Tasty (9 page)

“Please
fuck me.”

Cal
gives a throaty chuckle, obviously enjoying seeing me like this. The
jerk. “Why didn’t you ask sooner?”

He
stands, just about to take off his belt when—

“Jules!”
comes a voice from around the corner.

Ginny.

Goddamnit.

Fuck.
I try to catch my breath and smooth my hair down.

Cal’s
eyes don’t leave mine. “Shame,” he says. He takes a
deep breath, regaining his composure and smug attitude as he buckles
his belt. “How do you feel about a rain check?”

“Goddamnit,
Cal.”

“You can visit
my store anytime,” he says, smirking. “But next time,
leave the granny get-up at home.”

And
just like that, he pulls his body away from mine, brushes himself
off, and stalks off down the alleyway, slamming the door behind him.

I’m
still shaking after he leaves. It takes me a minute to catch my
breath and straighten the wig back on my head. Part of me hates the
fact that I let him get under my skin like that. Another part of
me—the physical part of me—knows how much I loved it.

“Jules,
what are you doing back here?” I look up. There’s Ginny,
wig slightly askew. I fake a cool smile.

“Hey
Gin, how ya doing?”

“Okay.”
She frowns slightly, suspicious. “I saw Cal follow you. Is
everything okay? Did you get the intel you needed?”

Ahem.
I didn’t quite get
everything
I needed. Goddamn that irresistible, infuriating Scotsman. “Oh
yeah,” I tell her. “I really grilled him for
information.”

More
like grinded him for pleasure, but it’s not exactly a lie,
right? Ginny smiles.

“Great.
We can go back to your shop and exact our revenge.”

A
light bulb goes off. Revenge. Well, if Cal’s going to handle me
like that, I can handle him roughly, too. But I’m going to hit
him where it hurts.

No,
not his balls.

The
shop.

“Follow
me, Ginny,” I say, and stalk down the alleyway. She follows
dutifully while I approach the flustered flour delivery girl, who is
looking apprehensive about going up to Cal with her clipboard.

“Hello,
dahling,” I say, offering her my hand. The girl shakes it,
looking confused. “I’m Angelique Sutton, Cal McKenzie’s
business manager. Cal’s just changed his mind about the
delivery. We have a big promotion coming up. We’ll need 1,000
pounds of flour, not 100.”

“Are
you . . . sure?” she asks uncertainly. I
can see her skepticism, but also her relief at not having to talk to
the Cake Nazi himself. I mean the Cake Master. I give my head a firm
nod, feeling the wig bob on top of it.

“Positive.
You don’t want to feel his wrath, dahling. Surely.”

“Okay,”
the girl says. She offers me a clipboard. “You’ll need to
sign for it, though.”

“Of
course, dahling. Of course.”

I
grab the pen and sign
Juliette
at the bottom of the page, then surround my name with hearts and
stars. And the most tactful drawing of a huge middle finger flipping
the bird. The girl takes it without looking and disappears into her
truck. I watch her surface with the first of dozens of bags of flour.

“You
want me to be serious, Cal McKenzie?” I mutter under my breath.
“Okay. Let’s get serious.”

Over
the next few days, I have fun imagining the chaos that’s
descended upon Cal McKenzie’s store. Even with the huge
kitchen, I bet the massive flour delivery is causing storage
problems. I fantasize about Angelique trying to balance Cal’s
books for him, and coming up in the red. Okay, maybe it’s a
little petty, but business is still slower than molasses at Rock N
Roll Cakes. I need
something
to think about.

I
can’t wait until the pop-up shop is closed. When Cal leaves the
Keys, Rock N Roll Cakes can finally return to business as usual and
I’ll stop having to change my panties twice a day. Assuming
there’s any business left. And assuming I don’t run out
of panties. But until then, there’s not much for me to do. I
start closing the shop early. Then I start opening late.

One
Tuesday, I show up around noon only to find a man in a suit standing
outside. He looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him—until
he flashes me his health department badge.

“Mr.
Reynolds,” I say, as his name clicks into place. He inspected
the shop only four months ago. We passed with flying colors, of
course. “What are you doing here? Did you want to buy
anything?”

“I’m
afraid not, Ms. Rockwell,” he says, with a stern shake of his
head. I slide my key into the door and start unlocking it, trying to
stay calm. But inside, my mind is a jumble of panic. “It seems
we’ve received a complaint about your shop.”

I
force a laugh, even though I’m terrified. Stores have been shut
down over anonymous complaints, and Reynolds is a notorious hard-ass
on the South Florida restaurant circuit.

“That
can’t be true,” I say. When I glance at him, I see how
he’s knit his brow.

“Are
you calling me a liar?”

“Why,
uh, no. Of course not,” I say quickly. He gives his head a
stout nod.

“Good.
I’ll need to conduct an inspection.”

“Of
course,” I say. I go to stand behind the counter, where I wait
awkwardly. I can’t figure out what to do with my hands as I
watch him turn every crumb and cupcake plate over. Finally, I fold
them in my lap. I feel like a schoolgirl who has done something
naughty, like I should be apologizing. But why? I haven’t done
a thing!

“What
year was this stove built, Ms. Rockwell?” he demands, in a
voice that’s less a question and more of a command. I shake my
head.

“I’m
not sure. 1965 or ’66. I forget . . .”

His
gaze tells me that I should know this. He opens the oven and peeks
inside. Then he pulls out a Q-tip, swabs it along the griddle, and
holds it up to the light.

“There’s
some sort of residue. I’ll have to send it in for analysis . .
.”

He
drops the Q-tip in a plastic baggie. Then he turns back toward our
employee bathroom.

“I’ll
need to check that you have appropriate signage regarding
hand-washing over the toilet.”

“O
. . .kay,” I say slowly. Our signs are bolted to the wall.
Where does he think they might have gone in four months? But soon he
disappears behind the door anyway. I’m relieved to be out of
his presence for a few moments—even more relieved when the door
swings open and a young woman steps inside.

“Hi!”
she says cheerfully, “I was wondering if you make birthday
cakes?”

I
brighten. It’s been weeks since I’ve gotten to do any big
projects, not since Mrs. O’Gilligan’s Pink Surprise
order, in fact.

“Of
course we do,” I tell her, and bring out my portfolio book,
which is filled with big, colorful photos of all of my best cakes. I
try to ignore Mr. Reynolds when he steps back into the store and
toward my stock room. Instead, I open the book to a few designs.

“What
are you looking for?”

“Um,
like a sheet cake, I think? It’s for my husband. He’s
turning thirty.”

“Lucky
man,” I say with a grin. “What kind of cake does he
like?”

“Um,
yellow? I think . . .” She starts to page slowly through the
designs. Usually, uncertain customers drive me batty. I prefer people
who know what they want, so I can give them exactly what they ask
for. But I’m so glad to have any business that I don’t
mind at all. I pore over the designs with her.

“This
looks nice,” she says softly, pointing at a cake covered in
white frosting, with a sweet strawberry filling sandwiched between
the layers. It’s simple, traditional. A breath of fresh air
after so much time spent thinking about Cal McKenzie’s gourmet
cupcake monstrosities.

But
then Mr. Reynolds appears from the back room, holding a jar of
something brown.

“Ms.
Rockwell!” he exclaims, shaking the jar. “Is this mouse
feces?”

I
glance at the customer. Her jaw’s dropped in horror.

“Um,
I think I should . . .” And without even finishing her
sentence, she rushes from the store. I lift my hands to my face.

“Those
are
chocolate
jimmies
!”
I exclaim. Mr. Reynolds uncaps the jar, and sniffs at the contents.
Then he nods, satisfied.

“Quite
right,” he says curtly.

That’s
when I spot a figure outside the shop window. Tall, muscular, with
rakish hair and a wicked grin at my expense. I stalk outside, leaving
Mr. Reynolds to take apart my cupcake case.

“You!”
I roar. Cal doesn’t wince at the force of my anger. He doesn’t
even blink. He just gazes calmly, like it’s no big deal.

“Hello,
Juliette.”

“God
damn it!” I exclaim. “It’s
Jules
!
Christ, Cal, what did I ever do to you? You couldn’t leave it
alone, could you?”

“What
did you do to me?” he says with a snort. “Does one
thousand pounds of flour sound familiar to you?”

I
wince. Of course it does. But still, I was just trying to level the
playing field. It’s no fair picking on the little guy!

But
it looks like his little plan has failed, because Mr. Reynolds has
returned, and he’s actually smiling, for once.

“Ms.
Rockwell,” he says, offering his hand. I take it, and shake it
dutifully. “Your store is lovely. Very clean.”

“Oh,
is it?” I say, giving Cal a pointed glance. The Cake Master
just rolls those beautiful emerald eyes at me.

“It
is. Perhaps whoever called in that complaint was mistaken. I’ll
still have to send out that oven residue for analysis . . .”

“Of
course,” I tell him smoothly. I’m pretty confident it’s
only Crisco, anyway. “I look forward to hearing the results.”

He
flashes a quick, courteous smile. “Otherwise, you’ve
passed with flying colors. Congratulations, Ms. Rockwell.”

I
fight back the urge to thank the Academy, God, and my grandma for the
honor. Instead, I just give him an appreciative nod.

“Have
a nice day, Mr. Reynolds. See you in a year.”

I
watch him stroll away, whistling tunelessly as he goes. But as soon
as he’s out of earshot, I turn to Cal.

“Take
that, Cake Nazi!” I gloat. One corner of Cal’s
all-too-kissable mouth ticks up.

“What
charming humor you have, Juliette.”

I
ignore him. He can slag me all he wants. It
won’t
get me down. “You want to play dirty?” I say, “Well,
then let’s go.”

“If
I remember correctly, it was
you
who wanted to play dirty,” Cal says with a smirk. “In
fact, you were begging me.”

My
blood runs cold. “Dick,” I say, hating the way my cheeks
are burning. I
spin around. There’s no use staying open. After all, he’s
lost me my only customer today. Besides, I have revenge to exact.

“Where
are you going?” he asks coolly. I brush by him, letting my
shoulder slam into his. And I try to ignore the sparks that shoot
through me when our skin touches.

“Oh,
you’ll see,” I promise, and I storm down the road,
leaving Cal alone outside Rock N Roll Cakes.

#

A
half hour later, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I take it out. It’s
Summer.

Do you need me to work today?

I
type out my response. Because for once, I
do
need her to work. But not at the store.

I do. But not at the shop. Meet me at Swift Copy.

I
hit “copy” on the copier again, then watch with glowing
eyes as it spits out a page. It might not be heavy cardstock with
spot UV, but I’ve done a pretty good job of replicating Mecca
Cakes’ logo. Full color. The ink smells fresh on the page. It’s
perfect, so I run off 500 more copies.

It
doesn’t take long for Summer to arrive. Her wide-eyed,
mischievous smile is a breath of fresh air.

“So
Jules,” she says slowly. “What’s up? Are we going
to do a promotion? Drum up a little business?”

“Take
a look,” I say, gesturing to the tower of paper. She grabs the
top flyer from the stack. Her eyes go wider still as she reads.

“Wait,
did we change the name of the shop to Mecca Cakes?”

I
smirk. “No.”

“Okay,
but this says Mecca Cakes is giving out a half-dozen free cupcakes to
every customer today.”

“Mmmhmm.
Figured it’s time to hit Cal McKenzie where it hurts.”

“His
testicles?” She’s dead serious. I stifle a snort.

“No,
their bottom line. And I know just where to drum up business for old
Cal. The Ball and Chain.”

The
Ball and Chain is the biggest biker bar on Key West. Summer’s
beaming. If there’s one thing I know about her, it’s that
she loves a good evil plot.

“Jules
Rockwell,” she says, “you are diabolical. I love it.”

#

It’s
complete chaos outside of Mecca Cakes. Summer and I soak up the
scene. The air smells thick with gasoline, body odor, and beer.
Harleys have clogged the streets and overrun the sidewalks. There are
a few terrified-looking tourists clinging to one another inside the
bakeshop. Otherwise, it’s all metal and leather, beards and
broads. I even spot Mrs. O’Gilligan and her ladies coming out
with a cake box each. She lets out an apologetic sigh.

“I’m
so sorry, Jules,” she says. “You know I can’t
resist a freebie.”

“You’re
a cheap bitch, Mrs. O’G,” I tell her, but I’m
smiling when I say it. Nothing can get me down, not right now. Cal’s
employees are running around behind the counter in a frantic panic. I
even spot Angelique Sutton scooping cupcakes into boxes by the
register. Her hair’s a frizzy mess. There are bags under her
eyes. It’s not until she spots us by the door that she pulls
herself together, stalking around the counter and through the crowd
of burly, boisterous bikers.