Tasty (13 page)

“I
know you’ve been out of Florida for awhile, but that’s a
hurricane sky,” I say, gesturing to the clouds that are
pressing the horizon, dark and foreboding. Gin just waves her hand at
me. Her primary concern is her business, as usual. For Ginny Austen,
life is 1. Weddings, 2. Luke, 3. Her stunningly attractive best
friend Jules. Natural disasters? 409. Maybe.

“We’ll
have to get the clients here for a tasting, of course. They’re
a trip, Jules. You’ll love them. I think they’re going to
want something exotic for the cake. Like, Thai lime something or
other, maple bacon surprise, that kind of thing . . . ”

“Ugh,
hipsters?” I ask, looking up from the sketch. “That’s
really more Cal’s style.”

“You
know I’m loyal to you.” Then Ginny glances up, too. Her
lips are pursed. “Wait a minute . . . why
is it that you’re not talking about Cal like he’s Satan
incarnate?”

“Because
he’s not,” I say slowly, and I try not to grin at the
mention of him, or the eager, intense way Ginny is looking at me.

“Spill,”
she commands.

“We
had a moment,” I say, and when her gaze continues to press into
me, I sigh. “Okay, an afternoon.”

“Was
this afternoon clothing optional?”

“I
don’t kiss and tell.” The truth is, I don’t want to
admit to Ginny how much I like him. It’s a struggle even to
admit that I don’t
hate
him. It’s kind of terrifying.

“What?
You’re not kids, Jules. Even me and Luke—”

“I
don’t want to hear about you and Luke!” I say with a
cringe. “It’s like hearing about my siblings fucking.”

“Shut
up,” she says. “You love hearing about us.”

“Okay,
maybe I do. What does he call that oral technique again?”

“The
Rocky Horror Picture Show.”

I
snicker. “Love it.”

That’s
when the door swings open, bringing a great burst of air with it.
It’s Summer, her hair all a tangle. Business has been better
the past few days. A kid’s soccer team coming in for snacks
after practice, a honeymooning couple making the rounds at local
businesses, and a contract to cater a baby shower. It’s not
much, but enough that she’s been coming into work again and
I’ve been getting my sarcasm fix more often. Reunited and it
feels so snarky.

“God!”
she says, looking at both me and Ginny, “What are you guys
still
doing
here? This place should be boarded up! Do you think Chuck Norris is
going to magically fly in here and save you when the shit goes down?”

I
start to roll my eyes, but then Ginny cuts in.

“Of
course Chuck Norris is going to save me! I’m awesome!”

Summer
looks blankly at her. And then, all at once, we burst out into
laughter. Ginny leans forward and presses a kiss to my cheek.

“I’m
going to end things on a high note.”

“End
things? You’re going to kill yourself?” Summer asks.
Ginny just laughs at her.

“Be
safe, you two, okay? I’ll be in touch soon about the cake.
Seriously, maple bacon surprise, I’ve got a feeling.”

“Is
the surprise more bacon?” Summer asks, as I wave goodbye to
Ginny. Then I turn to Summer, putting my hands on my hips.

“You
ready to get working?” I ask. She pulls a hammer out of her
back pocket, ready to help me board up the shop

“Ready
as I’ll ever be.”

#

All
up and down the street, our neighbors are gathering supplies, closing
down early, and shuttering their shops. We’re no exception.
Within an hour, Summer and I have boarded up all the windows and
secured the more delicate equipment in the back storage area, just in
case. It’s been years since we’ve been hit hard by a
storm, but I want to be careful. We’ve barely recovered from
our month in the weeds and I can’t risk major storm damage.

It’s
not until we’ve hammered in the last nail that Summer sees fit
to turn to me, a bored look on her face.

“Oh,
I forgot to tell you,” she begins. There’s something
strange, careful about her tone of voice.

“What
is it, Summer?” I prod, as I go to put the tools away. Around
us, the wind is whipping wildly. It’s been drizzling on and off
for the last hour, and though my hair is a mess, the storm hasn’t
really picked up yet.

“Yesterday,
while you were out buying boards . . . ”

“Yes?”
She often talks like this, in half statements and dangling threads
that I have to slowly pull apart to get to the point.

“Jane
Tinderton came in. She wanted to talk about her cake for the Bogleys’
gender reveal.”

Jane
Tinderton organizes baby showers. Call her the Ginny Austen of pink
and blue diapers. She’s been buying cakes from me for years.

“What
about it?”

“They
don’t want it. They’ve decided to go another way.”

I
stand, letting the toolbox slam shut. “
What
?”

“I
dunno. She said they didn’t want it. To cancel the order. It’s
dead, Jules. Let it go.”

But
I can’t let it go. I feel my hands curl into fists, almost
involuntarily. “Does Cal McKenzie have something to do with
this?” I demand. But she doesn’t have to answer. Of
course he does. God
damn
it. Just when I let my guard down. Just when I start to trust him.
Just when life is looking up, he has to come raging back like a
hurricane to steal my only customers.

“Summer,”
I say, “Finish locking up, then get the hell inside, because
Hurricane Jules is coming to town.”

Summer
stares at me. She blinks once, calmly.

“Um,
okay,” she says, and goes inside without another word.

#

I
hop on the shop bicycle and ride three blocks over to Mecca Cakes. By
the time I get there, the rain has really started to come down. Have
you ever been caught in a Florida rainstorm? It’s like the sky
opens up and a sheet of rain, all silver and bright, suddenly slams
down on you. But I don’t even care right now. I’m so
pissed at Cal that all I can see is his stupid face in my mind’s
eyes. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted a chef, and now I’m
determined to get some answers.

But
when I get there, Mecca Cakes’ big picture windows are all
boarded up, and there’s not a soul to be found.

Standing
under his overhang, wiping rain from my eyes, I get out my phone. I
don’t have Cal’s number, but I do have his twitter
address. I send him a DM.

Rock N Roll Cakes

Where the hell are you?

There’s
no answer, not right away. Distant thunder rattles the sky. Finally,
my phone buzzes back.

Callum McKenzie

I’m at home, why? Where are you? Are you
okay?

Rock N Roll Cakes

Send me your address.

Callum McKenzie

???

Rock N Roll Cakes

Damn it, just do it, Cal.

There’s
a moment’s pause, but then my phone vibrates again. There it
is. Cal’s address. I know the neighborhood, close to the beach,
where every season the houses get rocked by hurricanes. Normally, I’d
feel nervous about biking over there in this weather, but not today.
The rain pounds down on me, and thunder makes the sky tremble, but
that only makes me feel more righteous.

Cal McKenzie is going down.

And not on me this time.

#

I’m
more than halfway there when I start to think that this might be a
mistake. Thin crackles of lightning light up the sky pink and
electric green. The wind swirls all around me. No one is out now, not
cars, not pedestrians, definitely not crazy bicycling bakers. But
it’s too late to turn back. I pedal on.

Soon,
I’m soaked to the bone. My hair hangs in stringy threads down
my face and neck. My T-shirt clings to my tits and belly and I can
hardly see for all the water that’s in my eyes, but it doesn’t
matter. I’ve found Cal’s house, a canary yellow bungalow
surrounded by palms that shake frantically in the wind. I can’t
leave my bike behind, not in this weather, so I lug it up the steps
with me and start to pound on Cal’s door.

“Callum
McKenzie!” I shout. “Open up the door, you Scottish
asshole!”

I’m
mid-curse when the door swings open. Cal stands in the doorframe.
He’s got a cozy flannel on over his usual T-shirt. He looks
warm and clean, his usually disheveled hair hanging down straight
into his eyes. His expression is halfway between thrilled and
baffled. It’s like he can’t do the math for what he sees
in front of him: insane broad, hurricane, bicycle.

“Juliette,
Jesus. Come inside.”

I
stagger through the front door, dripping water everywhere. Cal
hesitates only a moment before he reaches past me to grab my bicycle.
Like it’s nothing, he drags it in after me, closes the door,
and leans it against the coat rack. My teeth are chattering already.
There’s another roar of thunder. I jump.

He
puts a hand on each arm and looks at me, eyes full of concern. For a
moment, I forget what I’ve come all this way for. But then
there’s another
CRACK
that rings through the air, and I remember.

“You
bastard!” I say, shrugging him off me. “You stole Jane
Tinderton!”

Cal
looks baffled. “I stole what?”

“Jane
Tinderton! The baby shower lady! You stole her away from me!”

Cal
lets out an uneasy laugh. He lifts his hands up in a gesture of
surrender. “I promise you I have no idea what you’re
talking about.”

I
look at him for a long time, water still dripping down my face. His
green eyes are open and kind. His eyebrows are knitted up with
concern for me. I know I’ve jumped to conclusions again, but I
also know I’m right. I’ve lost pretty much my only
business for the past few weeks to Cal. But it’s not like he
was lurking around the corner from Rock N Roll cakes, luring them in
with the expressed purpose of sabotaging me. Maybe it’s not
just the glitz and glam that makes him so successful. Maybe he’s
actually the better baker.

God.

I
put my hands up over my eyes. I know Cal doesn’t mean it. And
in many ways that makes it worse. He’s too kind, too hot, too
damned perfect. Opening myself up to him means making myself
vulnerable again. It’s petrifying.

“I’m
sorry,” I say, drawing my hands down. “I don’t know
what came over me. I’m just scared. Business has been awful,
and then there’s the storm . . . ” A flash of
lightning lights the doorway behind me. I jump. It would be
embarrassing, but Cal only looks sympathetic.

“I’ve
heard the barometric pressure can do strange things to your mind.”

He
laughs a little. I do too. Then he reaches up and gives my shoulder a
reassuring squeeze.

“I
didn’t know, Juliette. Angelique must have taken that order,
and if I knew it was one of your former customers, I would have
turned her right back to you.” His gaze softens. “I’m
glad you told me about the store. Maybe we can brainstorm something
together. This weather is too bad to let you ride back into it,
anyway. Can I get you a towel and a cup of coffee?”

I
look at Cal, standing there, so tall and muscular and cozy in his
warm, dry clothes. An image flashes through my mind: peeling all
those layers of cotton off him, one-by-one. I know that if I stay,
something is bound to happen. And the storm is raging outside, wild
and deadly. I have no choice, really. For the first time in five
years, I’m facing something real.

For
the first time in five years, I don’t mind. Not at all.

“I’d
love that,” I say.

The
rain rattles the windows of Cal’s bungalow. Tucked inside, now
dry and wrapped in one of his sweaters and a dry pair of shorts,
clutching a steaming mug of coffee, I can see what a small, cozy
space his home is—and what a mess. There are clothes
everywhere, tossed over the sofa and piled up on the floor.
Magazines, some with Cal’s face on them, are sliding off the
coffee table. He seems embarrassed by the scene. He’s been
rushing around since I got there, stacking up mail and tossing empty
jars and bottles in his recycling bin.

“Sorry,”
he says. “I’m not home much. Been pulling sixteen-hour
days at the store. I’ve been hoping to hire someone to clean,
but I haven’t had time for interviews.”

I
feel my own cheeks heat at that. Even if I wasn’t a neat freak,
I can’t imagine being able to afford someone to clean up after
my messes. It’s a reminder that Cal lives in a different
universe than I do. He’s a wealthy schlub of a celebrity, and
I’m an uptight small business owner who is barely keeping her
head above water.

He
must read the discomfort in my expression, because he stops cleaning,
standing with a stack of magazines in hand and looking seriously at
me.

“Is
that strange to say? I would have hated hearing that when I was
living in my da’s house. Believe me, I know what it’s
like not to have a penny to your name.”

“A
self-made man,” I say softly, taking a sip of coffee. It’s
black and hot and wonderful. I wonder where he gets his beans. Cal
paws at the back of his neck, setting the magazines down on the
coffee table in a neat stack.

“Aye,
you could say that.” He seems as uncomfortable talking about
his past as I do about his cleaning women. I put my mug down on a
stray piece of mail, then stand, heading toward what I assume is his
kitchen at the back of the bungalow. It’s a small, cozy space,
yellow light and older appliances, a pegboard for pots and pans on
the far wall, a center island fully stocked with spices. It’s
much cleaner than his living room. I’m guessing it hasn’t
gotten much use, not with the way Mecca Cakes has taken off.