Authors: Bella Cruise
Tasty (5 page)
“I
promise, you’ll get paid.”
She
looks at me for another moment. Then she shrugs.
“Okay.
See you tomorrow.”
Summer
grabs her bag and takes off, leaving me alone in the empty store.
#
I
clean the Wedgewood one last time. Then I grab my laptop and power it
on. I contemplate sending my anonymous paramour an email, finally.
After all, it’s been more than a week since we last talked. But
something else keeps tugging at my brain, something Sage said.
You
know, I was so thrilled when I heard Callum McKenzie was opening a
shop in our little town.
I
tap my finger against my chin. It
is
strange that such a famous chef would open a restaurant here. It’s
a popular tourist destination, sure, but not exactly the pinnacle of
haut cuisine. I ended up here after culinary school because my
parents weren’t far away. Somehow, I just couldn’t quit
the Keys, their sunsets and tacky tourist traps and six-toed
Hemingway cats. But most of my classmates ended up in top kitchens in
New York or California or Vegas. Or they stayed in Miami, at least.
Callum McKenzie could have gone there. He could have gone anywhere.
Why here?
I
hop onto Google and search for his name, avoiding the urge to page
through the image results and stew over dozens of shots of his
perfectly stubbly, perfectly sculpted face. Instead, I click through
a few
TMZ
articles. There are a bunch microanalyzing the plots of his show
(which is called
The
Cake Master
,
not
The
Cake Nazi
,
my bad) and a few speculating as to whether he’s romantically
linked to Angelique Sutton, his manager. I linger over their photos
together. Even on the runway, under all those lights and the pressure
of the cameras, she looks at ease on his arm. A world apart from the
uptight bitch I met outside Mecca Cakes. I wonder if there’s
anything to the rumors.
I
let out a sigh, and keep searching. His website only offers a brief
bio—born in Glasgow, trained in Soho, now renowned for his old
school, back-to-basics approach to the pastry arts. I can’t
help but admire that. He’s a boy after my own heart. I was
always butting heads with my professors at Le Cordon Bleu down in
Miami over my refusal to incorporate modern “innovations”
into my recipes. But then I tamp down my excitement. After all,
there’s really only room in this town for one anti-sorghum,
pro-butter baker.
Anyway,
I’m just starting to page through articles on his new bakery
here in Key West, which all repeat his bio and talk about his TV show
in the same flat, inoffensive way, when a message pops up in my
g-chat.
There you are!
I
grin. It’s uncanny, how this guy seems to always find me right
when I need a pick-me-up.
Here I am.
I was worried I’d scared you away.
I don’t scare easily. I’ve been busy.
With frosting?
Among other things . . .
Such as?
I’m brainstorming a new cake recipe.
Bacon-infused double dark chocolate.
I love it when you talk bacon to me.
I was thinking of adding a leaf of candied basil on top.
Savory. Sophisticated. Just like you.
I’m
alone in my shop, and I’m blushing furiously. Cupcakecasanova
always knows just what to say. Maybe it’s because he loves
food. We speak the same language—all five flavors, from umami
to sweet.
What are you wearing?
Or
maybe it’s because we’re both horny as hell. In a minute,
my hands are flying across the keys as I describe my non-existent
black lace thong and demi-cup bra.
Things
are just getting good—he’s telling me how he wants to
bend me over his butcher block counter to take me from behind—when
my phone vibrates in my pocket. I consider letting it go to voice
mail, but then I pull it out and see that it’s Ginny. It’s
been awhile since we last spoke, not since the day I found out that
Mecca Cakes was coming to town. She’s been busy with wedding
plans. I’ve been busy stewing. I chew my lip, feeling torn
between my best friend and a damned good virtual lay. At last, I pick
up her call.
“Hey,
Gin,” I say. “What’s up?”
“I
miss you. My life is empty without you.”
“Gosh,”
I say, letting out a laugh, “you know we once went a decade
without seeing each other.”
“The
worst ten years of my life. Are you busy tonight?”
I
look around the store. It’s clean as a whistle and empty as a
bottle of Mad Dog on prom night.
“Nope.
Definitely not busy.”
“Good.
Meet me and Luke at Lenny’s in an hour for drinks.”
“Aw,
I don’t want to be a third wheel. You know that you love birds
kind of nauseate me sometimes.” I’m mostly teasing Ginny,
but it’s halfway true. The pair of them can’t keep their
hands off each other. It’s cute, but a little sickening too,
especially when Luke starts giving her those big sloppy tongue
kisses.
“Don’t
worry. Luke is bringing a friend.”
“A
blind date?”
Ginny
lets out a light laugh. “It’s not like that. He just
thinks you two might get along. As friends. If more happens, then we
take no responsibility. Wouldn’t want you to be happy for once
or anything.”
I
bite my tongue. Okay, so maybe I’ve been a little bit of a
sulky dope lately. But I have a right. My love life sucks! My
business is failing!
But
who knows. Maybe tonight will be the night everything turns around.
“Sure,”
I say to Ginny, “I’ll see you then.”
I
hang up my phone, then lean over the keyboard.
Hate to run, cupcake, but I have plans. Hold that
thought for me?
He’s a sweet guy. Understanding.
For you, doll? Anything. xoxoxo
I lock up the shop and head toward Pelican Key Cove.
#
I
used to take the long trek up the Overseas Highway toward my hometown
once a week. Every Friday, my mom would make dinner and I’d sit
in front of the TV and eat it with her and my dad and my grandma. It
wasn’t anything fancy. My mom’s not much of a cook. But
it was nice and relaxing to see them so regularly. Now that Grams
choked and they’ve moved up to Arizona for retirement, I miss
it more than I’d care to admit.
But
the drive to Pelican Key Cove is still old hat. Even though the
sunset is gorgeous on either side of the black strip of road, I
hardly feel it. I’m thinking about cupcakecasanova, and
wondering about this guy that Ginny’s going to set me up with.
And mostly, I’m trying not to think about Callum McKenzie and
how my business might be dead soon.
When
my mom and dad were close by, I could lean on them a little to get me
through the rough patches. And every small business has
them—downturns in the economy, equipment failures, unexpected
spikes in rent. But Dad cashed in all his stock options at work when
he retired to cover Mom’s medical expenses and their new place
out in the desert. For the first time in my life, I was completely on
my own.
I
did what I had to do. I took out a loan. Hated to do it—I’d
even worked my way through culinary school to avoid debt—but it
was the only way. I’ve managed to keep up with payments, month
after month after month now. But if things don’t turn around
soon, I’m not sure that will be the case.
My
stomach is in knots by the time I pass the
Welcome
to Pelican Key Cove
sign out in the middle of the highway. I pull into Lenny’s, the
little dive bar that never changes, and let out a long breath to try
to calm my jittery nerves. Luke’s pristine white pick-up is
parked out front.
Come
on,
I say to myself,
keep
it together. Don’t let business ruin what could be a great
night
.
And
I’d love it to be a great night. Maybe I’ll get kissed.
Maybe I’ll get laid. A girl can’t live off the sweet
vibrations of her rabbit alone, not for five years straight. But I
have, and it’s pitiful as hell. I want this friend of Luke’s
to be spectacular.
I
shake off my anxiety as best I can before I head inside. The bar is
packed with familiar faces, mostly guys of my dad’s generation
who look like they’ve been nursing the same beers since 1977.
But then I spot a young, smiling face back by the pool tables.
“Jules!
We’re back here!” Ginny cries, as if I might not
recognize her. I wave to her, and to Luke, who has just sunk a ball.
But
then he steps back, away from the table, and I see his friend
standing in the darkness. My breath catches in my throat. There,
wearing dark blue jeans and yet another white undershirt stretched
over his powerful muscles, is Callum McKenzie.
What.
The fuck. Ginny.
I’m
frozen in the middle of Lenny’s bar, some poppy eighties shit
blaring on the jukebox like a bad joke at my expense. But I suck it
up and force a smile. Ginny’s waving me over, grin stretched
wide and slightly maniacal, like the overgrown cheerleader she is. I
know that it’d break her heart if I don’t act excited to
see her
Plus,
I’m super curious to know what
he’s
doing here. Callum McKenzie doesn’t really seem like the type
to hang out at backwater Floridian dive bars. I head over and press a
kiss to my best friend’s cheek.
“Hey,
Gin,” I say, speaking carefully and evenly. “So this is
Luke’s friend, huh?”
“It
is.” Cal steps forward, out of the shadows. He sounds so smug.
Ginny moves to introduce us.
“Jules,
this is—”
“Callum
McKenzie,” I say. “We meet again.”
He
bends at the waist, holding his pool cue between both hands.
“Juliette Rockwell, I presume.”
Ginny
lets out a giggle. “What, are you two arch rivals? The Riddler
and Batman?”
“They
are
both bakers,” Luke says, positioning himself to make yet
another shot. “Your stores are competing, right? It’s a
small world. Cal here called me up last week interested in having a
beach house designed for him.”
Ginny’s
fiancé might look unassuming. He’s a Carhartt and Levi’s
kind of guy, with a firm jaw and muscles that he’s built out of
years working on construction sites. But he’s a self-made man,
too. He crawled his way up through architecture school and now owns
his own firm, designing amazing houses all along the Floridian coast.
I dream of owning a Luke Porter home someday. But right now? It’s
a pipe dream. I could never afford it.
I
suck in my cheeks and level a glower at Cal. He’s standing
beside the table, his posture easy.
“Thought
it would be nice to have a place down here,” he says with a
shrug. “What with business going so well at the shop.”
“I’ll
bet,” I say pointedly. Then I fix my hand under Ginny’s
arm. “C’mon, Gin. Let’s go grab a pitcher.”
“Oh!
Okay.” Ginny sounds a bit confused, but she lets me pull her
along through the crowd and up to the bar. Lenny Jr. himself is
standing there, boredly polishing glasses.
“Hey
Len,” I call, “get me a pitcher of Heineken.” Then,
when he’s gone, I lower my voice and turn to Ginny. “Gin,
that’s
the asshole. The one who’s been killing my business.”
“Callum
McKenzie? Really?”
“
Really
.
Rock N Roll Cakes has been a graveyard since his store opened up. No
wonder, it’s like three blocks away. Not that he didn’t
know that before we opened. He sent his girlfriend to scout me out
for dirt before they opened.”
“Girlfriend?”
Ginny asks, her brow knitting. She keeps glancing over her shoulder
at Luke and Callum. “Luke said Cal told him he’s single.”
My
heart skips a beat at that news. I whip my head around, gazing at Cal
and Luke, too. The two of them are laughing about something as Cal
bends low to take a shot over the pool table. Under the yellow
lights, his carved body looks almost like a Roman statue. Man, I
could sell this stuff to
TMZ
if I wanted. Confirmed anecdotal gossip: Callum McKenzie is
not
fucking Angelique Sutton.
But
who knows who he is fucking? Because as we’re sitting there
waiting for our beer, two middle-aged bar flies, underdressed in
spandex and polyester, approach Cal for autographs. And he’s
nothing if not polite to them, flashing his perfect white teeth. He
even signs one woman’s cleavage before they scurry away.
“Well,”
I say with a sigh, “single or not, he’s killing my
business.”
Lenny
Jr. leaves a pitcher and a stack of red plastic cups on the bar. I
take them and start my way toward the pool table, Ginny trailing
after.
“Hey,
guys,” she says brightly. “We brought beer.”
“Beer,
my favorite!” rumbles Luke, and he sweeps Ginny up into his
strong arms and starts to nuzzle his neck. I laugh at the two of
them. It’s kind of comforting, how some things never change.