Cupcake Club 04 - Honey Pie (21 page)

Still, she paused at the back door and looked over her shoulder, through the open storage door into the front room . . . and felt an undeniable thrill rush through her. Truth be told, she was itching to dive in. “Well, Aunt Bea, this might not be exactly what you had in mind . . . but, if it works, I think it's going to be even better.”

Honey stepped out into the waning sunlight, locked up, then allowed herself five seconds to grin like a loon. “Okay, okay, enough of that. For now.” She smoothed her hair, checked her blouse again to make sure she'd buttoned it up correctly, then strolled resolutely across the alley toward the back door of Cakes by the Cup. “You wanted to be one of the cupcake crew,” she murmured under her breath. “Here's your chance.”

She lifted her hand to knock, but for the second time in as many attempts, the door was abruptly pushed open in her face, causing her to leap backward. It wasn't Lani with a tray full of cupcakes, but a very tall, swarthy and suave, dark-haired gentleman, who was looking over his shoulder as he exited the building, still having a chat with someone inside.
“Bonsoir, mes belle amies! Rendez-vous demain.”

Tall, good-looking . . . and French? What were the chances? Bea hadn't mentioned the island was full of eye candy.

Honey was standing well clear when he turned around, spied her, and immediately—and quite dramatically for a guy his size—clutched his chest. “Holy Jesus. Girl, you just about took five years off my life.”

So . . . okay, not French. More like Brooklyn by way of Little Italy.

He paused, smoothed his hair, then struck a pose last seen in Madonna's Vogue video. “I'll deny it, of course, but I could use a five year reduction, so perhaps thanks are in order.” He smoothed his shirt, then his hair again, then beamed a megawatt grin her way.

Confused by the French-cum-New York accent and his surprisingly decent runway skills, she simply waved at him and smiled. “My pleasure. I think. I'm—”

“Oh my goodness, you're Honey Pie D'Amourvell.” He sketched a deep and very gallant bow. “
Mon cher,
it is my most sincere pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Still in a deep bow, he glanced up at her and winked. “I'd kill for that last name of yours, by the way.”

She couldn't help it, she laughed. “Well, I'll warn you, it's long, no one pronounces it right, the DMV hates me, and it hasn't really done me too many favors. What's yours? Maybe we can trade.”

He straightened, chuckling; the deep, rich sound was inviting and utterly endearing. As was the twinkle in his dark eyes. He was a big, gorgeous, charismatic man, but the first word she'd used to describe him was adorable.

“I'm Franco Ricci. And I knew I was going to like you,
bellisima.
” At her raised brow, he added, “
Mais oui,
I mix in a little Italian with my French. Blame my dear, departed grandmamma. Speaking of the dearly departed, your aunt, Miz Beavis Chantrell, was a lovely, lovely woman. Also with a last name to die for,” he added with a wink. “I was privileged to know her only for a short time, but she had many wonderful things to say about you. I'm so very sorry for the circumstances leading to your coming here, but welcome to Sugarberry. We're all very glad you've come.”

He was a lot to take—all good—but a lot. Then she remembered Lani mentioning something about Franco, and a French poodle. She understood that now, but not remotely in the way she'd assumed she would. The best she could manage at the moment was to repeat, “All?”

“Oh, you haven't met the crew? Well, I know you met Lani and Miss Alva as they've already filled us all in.”

“All?” she asked again, not brave enough to ask what constituted said “filled us all in.”

“You're taking over the old bookstore, I hear?”

When her mouth dropped open, he leaned in, the accent disappearing again. “Honey, it's a small island. No secrets.”

“But Alva said she'd—”

“Oh girl, no. Hmm mmm. You might as well take out a front page ad in the
National Enquirer
.”

Honey tried not to snort at that. She didn't want to appear rude, but was only marginally successful. “Right. Well . . . she's right, I'm considering it. The bookstore building, I mean. I came over to talk to Lani about . . . everything. Alva also invited me to come meet the group; she said you all were baking for charity.” She winced. “Is that also something I should be skeptical about?”

“Oh, not at all,
mon amie
. You're totally welcome at Cupcake Club. We could use some new blood. Do you bake?”

“Is it a prerequisite?”

“No, not at all. Do you want to learn?”

She smiled. “Is that a prerequisite?”

He grinned. “Do you like to eat cupcakes?”

“That I can do.”

“
Bienvenue en
Cupcake Club!” he said, moving in as if to wrap her up in a big bear hug.

Honey about tripped over the long cement block that fronted the nearest parking spot to avoid the contact. “Nothing personal,” she hurried to add as he immediately froze, mid-arm reach. “I'm really sorry.”

Begin as you mean to go on,
she reminded herself. “Um . . . how well did you know my aunt?”

Franco straightened, and to his credit, didn't look offended or like he thought she was completely nuts. “I've only been in the area for the past few years. I moved down the same time Charlotte did. Lani's best friend,” he explained. “We all worked together back in New York. I'm mostly in Savannah—I work with Char and her fiancé Carlo in their catering business, and as a sous chef on Baxter's television show—but I'm over here all the time. So, I didn't know your aunt as well as most everyone who lives here, but we spent some quality time together.”

He flashed her that million dollar grin again. “You know, we have some of the best tailors in the world back in my neighborhood at home, but she was a magician with a needle and thread. I've never had clothes fit me as well. Woman could tailor a tuxedo for the Hulk if he asked.” He gestured to himself and chuckled. “And I'm a close second. Do you sew?”

“No, I'm sorry. I carve. And sculpt. Did you know about Bea's . . . other talents?”

“Oh, you mean the—” He broke off and made a feathery motion around his forehead with his hands. “Not until after I'd known her a bit. A shame, too. Lord knows she could have saved me all kinds of heartache with that—well, we don't need to go into that. Water under the bridge. Bloody, hateful, cheating bastard water, but . . . I'm not bitter.”

“No, not at all. I can see that.” Franco was possibly the oddest hot guy she'd ever met. Not that her personal hot guy—or any guy—list was long, but, still. She liked him already. Maybe it was his very uniqueness that called to the outcast in her. Where she might have been uncomfortable with being different, Franco had clearly long since embraced it. Owned it with flair, one might say. “Can I ask you something? Why the French accent? I mean, are you part French, part—”

“I'm second generation Italian-American from the Bronx.” He said it with an enunciation that would have made the entire cast of
Jersey Shore
weep with envy. (She knew about the show, so what? It was lonely, living in a barn.)

“And the French?”

He leaned slightly closer, but with clear respect for her personal space. “You ever try picking up cute guys with a Bronx accent? Trust me, French works much better.” He kissed his fingertips with enthusiasm.
“Es magnifique!”

She grinned. “I'll keep that in mind.”

He grinned, completely unabashed. “You do that,” he said in a dead-on Rocky Balboa.

She laughed out loud. “I bet Bea gave you a steep discount. She had to love you.”

“She used to tailor clothes for Vegas showgirls and girl had an eye for sequins. It was love at first sparkle.” He sighed. “I really miss her.” He gave Honey a considering look. “But, I'm thinking we're going to get along just fabulously.”

Honey smiled. She hoped so. “Why is that?”

“Because you have no bullshit in you. And I'm nothing but.” He gave a dramatic sigh, then a wink that could only be described as saucy. “It's so nice to drop the façade every once in a while.” He gave her a warning look. “Which I'll deny to my grave if you tell.”

She made a cross sign over her heart. “Your inner Bronx boy is safe with me.”

“Well, then,
ma chérie,
allow me to introduce you to
la dulce de la
cupcakes.”

Honey laughed. Clearly he wasn't kidding about the bullshit. His French was hilariously inaccurate, but he sounded damn sexy saying it. She imagined he got away with far more than mangling an entire foreign language. “Weren't you just leaving?”

“For you,
bella,
I'd be honored to make the introductions. Consider it a favor to your aunt.”

Honey grinned, feeling charmed, amused, and maybe even a little flustered—which, given he was also clearly gay, either said a lot about his bullshit skills or even more about the sad state of her only recently reborn libido.

He opened the door with a flourish, then leaned in before she could enter. “So, Bea was always a laying-on-of-the-hands type. I'm guessing you're more of a—”

“Laying-off type,” she finished, nodding with him. “It's a little more intense for me than it was for Bea. Direct contact is the trigger.”

“Understood,” he whispered, leaning closer as the noise and music inside the kitchen came thumping out through the open doorway. “You're safe with me.” He straightened and made an exaggerated doorman flourish. “Now,
entrer vous
with your bad self.”

Already laughing, Honey met the cupcake ladies. And, much to her delighted surprise, that set the tone for the evening. Alva immediately came over with her official cupcake club apron for the evening. Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow.

“A pirate is a girl's best friend,” she said with a penciled eyebrow wiggle.

Franco introduced Honey to Charlotte Bhandari, who had known Lani since they were in culinary school. She was striking with her beautiful, long black hair and exotic Indian accent. Honey had thought her more formal than the rest of the crew until she and Lani shared a snicker over the inadvertently phallic results of a roulade gone terribly wrong.

Honey had also been introduced to Dre, who'd been there since the start of the club along with Alva and Charlotte. She learned their get-togethers had begun a few years before when they'd stayed after hours with Lani while she worked off her brand-new bakery—and new relationship—stresses by, what else . . . baking. Dre was in her early twenties, a recent art school grad and dedicated foodie who had met Lani when she'd proposed a shop logo and marketing ideas as part of a school project. She'd been Lani's first part-time hire, and though she now worked full-time for a graphic art and ad agency in Savannah, she still pitched in when she could and seldom missed a “bitchy bake” as Alva called it. Honey was mostly fascinated by Dre's midnight blue Mohawk, eyebrow piercing, and what looked like a gorgeous fairy tattoo on the back of her neck.

Honey met Kit, of peanut pie fame and manager of the about-to-open Babycakes, and got a good look at the incredible piece of artwork designed by Dre that was the official Babycakes shop apron. A map of Sugarberry had been turned into the most complex, delightful, fully detailed fairyland Honey had ever seen. “We definitely have to talk,” she blurted out in awe and already in love with Dre's artistic point of view.

“Coolness,” Dre said in what was her standard, understated demeanor—which didn't translate at all into an understated passion for what she did. Immediately, she produced a sheaf of drawing paper and slid it across the worktable to Honey. “I checked out your website. Awesome work. I had some ideas for signage, postcards, shop aprons. If you're interested.”

Honey flipped open the folder, and her jaw had dropped straight to the floor as she glanced through the first few pages. “Oh my God. These are”—she looked up at Dre—“coolness.”

The corner of Dre's mouth crooked into something that resembled a grin. Or it could have been the lip ring. Either way, she seemed happy, then ducked her head and went back to work on some elaborate chocolate structure Honey couldn't begin to describe.

Riley was the only one missing from the festivities. She and Quinn Brannigan—the drop-dead gorgeous, famous Southern mystery author—had taken her houseboat down to the Keys to meet up with some foodie friends from her Chicago days. She'd done all the food styling for Baxter and Lani's latest cookbook, and had done a mouth-watering job. Honey knew that firsthand as Lani had gifted her with an advanced copy, signed by all three of them.

Honey had seen Lani's hot British hubby on television, and had met Kit's significant other Morgan briefly in the alley behind the garage when her mind had been on other things, but not so much that she hadn't noticed he was also quite gorgeous. If aunt Bea hadn't already dearly departed, she'd have killed her for not mentioning the ridiculousness that was the stunning male population on Sugarberry.

Of course, Bea had spent her formative years in Hollywood and Vegas, so maybe good-looking men had just been a blur of sexy grins and six-pack abs for her. Of course, that made Honey think immediately of Dylan.
Thank you for leaving one for me,
she thought with a private grin.

“Taste test,” Alva called out above the thumping bass beat of Vicki Sue Robinson singing “Turn the Beat Around.” It was disco night at Cupcake Club.