Authors: Bella Cruise
Tasty (10 page)
“Juliette
Rockwell,” she snarls, “are you behind this?”
“I
can neither confirm nor deny it,” I say. Summer, beside me,
lets out a snicker.
“I
know
you were the one who screwed up our flour order. I can’t
believe you were stupid enough to sign your own name.”
Summer
glances at me. “Wait, what is she talking about?”
“Nothing,”
I say quickly. But Angelique gives her head a brisk shake.
“Nothing?
This one’s been trying to take down our business for weeks.
Pranks and tweets. It’s like some kind of high school rivalry.”
“Whoa,
Jules,” says Summer, eying me appreciatively. “I’m
proud of you.”
I
elbow her in the side. “Thanks, kid.”
“Do
you think this is funny?” Angelique goes on. “That it’s
some kind of joke? We could sue you! Do you think we don’t have
the resources?”
Of
course they do. Cal is a flashy fake TV celebrity chef. But he
wouldn’t dare. It would ruin my business.
“I
don’t think that’s really necessary . . .” I begin,
as Angelique takes out her phone and starts dialing.
“I’m
calling Cal’s lawyer,” she says. But then a booming voice
cuts through the chaos.
“Angelique,”
Cal says as he walks through his shop, an apron tied around his
waist. Even the biggest bikers step aside. He’s like Moses
parting the Red Sea. “Put your phone away. It’s fine.”
And
then he smiles. A wide, infuriating, brilliantly white smile. I feel
my belly heat at the sight of it. I can’t look at his mouth
without imagining kissing him. It’s infuriating.
“Fine?”
I say skeptically, crossing my arms over my chest. Cal puts his hands
on his hips.
“I
don’t mind the business,” he says with a beam, even as,
behind him, one biker shoves a cupcake into another’s beard.
“There’s nothing more joyful than a busy kitchen.”
I
scowl. Because of course, I know what he means. When was the last
time Rock N Roll Cakes was this busy? Never. That’s when.
“I
bet all the supplies cost you an arm and a leg,” I say quickly.
But Cal just laughs.
“Luckily
I have a few extra pounds of flour sitting around. Really, this is no
bother at all, Angelique. I can handle this.”
She
turns hot eyes onto her boss. But his gaze is steady, calm, and cool.
So she spins on her pumps and stalks back toward the kitchen. That’s
when I see that Cal’s holding a box in his hands, brown paper
tied with twine.
“What’s
that?”
“A
gesture of goodwill,” he tells me. “To show you there’s
no hard feelings.”
He
hands me the box. I tug on the end of the twine, then open it. Inside
are a half dozen delicious-looking cupcakes. Pink icing. Red velvet
beneath. They’re Pink Surprises. But damn, they look better and
prettier than anything I’ve ever whipped up. He’s written
“Cheers” on the inside of the box lid, an exclamation
point after it.
I
glance up, but he’s already walking away. He doesn’t even
glance back. That gorgeous, muscular ass is all I see.
“Can
I have one of those?” Summer asks. I hand her the box, letting
out a sigh of defeat.
“Take
them all,” I say.
Later,
I can’t sleep. My mind is restless. My body is restless, too.
I’ve been tossing and turning in my sheets for hours, thinking
about Mecca Cakes.
Thinking
about Cal.
Sure,
in a lot of ways, this whole thing has been fun. The pranks. The
costumes. The mind-blowing orgasms. Trying to take down Cal’s
business has been a solid distraction. My days feel pretty busy,
despite the graveyard that is Rock N Roll Cakes.
But
something’s been weighing on me, something that Cal said about
not taking my business seriously. I hate to admit it, but he’s
right. Not in the way he thinks. I’m no idiot—I
know
that my rivalry with him isn’t really helping my business any,
that it’s only a way to fritter away my time until sales pick
up again. But even before Cal, before Mecca Cakes, I’d been on
autopilot, coasting on my regular customers and my good name in town.
People trusted me because I was a girl born and raised on the Keys.
But clearly, that’s not going to cut it anymore.
I
finally pull myself out of bed and throw my silk robe over my
shoulders. Then I wander to my almost empty fridge. There’s a
bottle of white inside, half-drunk from the last girls’ night
me and Ginny shared. I uncork it, open my kitchen window, head out
onto the fire escape and climb onto the roof.
The
rooftop is my second-favorite thing about my apartment, aside from
the fact that I can wake up and practically roll out of bed to get to
work. I’ve decorated it with a few plants, a small wrought-iron
table and chairs, and a charcoal grill that’s perfect for
summer cookouts. Tonight, the air is fresh and cool. The sky is clear
and sprinkled with stars. The moon overhead is a crescent, white and
gorgeous. I sit on the roof’s edge and look out over Key
West—the Victorian houses, the tourist traps, the ocean
stretching out, eternal, beyond it.
I
think about my home here, and I think about the store. I never wanted
to be like Cal. I never wanted fame, or a television show, or a
franchise splattered across the United States. I opened Rock N Roll
Cakes after heartbreak. My first boss in Miami had been a
philanderer, and I’d had no idea. I was swayed by the fantasy
of a lifetime of naked cooking together. And to be fair, he knew how
to woo me like no one else. Our dates were magical, full of
candlelight and laughter. Sad thing is, I’d actually believed
every single one of his stupid promises, that he’d marry me and
help me get ahead in the Miami restaurant scene. When I stumbled
across him out at dinner one night—with his wife and three
kids—it felt like the Earth fell out of the sky under my feet.
I
ran away from Miami, but I had no idea what to do with myself. Not
until my grandmother died. Sometimes tragedies can be blessings in
disguise. She left me some money, not a fortune, but enough to get my
meager dreams off the ground. In her will, she said, “Juliette,
may this small sum give you freedom.”
And
it has. I don’t have to worry about my relationship with my
boss heading south, or jealous co-workers, or kitchen drama. I can
make my own hours. I can come and go as I please.
I
take a swig of wine, thinking. I set my own schedule and avoid the
romantic entanglements that plague so many restaurant workers. The
truth is, I’ve loved my work, from designing the store’s
retro fabulous interior, to hiring and training Summer, to planning
wedding cakes for nervous bridezillas. It might be just a bakeshop to
anyone else, but I’ve squeezed out more than a few drops of
meaning out of it.
And
the thought of losing it is more than I can bear.
In
the pocket of my robe, my phone vibrates. I take it out. It’s a
message from cupcakecasanova.
Are you awake, sugar?
I
grimace. Normally, I’d be thrilled to hear from him. But I’m
not really in the mood for a virtual booty call.
I am, but I’m having a rough night. Business woes.
There’s
a pause, just a moment too long. I realize that I’m holding my
breath, waiting to hear his response. We’ve never really talked
about our real lives before. We’ve talked about sex and food
and all sorts of other delicious things, but nothing that
mattered
.
Up until now, I’ve been fine with that. But sometimes I just
need someone to talk to, someone who will understand. And
cupcakecasanova, whoever he is, knows my industry better than almost
anyone.
His
answer comes blinking back at last. I’m glad to see that mere
mention of actual, real emotions hasn’t scared him away.
Talk to me. I’m here for you.
I
take another swallow of wine. I’m nervous. I don’t want
to be too specific. He’s still a stranger. But for some reason
I feel like I can open up to him. My thumb moves rapidly over the
screen.
We haven’t been getting much foot traffic
lately. A competitor opened up in the neighborhood and I’m feeling the
heat, I guess.
Competition can be healthy. You don’t want to
stagnate.
That’s
what I keep telling myself, but no matter what I do, I just keep
coming up short. There’s no competing with this guy. He’s
bigger and better than me in pretty much every way. Even my regulars
know it.
I
think of the look on Mrs. O’Gilligan’s face and feel my
stomach squeeze in embarrassment. I hadn’t really faced the
fact that all of my customers have now pledged their dollars and
their bellies to Mecca Cakes.
That’s gotta be rough.
Yeah.
I used to dream about expanding—maybe opening a second store in
Miami or something. But I don’t see how that’s ever going
to happen if I can’t even keep this ship afloat.
I
know the feeling. I built my business from the ground up, too. My dad
didn’t even want me to be a chef. He wanted me to work in a
factory, like him. He thought only gay men cook. Believe me, I’ve
struggled.
You did?
Yeah,
it’s been ten years of scrambling. The first couple years I
thought I was drowning. I’d wake up at night thinking I was
having a heart attack at 25.
OMG. Have definitely had those nights . . .
Let me guess: tonight is one of them?
How’d you know?
It’s 3:34 a.m. and you haven’t cracked a single dirty joke.
On
my roof, I’m smiling. He knows me way too well for a guy whose
name I don’t even know. And he’s a chef. Usually, it
would terrify me. Maybe it’s the night. Maybe it’s the
wine. Maybe it’s the thousand miles between us. But I feel so
at ease around him . . .
Tell me something.
Anything.
Tell me why you became a baker.
Now,
I’m really grinning. A warm breeze, pure Florida in spring,
moves over me. There’s salt in the air, the taste of summer
approaching. The stars seem to dance overhead. I know the answer to
this question. This one is easy.
I
used to love making cupcakes and cookies and stuff for people in high
school. My boyfriend, the debate team, that sort of thing. It was
amazing to me, how a few simple ingredients could make other people
so
happy
.
You mix the flavors right, and nothing else matters. It’s like
magic.
Alchemy.
I
blink back surprise at his answer. I didn’t expect we’d
be on quite the same page about this. After all, Cal McKenzie was
all-too-eager to argue with my romantic notions of cooking. But
cupcakecasanova is not Cal McKenzie anywhere but in my perverted
fantasies. He’s someone else entirely, and he understands.
Exactly. :)
Hold
on to that. Your sense of wonder about food makes you different from
other chefs. It’s what distinguishes you. It’s what
matters. The competition doesn’t have that. Keep that in mind,
and you’re bound to overcome whatever difficulty comes your
way.
You really think that?
I really, really do.
Awww, thanks CCC.
Any time.
There’s
a long pause. I drink what’s left of the wine, feeling the heat
of it slide down my throat. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but the
night feels young still. I start typing again.
Are you up for a virtual roll in the hay?
But
when I hit “send,” I notice he’s already signed
off. Damn. Well, makes sense. Most bakers are up at dawn to start
cooking.
I
gaze out toward the ocean. Sometimes, when I’m talking to
cupcakecasanova, I forget that he’s not a flesh and blood
friend—or lover. It’s uncanny, how quickly we found our
rhythm with each other. All these years in Key West, I’ve
gotten used to blind dates that fizzle. Otherwise, I’m alone.
Happy about it, too. But for once, it feels nice to share my feelings
with a guy. It feels easy.
I’m
filled with a sudden, strange impulse. I pick up my phone again, and
start typing out an email.