Authors: Bella Cruise
Tasty (8 page)
. . . what if it is?
You
gotta let it go. I don’t care how hot he is. It’s not
healthy for you to be so fixated on him.
This
isn’t because he’s hot, Ginny, I swear. Rock N Roll Cakes
is a graveyard right now. How would you feel if you were about to
lose your business?
There’s
a long pause, and I know that I’ve hit Ginny where it hurts. If
she cares about anything, it’s her wedding planning business.
She lives for all the flowers, chaos, drunken uncles, and feuding
in-laws. She’d be lost without it. So I know she gets how I
feel, watching my livelihood slip through my fingers.
I’d
be devastated, Jules. Completely and utterly devastated.
I know. I am.
There’s
got to be a reason why they’re all flocking to him.
I
keep thinking the same thing. But it was nothing special at the Grand
Opening. Pretentious decor and steel girders. The place left me cold.
Sure, the cupcakes were
okay
,
and Cal’s a celebrity, but there’s got to be something
else going on there.
Drugs in the drinking water?
LSD for everyone! But seriously, if only I could
find out what makes Mecca Cakes so irresistible, maybe I could pull things
together before I have another month in the red.
. . . hmm, I have an idea.
Hit me with something brilliant, Ginny, because
I’ve got nothing.
Give me forty minutes. I’ll cancel my lunch
date with Luke and be right over.
Oh boy, I can’t wait! :D
#
Just
under an hour later, I’m Googling Cal again, deep into some
blog post speculating about his sex life, when the bakery door opens
with a flourish of bells.
“Hey,
Ginny,” I say, without looking up from my laptop. But then I
hear a voice, falsely deep, rumble out from beneath the brim of a
fedora.
“My
name’s not Ginny. It’s Gin . . . ella.”
I
glance up, and gasp back laughter. It’s not the Ginny I know,
that’s for sure. She’s wearing a powder blue trench coat
and a grey curly wig with a hat down low over her face. And I think
she’s got a pillow tied to her waist underneath it all, because
suddenly, Ginny Austen has doubled in size.
“Gin . . . ella.
Can I get you a cupcake?”
“I’ll
take a baker’s dozen, dahling.” I can’t tell if her
accent is supposed to be Southern or European. “Give me
thirteen of those Pink Ladies you’re so famous for.”
“I
think you mean Pink Surprises,” I say. It feels a little weird
to box up thirteen cupcakes for my best friend—even weirder to
charge her for them. But at this point, I’ll take every sale I
can get. Ginny slaps a twenty down on the counter, then casts her
head back and lets out a wild peal of laughter.
“You’re
weird, Gin,” I say. She pulls a paper grocery sack out from her
trench coat and puts it on the countertop. It’s packed full of
wigs and costume pieces.
“Not
weird, dahling. Brilliant. I figured, what would my good friend,
Juliette Rockwell, do in a time like this? I knew she would hatch
something downright diabolical. Why, such a situation calls for
nothing short of a stake-out.”
I
eye the pink curly clown wig at the top of the pile.
“Brilliant,
dahling,” I say, flashing my eyebrows. “Brilliant.”
#
Man,
I wish Ginny Austen was around when my last relationship had fallen
apart, because she sure knows how to make a girl feel better. Fifteen
minutes later, Ginny—still dressed in a wig, fedora, and trench
coat—is balanced on the handlebars of the Rock N Roll Cakes
bike as I stream through downtown Key West. I’m wearing a pink
clown wig, sunglasses, and a fake leather biker jacket with chains
dangling from the shoulders. Just call me Juliette O’Gilligan,
I guess. We look ridiculous, but in a place like this, we hardly
garner second glances. It helps that the sidewalk outside Mecca Cakes
is packed. There’s a huge truck making a delivery out front,
too, with workers lugging out bags of flour. Everyone is distracted.
Somehow, no one notices the two insane broads in bad wigs. I chain up
my bike amid the chaos, then join Ginny beside the front door.
“This
is redonk, Gin, I love it.”
“Anything
for a friend, dahling.”
She
tiptoes inside. I follow her into the expansive space of steel and
wood, and for a moment, I can tell that she’s distracted, her
head cast back, almost losing both her fedora and wig.
“Wow,
it’s gorgeous.”
I
bite the inside of my cheek. “You think?”
It’s
the real Ginny who answers me now, the wedding planner who is used to
seeing the potential in spaces. “I’d love to hold a
reception here. The acoustics are great. I don’t know how he’s
managed to have cathedral ceilings without more echo. And all this
natural light . . . the photos would be
gorgeous.”
“Down,
girl,” I say. And then I see him, standing behind the counter,
arguing with one of the flour delivery girls. He’s red-faced
and furious, and he hasn’t seen us yet. I grab Ginny by the arm
and pull her behind one of the massive armchairs.
“There
he is!” I squeal. I feel like I’m in middle school again,
chasing Chris Michaelson, my first-ever crush. But back then, I had a
flat chest and dandruff. Not a pink wig and falsies. To be honest, I
feel a little like a superhero in this get-up. No wonder Mrs.
O’Gilligan is so damned irrepressible.
“Damn,
he’s hot,” Ginny whispers, watching him from afar. I
elbow her.
“You’re
almost a married woman.”
“I’m
engaged,” she says, winking at me. “Not
dead
.”
“We
should check out the menu,” I say, standing slowly, carefully,
my back turned to Cal. “Figure out what makes this place so
great.”
“You
mean besides the fantastically hot, famous owner and the tremendous
space?”
“Yes,”
I say firmly, “besides that.”
This
time, I take Ginny’s hand in mine as I stalk across the huge
space of the bakery. We slip into the end of the line, where I pick
up a menu.
“Take
it with you,” Ginny whispers as I scan it. “We don’t
have time . . .”
She’s
looking nervously over my shoulder, but I’m too busy taking
note of the pastries that Cal’s been cooking up. I note that
he’s added pastelitos to the menu, Cuban pastries. Makes
sense—if he can do them right, he’ll draw a big crowd of
Cuban patrons. I’ve never had the cojones to try cross-cultural
pastry sales.
“No
really,” Ginny whispers, “we should get going.”
I
glance up. That’s when I see Cal stalking toward us. He hasn’t
seen us, not yet. But he will soon . . .
That’s
when those green eyes fall on me. I freeze, standing still as a
mannequin. For a moment, Cal only looks confused. And then something
clicks behind his gaze. He recognizes me! Time for me to get out of
there, fast.
There’s
the men’s room door to my left, but I don’t imagine that
I’d fit in well in my grandma-biker-clown get-up. And there’s
a door marked EXIT about twenty yards past that. In my panic, I
forget all about Ginny, and rush toward the exit door. I lean my
weight against it, and step inside a narrow alleyway. There’s
piled up cardboard. A dumpster. And Cal McKenzie, following me.
Damn.
“Juliette
Rockwell,” he says. “Where in the world did you get those
tits?”
Almost
instinctively, my hands go to my falsies. They’re made out of
balloons filled with pudding, a trick Ginny showed me in middle
school. Damn. Damn! Guess I’m not the superhero I thought I
was.
“Publix,”
I say, trying to sound breezy, but I’m half-mortified and
half-infuriated.
“And
your hair. A pink perm is quite the look on you.”
“Thank
you,” I say curtly. I’m feeling trapped in the alleyway.
I can see Ginny, watching in the door beyond Cal, but I wave her
away. I don’t need her to bear witness to my shame. Cal glances
over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised. Then he crosses his muscular
arms over his equally muscular chest. He looks stern and a little
annoyed.
“Don’t
know what you want from me, Juliette. I’m no psychologist, but
from this side of the alleyway, you’re starting to look a
little unhinged.”
“I
just wanted to check out your business model. You did surveillance on
me. It’s only fair.”
“I
had Angelique Google your website. I didn’t dress as Harpo Marx
and do a song and dance in your dining area.”
“My . . . internet
was down?” I offer. I feel like a dumb kid who was caught with
her hand in the cookie jar. Cal takes a few steps forward, until I’m
pinned up against the brick wall. I wonder if he’s going to
kiss me again. I feel the heat of his body, feel my back arch in
anticipation. His arms are on either side of me, trapping me. They’re
so strong. He smells so good.
But
instead of kissing me, he murmurs to me in a low, angry voice.
“For
someone who claims to take her business so seriously, you sure don’t
look it. Maybe if you grew up, you’d sell a few more cupcakes.”
“Whoa
whoa whoa!” I say, holding up my hands. No way I’m going
to let a guy like Cal talk to me like that. “I didn’t ask
you for business advice. Just because we made out once—”
The
corner of Cal’s mouth lifts at the memory. “We did a fair
bit more than that, Jules.”
“Whatever.”
I tear my wig off. I’m not going to let Cal know how good his
hands felt on me, not now, not here. “It was no big deal.”
He
lifts his hand, nudging my chin up so that our gazes meet and our
lips nearly touch. I can practically taste him. I lick my lips.
“You
seemed to like it at the time.”
I
can’t deny it. Can’t deny
him
.
He’s
so fucking sexy, glowering over me with that stern expression. And
all at once, the memory of his hands against my skin, snaking down my
body, burns hot inside me.
I
know it’s a bad idea. I know I should stay away. I’m
furious at him, after all. He’s robbing me of my business and
my self-control and my panties. I’m righteously pissed off.
And
that just makes it all the more delicious.
I
grab his shirt and pull him toward me. His lips crash into mine,
spicy and sweet, his hands tangling in my hair. I moan against him,
loving the pressure of his body against mine, the sharp tug against
my scalp. I pull away, still clutching his shirt, glaring at him and
his infuriatingly perfect green eyes. “Fuck you,” I
growl, before pulling him back.
He
trails kisses down my neck and I gasp. “Not until you beg for
it,” he says, his breath hot against my skin.
I
shiver. I’m aching for him, despite how angry I am, despite
every instinct screaming at me to push him away, grab my falsies, and
run. Instead, I grab his jaw, drawing him back into our kiss, hungry.
He backs me into the alleyway’s brick wall. I tilt my hips to
meet his, feeling his hardness between all the fabric between us.
“You
seem to like it now,” he says, grabbing my legs. In response, I
wrap them around his hips, pressing into every inch of his body I can
reach. He’s rock hard, his cock hitting me in all the right
places. I’m wet and soft, desperate.
“Actually
you love it,” he breathes.
He
sounds so smug. I could kill him right there and then, if my body
wasn’t trembling, my legs tightening around his waist. He rips
open the lapels of my biker jacket, pinching my nipple. I inhale
sharply, arching my back.
“You
irresistible asshole,” I gasp, snaking my hands through his
dark hair and drawing him closer to me.
“And
they say I’m the one with the temper,” Cal says, with
that awful, perfect, self-satisfied smile. In one move, he slides his
fingers under my waistband, forcing my underwear aside.
His
thumb circles my clit and I melt against him. He plunges a finger
into me, then another, his rhythm teasingly slow. I move my hips in
time with him, but in response he only slows more. “Beg for
it,” he growls.
He
slides my pants down, and I’m shaking, exposed and starving
before him. When he kneels before me, I can hardly stand the
anticipation. I bite my lip, doing my very best to stop myself from
giving that fucker when he wants, but when I feel his breath right
where I need it most, I can’t help myself. I cry out.
And
it only gets worse from there.
He
swirls his tongue around my clit, teasing. Pleasure jolts through me
in waves. I slam against the wall, dazed. Somehow, he knows exactly
how I’d like to be touched, without asking. His body
understands mine. But before I go over the edge, Cal pulls away and
glances up at me, his eyes darkening. “Well?” he asks.
“Please,”
I pant, hating myself but unable to resist the thought of his cock
buried inside me.
“Please
what?”