to embody my success and act as if I’m already living the life I aspire to.
I embodied my success straight to thousands of dollars of credit card debt that I can’t possibly pay off anytime soon.
Unless, of course, I come out on top in this year’s CCI cooking competition.
I’m a pretty fucking good chef if I do say so myself. Raised by my Polish grandmother to express myself through spices and flavor, I make my living by YouTube-ing my way to internet fame. At least, I’m trying to.
Yeah, I’m the host of the popular cooking channel, Planet Yum. I’ve not only got the talent to teach my millions of viewers all the ins and outs of the kitchen, but I’ve got the personality too. I’m an entertainer, funny as hell with char
m coming out of my ass. It doesn’t hurt that a young guy in my twenties with long brown curls, a lithe body, and blue eyes that I’ve been told make some of my women viewers swoon.
Which means that I’m going to win CCI’s cheese sauce category this year, and put on a damn good show for the viewers at home in the process.
And I need to. Otherwise, I’ll stay in this financial hole that I see no other way of escaping.
I’m a good cook, but I’m self-taught. None of the food prep jobs that I’m qualified for will earn me enough to get ahead of the interest.
I’ve got to win.
And with my gourmet Mornay sauce, I’m going to.
But then, I thought success was a sure thing if I followed Greg Winger’s online trainings, and look where that got me.
Let’s just say that I’m not quite as cocky and confident as I once was. My grandmother says that’s not a bad thing. But she doesn’t know about the credit card debt.
It’s going to stay that way because I’m going to kick ass at this competition and pay my debt off and never have to think about it again.
And if everything goes according to plan, my performance in the televised competition will elevate my YouTube success even further, allowing me to live off my channel’s earnings.
I’ll do whatever it takes to live life on my terms.
The check-in clerk hands me back my card, snapping me out of my reverie. I resist the urge to whisper words of comfort to the poor piece of plastic.
I reassure myself instead. Soon things will start looking up. They have to. Otherwise, I’m in trouble.
“Here is your key card, Mr. Jackson,” the clerk says warmly, sliding it across the counter. “You’re up on the fourteenth floor. Just a short walk down the hall will take you to our patio wine bar where you can relax and enjoy the San Francisco skyline.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, thinking how good a glass of pinot noir sounds right about now — and how expensive.
“Have an excellent stay, and please don’t hesitate to allow us to help your stay be as comfortable and enjoyable as possible,” he finishes, sending me off with a polite smile.
Shouldering my duffel, I grab the keycard and turn to find the elevator.
I promptly collide with something that smells like lilacs and honey.
Or really, someone.
A fucking beautiful someone, I realize, quickly gathering my senses.
A blonde someone wearing a cute purple tunic dress with curves that make my cock stand up and take note, amber eyes, and pert pink lips that are practically begging to be kissed.
The young woman about my age that I’ve barreled into is rubbing her nose as her eyes travel my frame. When she gets to my man bun, they linger.
I wait. Usually, women either love or hate my long hair, with no moderate reactions in between. My cock and I are curious to see what this girl thinks.
Her cheeks grow pink and the corners of her lips curve upward. She likes it.
Victory.
I’m surprised by how vehemently I want to crow in jubilation. I’m no prude, but this woman has awakened something new in me. Trying to suss it out, I take in the swell of her belly and how it melts into her luscious hips, her strong and ample thighs, and the way that her gaze travels my form.
“Are you both okay?” The clerk that helped me check in bustles up and even though he’s offering to help, his eyes are practically glued to her breasts.
That’s when I understand what’s up.
I’m feeling possessive. Because this girl? She’s mine. How dare this other guy ogle how damn succulent her tits look under her dress?
She’s noticed where his eyes are pointed, and she’s not too happy about it. “Yeah,” she all but growls, “fine, thanks.” She scowls and crosses her arms over her chest, but he doesn’t take the hint.
I want to punch the guy.
Instead, I shove my body between his and hers, puffing out my chest and staring him down. “You heard the woman. She’s good.”
“But —“ he protests, but I shake my head and cut him off.
“You’ve got customers,” I say, pointing at the line of patrons waiting for desk service.
He opens his mouth to argue once more, but can’t deny that he’s got impatient clients to attend. He heads off, leaving me alone with this woman.
My woman.
“You okay?” I ask, voice gentle, drinking in her aroma. I could get high off this scent. It’s just as intoxicating as the way she looks and speaks.
I’d love to know how else I can get addicted to her.
“Yeah,” she says, shaking her head. “Sorry about running into you, I’m such a klutz. I’m the one who should be asking if you’re okay.”
“Never better, now that I’ve met you.”
Her cheeks flush darker. God, she’s gorgeous. I imagine all the things we could do together — all the things I could do to those delectable curves. I want to lap up her secret sauce and make her come again and again. I bet she’s a vision mid-orgasm.
“Nice pick-up line,” she says, shooting me some finger guns. But I don’t miss how her eyes darken with desire or how she doesn’t move away when I step closer.
“It’s not a pick-up line if it’s true,” I murmur, standing close enough that if I wanted to I could kiss the top of her head.
She cocks her head at me. “How do you know?”
I frown. “How do I know what?”
“How do you know if your life’s better now that I’m in it? You don’t know me at all.” Her lips are pursed and her shoulders set in defiance. Her tenacity only makes me like her all the more.
I thrust out a hand. “I’m Colby Jackson.”
She snorts. “Seriously? With a name like that, I hope you like cheese.” Then her cheeks pink and her mouth twists. “Not that I’m one to talk with a name like Brie.” She takes my hand. “Brie Marsden.”
“See?” I grin. “Now we know each other, and it turns out that we are similarly destined to be cheese lovers. And as for the rest . . . well, I know good chemistry. And you and me? We go together like red wine and cheese.”
“And if I’m allergic to cheese?” Her eyes dance. She’s teasing me.
I love it.
“Then we’re peanut butter and jelly. Ice cream and hot caramel. Spaghetti and meatballs.”
At the word meatballs, her gaze drops, just for a second, to my crotch. Then she’s back to looking me straight in the eyes, innocent as ever.
But I know what I saw.
This girl wants me as badly as I want her.
Now I just have to figure out how to make her mine.
Brie
I feel like I’m stuck in one of the romance novels I dive into most evenings after work. I walk face-first into Colby and suddenly everything feels different.
I didn’t come to San Francisco looking for love. I came for the CCI prize winnings so I can provide for my parents.
But I won’t be upset if I leave with both.
It’s something straight out of a rom-com. Girl walks into boy. Boy smiles and flirts with girl. Girl’s panties are basically instantly sopping.
And then . . . what? Girl goes up to her room and never sees boy again?
I know I shouldn’t let myself get distracted. Not when so much is riding on my performance at CCI tomorrow.
But damn, Colby is something else. There aren’t a lot of single guys like him back home. And he’s right about our chemistry. I hate to let a guy I feel this way about two seconds after meeting him get away.
He says we go together like wine and cheese, a pairing made in heaven. I wonder if he means for one night or for forever.
I’d rather have forever.
I wonder if I’d settle for just one night if he’s not offering the latter.
I want romance, to make love on a bed covered in rose petals. I want to be wooed until death do us part and beyond.
But a girl like me, with the body I have? Most guys don’t want much to do wi
th it. Not in my experience.
So if there’s a guy willing to rock my world, even for just one night? I guess I’ll take it.
Like I said, I’d rather have forever. But I’m not sure that’s in the cards for me. So I’ll take a few isolated toe-curlingly beautiful experiences over nothing at all.
I wonder if Colby would like to have a toe-curlingly beautiful experience with me. From the way his gaze is roving the ebb and flow of my curves, the answer is yes.
“I’m not allergic to cheese,” I tell him.
He places a hand over his heart in exaggerated relief. “Thank God. I was worried. Cheese is a staple.”
Something the clerk said when I checked in a few minutes ago, before I went down the wrong corridor then had to backtrack and, searching for arrows pointing me to where I wanted to go, collided Colby. Something about a wine bar and a beautiful view of the city.
“You thirsty?” I blurt like the suave temptress I decidedly am not.
He raises a single eyebrow. “When am I not? I hear there’s wine on the fourteenth floor.”
I practically melt with relief at his assist with my clumsy pick-up play. “That’s just what I was thinking.”
Now both eyebrows lift with genuine surprise. “Really?”
I nod. “Tell you what. Let’s drop our bags in our rooms and meet at the patio wine bar. I’m craving a good pinot noir, and I wouldn’t mind some good company to go with it.”
A smile plays at his mouth. “Pinot noir? A girl after my own heart.”
“It’s the closest I get to being dark and mysterious.”