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Authors: Donna Kauffman

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BOOK: Sweet Stuff
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His body jerked to renewed attention, needlessly reminding him of just whose wares he’d really rather she sample. “She won’t. I mean Scary Lois won’t. Be coming. Not today.”
“But, how is that possible? I can’t run the open house, it’s not my function. Besides, she has all the—is she okay? Has something happened?“
“She’s fine, and yes, something has happened. While you were setting up the piano, I called my manager and had him make an offer on the place. A very nice offer.”
“You—did what?”
“Leased the place. I believe there is a flurry of faxes going on between Scary Lois and even scarier David as I speak. I’m sure I’ll have to sign something at some point, but the deal is done.”
“So ... no open house.”
“No open house.”
“But ... it’s been advertised. People will show up.”
“Then they’ll be disappointed to find a sign on the front door telling them the property is no longer available. I suppose I should go take care of that.”
“Right, but—”
“But first ... honestly, try this.”
She stared at him over the top of the cupcake. “Are you always like this?”
“Like what?” He grinned. “Unpredictable?”
He watched as her gaze darted from his eyes, to his mouth, and back to his eyes again. Her pupils expanded, her brown eyes growing darker and deeper as her throat worked and the muscles in her arms tensed—quivered, actually. He wrote, in great detail, about all those little, telltale signs that took place when someone was aroused. Though, admittedly, it had been a while, a good long while, since he’d had an opportunity to personally observe them.
“That’s not entirely a bad thing, is it?” he asked.
“Uh, no,” she managed, still all hung up in his very direct gaze. “No, I guess it’s not.”
“Good. Now... lick.”
She did—which surprised him, though he wasn’t sure why. He’d expected an eye roll. Or a cupcake shoved into his face. Either of which he’d have deserved. Having brought her up earlier, he absently wondered what Grams would say about his rather ... assertive behavior. But those fleeting thoughts vanished when Riley immediately closed her eyes and made a sound in the back of her throat as the rich chocolate coated her tongue, in that instinctive way a person did who was naturally, even viscerally connected to the sensuality of experience. Smell ... taste ... touch ... Watching her, he felt a very distinct, deep-in-the-gut quiver of his own.
“Lani,” she murmured. “Once again, you rule.”
“Possibly the patron saint of baking,” Quinn agreed, almost reverently, as he continued to watch, fixated, as she finished enjoying every last creamy bite.
She opened her eyes, and caught him watching—staring, really—and her cheeks bloomed once again. “I—” She tugged her arm free and took a short step back. “You—just, uh, let me know when you’ll be moving your stuff in and I’ll make sure to have all the staging furnishings and decor out of here. I, uh, it will take at least two days, but I could easily have everything ready for move-in by the weekend.”
She jerked her gaze to his hand, which still held the cupcake, then back to his face again. He couldn’t tell what was behind the hunger clearly written on her face, but it didn’t seem to matter to every inch of his anatomy. Some inches more newly invigorated than others.
“I just have to make a few calls.”
“I offered for it as is,” he said, not any more in control than she appeared to be. Perhaps for entirely different reasons, but still proving that while unpredictability might be exciting, it wasn’t exactly without risks. A point to remember.
“Oh. Oh! Well ...” She gazed around a bit wildly.
Maybe it was just his interpretation. His own pulse was like a jungle beat at the moment.
“I guess I should just ... uh, go then. I’ll go.” She looked back at him, and smiled brightly, though it didn’t reach her eyes, which were still kind of half-glazed. “If you have any questions, Lois can just—or you could call me. Or—David, was that his name? He could. Actually, you should. Call me, I mean. I’m the one with the contacts for the furnishings and I’m here on Sugarberry, too. Full time. So, anything you don’t want, I can just—do you want me to clean this up?” She gestured haphazardly toward the mangled display. “No,” she answered herself when his gaze dipped to her mouth again.
“Okay, I’ll just—I’ll go. Now.”
He was still standing by the ruined cupcake display, cupcake in hand, as he heard the door shut and the crank of her Jeep engine a moment later. He rather thought the sound of sprayed gravel, indicating she’d torn out of his driveway like the proverbial bat out of hell, was perhaps a bit of an extreme reaction to the situation. Until he tried to take a step and realized he was so hard and his jeans so accordingly tight that he could barely move without risking damaging something ... and decided maybe she’d had the right idea all along.
“Focus,” he said. “You came here to focus.” He promised himself he’d get on with it ... just as soon as he finished every last bit of the cupcake in his hand. The one with the dollop of frosting missing. And that’s exactly what he did, without questioning why, right down to the last swirl, fleck, and crumb. Savoring each bite, he stared at the ruined cake display, imagining how differently the afternoon might have gone if he’d simply pushed her back onto the breakfast nook table, peeled open her blouse, and drawn one of those frosted cups of heaven over the rosy tips of what he knew would be lovely, lush breasts ... then followed up with his tongue. He wondered if her senses were engaged so rapturously when involved with pleasures of the flesh, rather then the decadent results of cleverly combined amounts of flour, butter, and sugar ... and already believed he knew the answer to that question. A sensualist was a sensualist.
He groaned at the new round of images that idea brought to mind, tossed the crumpled paper on the table, and went off to find out how well the advertised drenching showerheads worked when they were set on ice cold.
Ten minutes later, when that hadn’t worked, he switched to steam heat. At least, for the following ten minutes or so, he remained focused on something.
Chapter 3
“
L
and sakes! What on earth did you get tangled up with?” Alva Liles, the most senior member of the Cupcake Club, didn’t add
this time,
but it was implied.
“Whatever it was, I think you lost.” Young Dre, whose hairnet-draped purple Mohawk never failed to make Riley smile, immediately hunched back over a white fondant draped layer of cake, intently focused on squeezing out perfect rose petal after perfect rose petal along the curved edge. Four more individual tiers were on the stainless-steel table behind her, each covered with hundreds, if not thousands, of roses in all shapes and sizes. Dre took the practice-makes-perfect mantra to new and dedicated heights.
Riley hung her purse up on one of the apron hooks, and slid her
HELLO KITTY
apron off another, quickly looping the neck strap over her head and tying the dangling waist straps behind her hips. She liked the whimsical aprons that every Cupcake Club member adopted, inspired by Leilani’s lifelong collection. It was certainly more fun and more comfortable than the chef’s jackets she’d often worn in her previous life.
“What are you working on tonight, Miss Alva?” Riley knew full well the entire story of her lacerated self would come out, but she wasn’t quite ready to entertain the troops with her latest misadventure. Actually, she didn’t want to talk about Quinn Brannigan at all. He might not be able to read her thoughts—or maybe he had—but she knew her fellow baking buddies never missed a thing.
“Hey, you’re here,” Leilani said, as she bumped open the swinging door leading from the shop front of the bakery to the decently sized kitchen area, where they all gathered every Monday night after the shop closed early. She was around the same age as Riley, much shorter but sturdy, with light brown hair, usually pulled back in a haphazard ponytail, and a calm, competent demeanor that somehow managed to keep everything controlled and sane, even in the midst of chaos. “I have a new cake flavor I want you to try,” she told them. “It’s my take on a Dreamsicle.”
Everyone let out a collective “yum.”
“They just need to rest another five minutes, then I’ll frost and we’re all doing a taste test.”
“Once again it does not suck to be us.” Riley hauled her toolbox and quilted supply tote over to an empty space on the far stainless-steel worktable to set up shop. The bakery was situated on the main floor of an old rowhouse style shop, with the retail area out front taking up only slightly more than a front room or parlor’s worth of space. The lion’s share of the first floor was dedicated to the kitchen. Riley had initially questioned the inequitable division of space, thinking it made more sense to put on a splashier display up front, but, of course, that was her styling background speaking. For her, it was all about the presentation.
For Lani, it was all about the preparation. As Riley’s friendship with Lani had developed, she’d quickly come to learn, the former Leilani Trusdale had been a James Beard–nominated executive pastry chef at New York City’s famous Gateau patisserie. The pastry shop was still owned by her now-husband, Baxter Dunne, the famous British pastry chef seen weekly by millions of adoring fans—Riley included—on his network television cooking show,
Hot Cakes
.
Lani and Baxter, who’d gotten married just before Riley had moved to Georgia, were quite happily ensconced islanders now—Baxter taping his show in a gorgeous plantation house just over the causeway on the outskirts of Savannah, and Lani running her own little cupcake bakery on Sugarberry. When the big-city girl had initially designed her new little rural island shop space, she’d given in to her penchant to retain the one thing from her former life that she truly hadn’t wanted to give up—the fully locked and loaded, professionally appointed kitchen her former profession demanded.
“Where’s Franco?” Riley asked, referring to Leilani’s swarthy, Bronx-born Italian pal, whom Lani had known and worked with, back in New York. He and their mutual friend, Charlotte, had also migrated south and set up a catering business in Savannah. Charlotte was involved with Carlo, one of Baxter’s prep chefs from his television show. Franco was big, gorgeous, gay, and spoke with an affected French accent that made absolutely no sense, but was utterly and exactly Franco.
“He’s in Savannah for the next few days, helping Baxter finish up the last part of this season’s shoot. They’re trying to piggyback the final three episodes and get them done in the time it normally takes to do one, so Bax can have a little extra time to finish up his next cookbook. With the first one out for over a month now, he was supposed to already have this one in to the publisher. But with the show moving to a major network after last season, and all the press he was asked to do for that and the cookbook release, well ... you’ve heard me bitch about it all before. I swear, the man is superhuman. But now, added to that, one of Baxter’s chefs is out with the flu. So Franco is stepping in to help.”
Riley looked concerned at the news, and Dre noticed. She looked up long enough to say, “Don’t worry. The son-of-a-bitch traitor is gone.”
Riley’s brows climbed halfway up her forehead, which made her flinch. Resisting the urge to press a cool palm to her scratched-up face, she said, “Brenton’s gone?” referring to Franco’s soulmate life partner. His
former
soulmate life partner. The son-of-a-bitch traitor. “As in
gone
-gone?”
Dre nodded, making her newly installed eyebrow ring—a bit bigger than her other two—jiggle with the motion. The weight of what looked like a tiny dragon charm hanging from a tiny loop on the ring added to the sway.
“Got an offer two days ago from a new place out in San Francisco,” Dre explained. “Took it.”
“Baxter was relieved when he turned in his notice,” Lani added. “Told him he didn’t need the two weeks, to just head on out. Brenton was gone that day. If Baxter could have fired him for what he did to Franco, he would have, but it wasn’t business related and—”
“We know. No one blames Baxter.” Riley said. “I don’t know how Franco managed to help out on the show as much as he did.”
“Baxter tried to mitigate that,” Lani said. “It wasn’t fair to not give Franco the work, especially since Carlo has partnered in with them to launch Sweet and Savory. We all know Franco’s still doing a lot of work with the catering business, but I think, with Brenton out of the picture, he was feeling kind of homeless. I was honestly worried he might go back to New York.
“Baxter offered him a full-time gig with the show almost before Brenton had left the building, but Franco hasn’t agreed to take it yet. I think for the time being he’s planning to bounce back and forth from his continuing work with Char and Carlo to helping Bax out when he can.”
“As long as Brenton is gone and Franco is still here, I’m happy,” Riley said.
“Damn straight,” Dre muttered, then groaned. “God, no pun, no pun.”
Everyone groaned with her, then Lani added, “Franco will be here later, though. He’s coming back with Baxter this evening. And guess what?” Lani wiggled her eyebrows. “I think he had company night before last.”
“He did,” Alva confirmed. “The kind you cook breakfast for,” she added, in case anyone hadn’t picked up on the inference.
Everyone turned to look at Alva, eyebrows lifted in question, but she merely lifted a shoulder. “We talk.” She beamed at the assembled group. “I told Franco to bring his friend along so we could meet him.”
“When did you talk to Franco?” Lani asked.
“Never you mind, missy. Franco and me, we’re snug.”
Riley and Lani laughed at that. Even Dre’s lips threatened a smile.
“Tight,” Dre finally offered when Alva looked surprised by the laughter.
“What’s tight?” Alva patted her perfectly teased and lacquered bouffant of white hair, while looking down at her expertly pressed and color-coordinated hot pink tracksuit. Riley was pretty sure the feisty octogenarian was the only woman who could wear pearls with a tracksuit and make it work.
“You and Franco.” When Alva merely looked confused, Dre sighed. “Never mind.”
“I don’t see what’s so funny,” Alva said, clearly a bit miffed. “Franco is family and we look out for family. We don’t know anything about this new young man. Who his people are, where he’s from, what his designs are on our boy.”
“If anyone is doing the designing, I’m pretty sure it’s Franco,” Dre offered in the kind of laconic drawl only a twenty-one-year-old, disaffected art school student could pull off with any real authenticity. Dre nailed it regularly.
“Be that as it may, I still say we should meet this young man sooner rather than later.”
“I’m sure if shared breakfasts become a regular part of Franco’s routine, we will,” Lani said.
Riley began unpacking her supplies for her evening’s baking endeavor, happy not to be the focus of the conversation. She’d gotten a workstation that would keep her back conveniently aimed at the kitchen’s occupants, as opposed to her scratched-up face.
“Well,” Alva said, “if he doesn’t, I’ll just drop by unannounced with a pan of my blueberry crumble.” She smiled the innocent, twinkly smile of the elderly that everyone in the room knew to be a blatant and utterly false cover for her devious and perfectly sharp eighty-three-year-old mind, and went right back to work, humming as she triple sifted another two cups of cake flour.
Riley smiled to herself, privately hoping she’d be half the woman Alva Liles was by the time she reached the woman’s advanced age. Half her age, even. Heck, given Riley’s propensity for causing herself personal harm, she’d be thrilled to reach Alva’s age at all.
Just then Franco swung through the back door, with all of his typical “making an entrance” insouciance. “
Bonsoir,
mes amies!” he announced cheerfully. “How are all the lovely bakers of
les petites cakes
this fine, fine hot August night? Speaking of hot August nights, Lani, do you have any old Neil Diamond on hand? I think we need a little ‘Cracklin’ Rosie’ or ‘Sweet Caroline.’ ” He grinned and made a show of primping his hair. “You can skip ‘Solitary Man,’ though.”
“Wahoo!” Lani hooted. “You know, I think I might be able to accommodate you.” It was well-known, at least among the group, that when alone in her kitchen, Lani often baked while shaking her groove thing to old movie soundtracks, hard-driving rock and roll, and dance music. On many occasions, they “pumped up the jam,” as Charlotte put it, her proper Indian dialect making the eighties song phrase particularly amusing, at least to Riley, who laughed every time Char said it.
As yet, no one had turned on the stereo that particular evening. Last time they had was two weeks prior when Alva had brought in her latest contribution, a CD from that “very nice looking boy” Justin Bieber.
Riley tried not to smile and make her scratches sting again, but remembering Alva waltzing about the kitchen while lip synching “Baby, baby, oh,” made it pretty much impossible. Of course, considering Alva’s previous offering had been the
Best of John Denver
, she’d be happy to keep the Bieber on permanent rotation if it meant they never had to listen to Alva actually sing along to “Thank God I’m a Country Boy.” Ever again.
“Let me see what I’ve got.” Lani tipped up on her toes to buss him loudly on the cheek as she passed by on her way to the stereo cabinet. “Where’s Baxter?”
Even though she’d been married for over a year now, Lani’s eyes still sparkled like a newlywed’s whenever she so much as said her husband’s name. If possible, Baxter was even worse. Or better, depending on how you looked at it. Riley looked at it happily, for the fairy-tale-come-to-life that it was. So what if she suffered a few incredibly selfish pangs of envy? That was her problem, not Lani and Baxter’s.
“He told me to tell you he was going by the house first,
toute suite
, then will be by with some leftovers from today’s shoot.” Franco folded his arms and smiled a very smug smile. “And it won’t be Baxter’s baking, either. Guess who dropped by today?”
Lani turned around. “Who?”
“Let’s just say somebody wanted a little throwdown with Chef Hot Cakes.”
Lani’s mouth dropped open. “No way! My TV chef boyfriend, Bobby Flay? Right in our Savannah house kitchen? And no one called me?” She made a little squeaking sound of outrage.
“Calm down, sister,” Franco said, the accent disappearing, as it often did when he was giving Lani a hard time. “It wasn’t a real throwdown. He was in town to see Miss Paula and came by to check out the setup, have a little chat. And, you know how it is ... cooking happens.” He went over to Lani and put a consoling arm around her shoulders, though his shameless grin was anything but. “You get to eat your TV chef boyfriend’s amazing barbeque, so all is not lost.”
Lani groaned. “He made barbeque.” She dragged out the last word on a deep sigh of abject appreciation mixed with a healthy bit of envy.
“It was the end of the day. That’s why we’re late. He wasn’t there long enough for you to get across the causeway.”
“Fine, fine. But I’m like an elephant,” she said, tapping her forehead. “I don’t forget these things.” She poked Franco in the chest. “You get to be the one to tell Char what she missed when she gets back.” Lani took smug pleasure from Franco’s blanched expression. “And no Neil for you. Tonight, we bake along with . . .” She whirled around and punched the play button, then spun back as the opening strains of “Ice Ice Baby” smoothed into the room, making Franco groan, as she’d known it would. As they’d all known it would. “Oh yes, my smug, Bobby Flay barbeque eating friend, it’s harem pants on the dance floor night!”
BOOK: Sweet Stuff
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