Tasty Page 2

  Usually, there are three of us on girls’ night. But my other best friend, Evie Lane, has been too busy canoodling with her new beau. I don’t entirely mind, though. It’s nice having Gin all to myself.

  “My hot date!” I cry out, crushing Ginny in a warm embrace. She lets out a squeal at the sight of me. And boy, is she one for sore eyes. She’s dressed up for our girls’ night, black pumps and a little black dress full of sparkle. But then, Ginny always looks pretty great, put together in that New York City kind of way even when I’m halfway to a hot mess. It makes sense, though. Ginny still spends most of her year in the Big Apple even though she’s recently found love down here in her home state.

  “Careful, Jules,” Ginny says, letting out a laugh. “I’m nearly a married woman.”

  “Yeah yeah,” I tease. “You don’t need to brag.” But I give her hand a little tug anyway. “Hold on, let me see that rock again.”

  Ginny blushes. It’s sweet. She recently reunited with her high school sweetie, Luke, and he’s planted a diamond as big as a turnip on her ring finger. Lucky me, Ginny and I were able to reconnect too, after years estranged. The whole experience has been a breath of fresh air. Ginny always knew me like no one else.

  Case in point: her careful, deliberate eye is examining the shop, and a look of slow dread is dawning on her face.

  “Oh no,” she says, “what happened?”

  I step back behind the counter to grab my purse. It feels good to be able to hide behind the counter for a sec while I compose myself and figure out how much to tell Ginny. Even though we’ve worked hard to repair our adolescent wounds, it’s still hard for me to be open with Ginny sometimes. Especially lately. Everything’s been coming up roses for her: her wedding planning business has taken off big time since Park Avenue Princess featured her services—and love saga—across an entire season of specials, and she’s got the sweetest, most loving and supportive fiancé a woman could ever ask for. Honestly, sometimes I feel like I’m still in high school when we spend time together. Back then, Ginny Austen was the teacher’s pet: honor roll, cheerleading, star quarterback on her arm. In comparison, I always felt a little sloppy, a little less.

  But Ginny’s regarding me with real concern. And my feelings of competition are all in my head, really. She’s been nothing but supportive since she came back to the Keys.

  “Well,” I say, as I take my dress out of my purse, bend down low so that all of Key West won’t see my keister out of the shop window, and start undressing. It’s a relief to get my work clothes off. I shove them into the bottom of my bag, and shiver into the silver satin dress that hugs my curves in all the right places. “There’s a new bakery in town. Mecca Cakes. Isn’t that offensive? I think it’s offensive. Anyway, it’s opening at any moment and apparently there’s a TV chef behind it and I’m sure all of Key West will be happy to line up around the corner to catch a glimpse of his stupid TV-ready face and then I’ll go out of business and have to move to Arizona to live with my parents in their retirement community. No big.”

  “You’re catastrophizing,” Ginny says. I roll my eyes as I fish my flats out from behind the counter and step into them.

  “You and your NYU vocab,” I tease, but she knows I’m kidding.

  “Fine. What I meant to say was, ‘You are completely and utterly overreacting, Jules.’ It’s not the apocalypse. A little competition never hurt anyone.”

  “Tell that to all the little coffee shops that Starbucks put out of business.”

  “That’s coffee—”

  “The five and dime stores that closed after Walmart moved to town?”

  “Jules!” Ginny comes around and grips me by either shoulder. “You are an amazing baker. Your recipes are the real deal. Your store is adorable. Even Summer is irreplaceable.”

  I feel myself start to thaw. “Go on,” I prod.

  “There’s no way some TV chef could ever put you out of business. You’re an institution! This is just a chance to show your customers how unique your services are. Right?”

  Now I’m really grinning. “You should tell me you love my dress, too,” I say. She laughs, and gives me a good look up and down.

  “Day-um, Jules. That color is killer on you. You’re sure to find true love tonight.”

  As if on cue, my phone vibrates in my purse. I know that Ginny’s eager to go, but I can’t resist reaching for it. I just have to see if I’ve heard anything from my macaroon lothario.

  Sure enough, my email’s lit up.

  To: thenagainmaybefondant@gmail.com

  From: cupcakecasanova@gmail.com

  Subject line: Where’d you go?

  Things were just getting good! You know I love a good buttercream. I hope you didn’t get any on your thighs, but if you did, I can lick it right off.

  Yrs,

  CCC

  I can’t even get mad that he’s chasing me down when this is just supposed to be fun. I’m way too turned on. It’s been way too long since I felt someone’s tongue against my skin. I must be looking a little flushed, because Ginny grabs the phone from me.

  “Oooh, who’s CCC?”

  “A guy!” I say, too quickly, as I grab my phone back. I’m full-on blushing now. I can feel the high heat in my cheeks.

  “Anyone I know?” she prods gently. I glance at her. She looks so innocent! That’s how she always got me in high school. She’d ask sweetly about some boy I was trading glances with in the hallway and soon I’d pour my heart out over half a dozen notes folded into fortune tellers.

  “Nope,” I say. “And no one I know either. I met him in a baking forum.”

  “Someone who shares your passion for food!” Ginny claps. “It’s true love. You’re totally soulmates.”

  “Ugh,” is my only answer, even though I’m beaming at my phone. Ginny was always such a sucker for that stuff. I guess that’s why she became a wedding planner. And it worked out for her—she has the total Hollywood love story. But I’ve been burned one too many times by food industry guys. They’re too flaky, too sexy, too sloppy. The last one turned out to be too married, too. Five years later, and I’m still licking my wounds over that one. But Ginny wasn’t there for that whole mess. “I have a rule,” I tell her. “No chefs. Given where we met, I shouldn’t even be flirting with him.”

  She arches both brows. “That email sounds pretty flirty to me.”

  “Yeah,” I say, gazing down at my phone. Then I start typing out an answer, reading it off to Ginny as I write.

  “Dear CCC, Thanks, but no thanks. I have no idea where that tongue’s been. These milk-fed thighs are strictly off-limits. Yours—no, wait—best, Maybe Fondant.”

  Ginny gives me a skeptical look. Then she shrugs.

  “Suit yourself,” she says. I feel a pang of doubt, but I send it anyway.

  My phone buzzes back before I can even get it into my purse. I can’t help myself. I glance at the email.

  To: thenagainmaybefondant@gmail.com

  From: cupcakecasanova@gmail.com

  Subject line: Re: Where’d you go?

  Playing hard to get tonight? That’s no problem. We can be chill. I can wait up all night for you to come around. Or I can make you come all night long.

  Best!

  CCC

  “Is that him?” she asks. I give my head a stout shake, and tuck my phone away.

  “Nah, just spam.” I clear my throat. “Let’s get going. Don’t want to miss those reservations.”

  Ginny shrugs. We exit out the back. But even as our conversation turns to Luke and their wedding plans, I can’t help but think about the mystery man who’s out there, somewhere, waiting for me to write back. Because I know that as soon as I get home, I’ll be grabbing my rabbit, jumping online, and sending him an IM. I just can’t help myself.

  Even when I should know better.

  Chapter Three

  If there’s one thing I love about being a small business owner, it’s the power of word of mouth. Mrs. O’Gilligan loves my Pink Surpri
se cupcakes so much that she’s told all her old Harley biddies about it, and on Saturday I get an order for three dozen of them for a Ladies’ Tea she’s hosting for her best friend’s ninety-fifth. I spend Sunday and Monday licking my wounds over Mecca Cakes, doing my best to distract myself with my anonymous beau and my shower massager. Then I wake up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Tuesday morning, ready to work.

  “What are you on?” Summer asks, watching me as I pull out our cherry red industrial KitchenAid. I grab a rag and start polishing it to a shine. It’s a fair question. Most mornings, I linger over my latte, check my email, and let her handle the prep work for the day. But maybe that’s been my problem. I haven’t been getting my hands dirty enough lately. I’ve been checked out, coasting. No more. Not if I’m going to defend my business against Callum McKenzie.

  “I’m high on life, Summer,” I tell her, sopping the bright red batter into the cupcake tins. “I had a realization this weekend. I’m a business owner. I get to make food for a living, to make people happy! Plenty of people would kill to be in my position.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Summer says, and she lets out a snort. I roll my eyes and use the spatula to flatten the batter out in the cups. I’m not going to let Summer get me down.

  “Don’t you have any ambitions, Summer? Any dreams?”

  “Yes,” she says, in a flat, dry tone. “Last night I dreamed I rode a pegacorn through the vast star-prairies of Venus.”

  “A pegacorn?” I ask, as I hand her the cupcake tray. She takes it and slides it into the Wedgewood.

  “A pegasus with a unicorn horn,” she says, in exactly the same tone of voice I used with my mother when I was twelve years old. Like, Duh, mom, you should totally know which Hanson brother is which.

  “You’re a strange woman, Summer.”

  “Could be worse.”

  “Could it?”

  “I could be a grown adult who has no idea what a pegacorn is.”

  I pelt my oven mitt at her head.

  #

  By noon, I’m carting the Pink Surprises over to Mrs. O’Gilligan’s party on the back of our shop bicycle. It’s a blue vintage Schwinn with a banana seat, a basket, and black and white streamers. I bought it when I realized we couldn’t afford a delivery truck, but it’s become a Key West staple. I ring my bell. People wave as I pedal by. Despite the looming threat of Mecca Cake’s grand opening, I’m feeling good as I round the corner to the restaurant where Mrs. O’Gilligan’s friends have all gathered. I know it’s the right place by the number of gleaming chrome Harleys parked by the curb, each one shining in the flawless Key West sunlight.

  I’m so dazzled by the sight, I almost don’t see six feet four inches of pedestrian planted on the sidewalk.

  “Watch out!” I cry, as I tighten my grip around the handbrake. The bike skids to a stop. He steps out of my way just in time to avoid my wheels. But then I watch in horror as the cupcake box goes flying toward the pavement—and the burly pedestrian takes a dive, catching them in the nick of time.

  “Oh, thank god,” I say, exhaling hard. But then, as he slowly rolls up his spine, my breath catches in my throat.

  He’s gorgeous. Broad chested, with thick muscles visible beneath his perfect white T-shirt. There’s a tuft of auburn chest hair showing right at the base of his throat. His dark blue jeans are slouchy around his hips, but his posture is straight, confident. He holds out the cupcakes. He’s got a day’s worth of stubble; his dark hair is disheveled, but clean.

  “Oi, I think you dropped this.” Oh god, he’s got an accent. Welsh, maybe, or Scottish. I’ve never been good at telling the difference.

  His eyes are a dazzling clear shade of green. Maybe one of his parents was a traffic light, that’s how bright they are. But that’s not the only reason I’m flustered, my cheeks and throat suddenly burning. I have a feeling I’ve met him before. It’s not only those eyes, thickly lashed, or the slightly square shape of his jaw, or his teeth, perfectly white, and perfectly straight. It’s something about his smoldering features. They’re intensely, incredibly familiar.

  But I shake off the feeling. I’m great with names and faces. If I knew this guy—tall, cut, foreign—I’d definitely know his name.

  “What gave you that idea?” I ask, taking the box back. Our hands brush as I do. I train my expression carefully.

  “Call it intuition. I’m psychic, you know.”

  He actually winks at me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a grown man wink, except in movies. And yet it doesn’t look fake or forced at all. Only gently teasing.

  Well, two can play at that game. Though my face still feels warm from the rush of blood, I hold my chin firm and high. Then I glance at the box I hold in both hands, at the neatly tied ribbon on top.

  “Well, then,” I begin, “tell me what’s in here then.”

  “Mmm,” he says slowly. Then he sets his broad hand on top. Good, no ring. He curls his fingers slightly, as if he’s trying to read the contents through his palm. “If I’m not mistaken there’s no fewer than three dozen cupcakes in that box there.”

  My eyes go wide. Maybe we do know each other. Maybe this is some kind of joke, set up by Summer—revenge for not knowing about pegacorns. But then he lets out a low, warm laugh.

  “I’m only pulling your leg. I was standin’ out here a few minutes ago when a bunch of old ladies accosted me to ask me if I were the cupcake man. Plus the name of the bakery is all over your bike. And seeing as to the size of the box, I figured three dozen was a fair guess.”

  “Oh!” I say, and let out a relieved laugh. For a second, I thought maybe I’d acquired a stalker. He’s still laughing, too.

  “You looked like you swallowed a flamingo fer a second. Those are the birds down here in this godforsaken state, yeah?”

  “One of them,” I agree. I start to take a few steps toward the restaurant. I need to get inside to give Mrs. O’G her cupcakes. But something is keeping me here, riveted to the sidewalk. Maybe it’s the way he’s grinning at me, those laser green eyes squinted into the sunlight. Maybe it’s the way it makes me feel, warm all over. Or maybe it’s the fact that I still haven’t shaken the sense that I know him.

  “Hey, would you like a cupcake? Since you saved the day and all, I’m sure the old ladies won’t mind sparing one.”

  He lifts his eyebrows, surprised. I am, too. I never give away baked goods, except to cops. And even though I could have a good time imagining this guy in a blue uniform, he lacks the traditional cop gut. He’s no Wes Lansing, that’s for sure.

  “Aye, would love one,” he says, and holds out a hand. I fumble with the ribbon and pull out a Pink Surprise. His expression is measured, even as he takes it from me. One bite is usually all it takes to win a customer over. But this guy is a tough sell. He takes a taste, slowly, carefully, posey pink frosting nearly touching his nose. He swallows, but his expression remains slightly chilly.

  “Not bad. You know, there’s a new bakery in town. Heard it just opened today—”

  God, Mecca Cakes! I don’t want to hear it.

  “That’s nice. But you know, Rock N Roll Cakes is a Key West institution. We’ve been around for years. Our customers are extremely loyal.”

  His eyebrow arches. He’s still holding the rest of my cupcake in hand, but he’s yet to take another bite. Damn, it’s not usually this hard. Maybe he’s one of those low carb freaks.

  “Is that so?” he asks. What’s he getting at? I stand tall.

  “You’re damn right. I’m not worried about Callum McKenzie’s new place. Those TV chefs think they’re hot shit, but they can’t compete with a little small-town moxie and charm. I was born and raised on the Keys, and I’m not going to let myself get scared of a little competition.”

  I’m hoping he’ll admire the pride I take in my work, but his mouth is a stiff line.

  “Well,” he says, “nice talking to you. Drive carefully, now. Wouldn’t want you to break a limb.”

  With that, he hands me back what’s left
of the cupcake. I’m flummoxed. No one’s ever given one of my cupcakes back half-eaten before! Usually, all that’s left are crumbs. I turn as he starts to leave, calling to him over my shoulder.

  “I’d love for you to stop by the shop sometime, say hello.”

  He waves one finger toward the palm trees overhead. It’s half-assed even for a goodbye. Man, I must have seriously blown it. Too bad, too. Even walking away, this guy’s a treat, all hard muscles and perfect glutes under those jeans.

  But maybe it’s better, safer. It’s been a long time since I’ve fallen for a real flesh-and-blood person. People are messy. And they can hurt you, bad. Safer to keep my love life to the internet.

  I let out a sigh. Then I stuff what’s left of the Pink Surprise in my mouth, wipe the crumbs on my pants, and go to make my delivery.

  #

  Mrs. O’G and her friends are thrilled by the cupcakes, and even more thrilled when a male stripper bursts through the door in a fireman outfit and starts peeling off his clothes. At her insistence, I stay and watch for a few minutes, but even a red bulging thong doesn’t cheer me up. I can’t stop thinking about the Scotsman outside, and how I blew it with him. Damn, I must be really losing my touch. My baked goods have never fallen flat before. I can’t stop thinking about it. As the fireman gyrates on Mrs. O’G’s lap, I leave the restaurant and hop on my bike.

  I should be heading back toward the shop. I’ve left Summer there alone, and the last time that happened, she made a chocolate cake in the shape of a throbbing cock and terrified a bunch of middle schoolers who had stopped by after school with their lunch money hoping for a snack. But instead of returning to the store, I find myself pedaling straight to Mecca Cakes. Maybe I just want to punish myself. Usually, when I get in this kind of mood I read all of my one-star Yelp reviews. But at least here, there’s a chance I might spot a celebrity.