Tasty Page 3
My heart sinks into my stomach as I near the store. The line is trailing halfway around the block. And it’s packed with regulars from Rock N Roll Cakes, too. As I tie up my bike and get in line, I notice Jorge Rondon from the restaurant down the street where I get my ropa viejas. And there, further down, is Chet Keplinger, who fixed my bicycle when it ran a flat. And I can’t be certain, but I swear that I see Wes Lansing coming out with a towering cake box. Probably packed with cupcakes for his little poopsy, poodle moths and all. God damn it.
It takes nearly forty minutes until I’m through the gleaming glass and steel front door of Mecca Cakes. The place is huge—cathedral ceilings with massive metal girders hanging low, giant steel ovens lining the back wall, the bakery case spotless and shining and filled to the brim with every kind of cake you can think of. It’s not my taste at all. It’s too big, too echoing, and not nearly cozy enough. But it’s also packed with people, loitering by the counter, lounging in plush leather chairs all over the front of the store. This isn’t just a bakeshop. It’s a gathering place. I have bakery envy, bad. As I shuffle forward in line, I can’t help but imagine what I’d do if I owned this space. Maybe paint it in bright colors to reflect the local flavor. Cover those exposed beams. Make it a little more comfortable, a little less . . . male.
But that’s a pipe dream. I could never afford the rent on a space like this. I can barely afford our current postage stamp.
A booming voice, echoing through the rafters, pulls me out of my sulk.
“Oi, get off your arse! We have customers waiting here!”
The man behind the counter has a Scottish accent. Or is it Welsh? I’m awful at these things. He’s wearing a white T-shirt, and blue jeans, but he’s thrown a flour-dusted apron overtop both. And he’s bellowing at the terrified-looking counter girl, who hustles to cram a slice of cake into a brown paper box.
It’s the man from the sidewalk. That’s why he looked so familiar. He’s not just any smarmy Scotsman. He’s Callum McKenzie, green eyed and perfect and terrifying. He’s the Cake Nazi.
And he’s my competition.
Chapter Four
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting in one of the plush leather armchairs, finally glowering over a Tahitian vanilla cupcake with a Key lime center. It’s delicious—the perfect contrast of sweet and sour, light and indulgent. The wrapper is plain brown paper, no flash or pretention, even though there’s a sliver of dried lime peel curled on top. It’s like Callum McKenzie has to make a big show about how little he cares even though his work reveals the truth. He does care. A lot. No lazy baker takes the time to sugar lime peels if he doesn’t have to.
At the counter, I’d mumbled my order quickly and then moved on down the line to pay. I let my head hang low and hoped he didn’t see me from the kitchen, where he bellowed and shouted at his cooks in back. Good, I thought. Let him be distracted. I wasn’t prepared to face him again, not in person. Not after what happened today on the sidewalk. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me who he was, that he just let me talk up my business like he didn’t already know everything about me. The creep.
“Juliette Rockwell of Rock N Roll Cakes, innit?”
I spin around in my seat. There, standing in the middle of his store like a king surveying his kingdom, is Callum. His entire outfit is dusted with flour now. He sets his fists on his hips, his broad chest puffed out like a peacock. It’s like he expects me to be impressed, but I’m not. I leave my ass firmly planted in that ridiculous leather armchair.
“Callum McKenzie,” I say coolly, and for a moment, I feel ridiculous—like a superhero confronting a supervillain, or maybe the other way around. But I let my lip curl into a sinister smirk anyway. I definitely don’t want to seem self-conscious in front of him. I need to be calm. Self-possessed. “What do they call you? Der Cake Fuhrer?”
“Actually, my friends call me Cal.”
“Didn’t know we were friends.”
“Always thought all bakers were friends,” he says amicably, like he actually believes it. “Comrades in the great pastry oven of life.”
I wrinkle my nose. “You suck at metaphors,” I say. He looks baffled, like he can’t believe that I’m not kissing his feet and asking for an autograph. But how could I? Across the store I spot Stella Townsend, whose wedding cake I slaved over, waltzing out with a minimalist cake box all tied up with some burlap twine. Callum’s store is packed full of my customers. If it weren’t for Mrs. O’Gilligan, I’d think there was no loyalty in the world at all.
“Sorry,” I say at last, a little more gently this time. “I guess I’m sore that you didn’t tell me who you were before.”
“You didn’t give me a chance. If you’d let me finish my sentence—”
“You’re used to holding court, aren’t you?” I’m getting angry again. He’s standing there, handsome and self-assured, green eyes burning in the clear, expansive light that fills this space. He wants to talk, but I’d bet good money that he doesn’t care at all what I have to say. But I won’t be cowed. “Well, I’m not one of your dopey little counter girls. If you think I’m just going to lie down and take this, you have another thing coming.”
But he’s not at all rattled by my words. Instead, he only smirks at me.
“Afraid of a little friendly competition, are you? Well, I’m not. I’m a self-made man. I’ve fought for everything I had. Every brick in this building, every girder, every cuppa flour I earned with elbow grease and hard work. I’m not going to let a pretty little girl like you scare me, Juliette—”
“It’s Jules.”
“I like Juliette better.” Even though my name sounds lilting and lovely on his tongue, I cringe. Not even Ginny calls me Juliette. That name was reserved for my grandmother, and no one else. Definitely not this guy.
“It’s not up to you, Cal. Forget friendly competition. We’re not friends. We’re competitors. There’s only enough room in Key West for one bakery, and we both know it.”
He sets his hands on his hips. His lush, full lips are lightly smiling. Damn, if he wasn’t so handsome this would all be a lot harder to swallow. But his chest is so broad and muscular beneath his T-shirt that I can see his muscles tense as he speaks.
“Well then, let the best man win. But I have to say, Juliette, that I think today was a notch in my belt.”
“Why’s that?”
“Grand opening, for one thing. And I think you’d agree it was a smashing success.” He holds up his hands again, indicated the packed, echoing, industrial space. He’s right. I scowl. If the business here is any indication, Mecca Cakes is going to be very popular in Key West. I’m a goner. He’s still smiling as he adds, “Fer another, you seemed to have enjoyed my cupcake.”
I look down. Crumpled in my palm is the paper wrapper and a few crumbs. They’re all that’s left of Cal’s Tahitian vanilla/Key lime creation. I hadn’t even realized I’d scarfed the whole thing down.
And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it.
“Argh,” is all I manage to say. I ball up the wrapper, and shove it into Cal’s waiting hand. “You haven’t seen the last of me, Callum McKenzie.”
I’m furious, but as I push through the crowd and head toward the door, Cal only lets out a warm laugh at me.
“I was counting on that, Juliette.”
I don’t even dignify that with a response. Instead, I hightail it out of Mecca Cakes, grab my bike, and take off through the streets of Key West.
#
“How’d it go?” Summer asks boredly as I burst into Rock N Roll Cakes, the bell ringing on the door behind me.
“Terrible!” I exclaim. I let out a dramatic moan, burying my head on the counter. Summer gingerly touches my hair with her fingertips.
“There, there,” she says, without a single ounce of empathy or kindness in her voice. “I’m sure Mrs. O’Gilligan liked her cupcakes. And if she hated them, it doesn’t really matter. In our neighborhood, there aren’t exactly a metric shit ton of bakeshops.”
I rub my eyes. Just two weeks ago, Summer would have been right. But there’s a new threat in town.
“I’m not talking about the Pink Surprises. That went fine. Mrs. O’Gilligan liked them so much I think I saw her stuff a few in the stripper’s G-string. I’m talking about the grand opening of Mecca Cakes.”
“Oh yeah, that,” Summer says. “I’ve been watching the virtual launch all day on Twitter. It’s been trending for hours.”
“What?” I say, lifting my head off the counter. I realize then that Summer’s been staring at her phone since I came through the door. “You know, I’m not paying you to mess around on Twitter all day.”
“Yeah, you’re paying me to serve all these customers.” She indicates the empty shop with one listless hand. “Besides, this is work-related. Don’t you want to know what they’re saying?”
I purse my lips. I hate to admit that Summer’s got a point, but I do want to know what people are saying about Cal’s shop—I really, really do.
“Okay, hit me.”
“Here’s a good one. KeyWestGurl45 says, Wow, @callummckenzie is just as tasty in person as he is on TV. #MeccaCakes #KeyWest #hottie.”
I roll my eyes. Sure, Cal’s a fine slice of cake. But how much does that really matter, anyway? The proof’s in the pudding. Or the ganache, so to speak.
“Get to the good stuff. What are they saying about his cakes?”
“Hmm. Okay. FloridaFoodie says, This strawberry poundcake is to. Die. For. #meccacakes #mmmmmmmmmm. That’s ten M’s. Not nine. Or eleven.”
“Thank you for counting, Summer.”
“I aim to please.”
She flashes me a view of her teeth, but it looks more like she’s going to eat me than a real smile. I feel a sudden burst of anger, not at Summer, but at Callum McKenzie. I fight the urge to get down on my knees and start scrubbing. Because the store is already spotless, and getting angry won’t help a thing. It’s time to be proactive instead. I whip my phone out of my back pocket and open up Twitter.
“New tweet,” I say to Summer, narrating as I type. “RNR Cakes welcomes @callummckenzie to the hood! Let’s celebrate. 1 free Pink Surprise with a receipt from #meccacakes!”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Summer asks. But I’m grinning down at my phone already.
“Of course it’s a good idea! We’ll remind our regulars why we’re their favorite. And we’ll look generous in the process.”
“Yeah, but are you sure you can afford to give that many cupcakes away? I mean, I’ve been working here for four years and you still haven’t given me a raise. Every time I ask, you tell me you can’t afford it. And I’m awesome.”
I flit my hand through the air. I’m not going to let Summer’s pessimism stop me, not right now when I’m feeling pumped.
“You’re the best, kid. But this is only a one-time promotion. I’ll eat the cost. Get that oven preheated. We’ve got cupcakes to bake.”
Summer rolls her eyes and goes to fire up the Wedgewood. I head to the KitchenAid and start mixing. Soon, customers are filing into the store, brandishing their Mecca Cakes receipts. The crowd fills my tiny store to the brim. It’s noisy, claustrophobic—and awesome. Maybe it’s the heat from the oven, but I’m glowing. It’s working! Soon, all this nonsense will be nothing but a memory.
But then, in between boxing up freebies, I make the mistake of glancing at my phone. I furrow my brow. Callum McKenzie’s tweeted. Not at me, but clearly about me.
@callummckenzie: So pitiful when the competition gets scared. Nothing stinks worse than desperation.
I shove my phone back into my pocket, then tie the cake box with my signature black and white bow.
“Thank you. Please come again!” I say, as I hand off the free cupcake. My expression is forced, cheerful.
But inside, I’m furious—and plotting all the ways I can clean the Wedgewood after we close.
Chapter Five
For four days, we’re swamped as everyone and their grandmother stops by Rock N Roll Cakes with a receipt from Cal’s store, on the hunt for free food. And for four days, we see a slight uptick in business as curious freebie shoppers decide that they might as well pick up a pie or a cake for mom’s Sunday dinner while they’re there. But by the end of the week, everything is dead again. Actually, come to think of it, everything is way deader than usual. One customer a day, two if you count Mrs. O’G. I’ve never seen it like this here, not even when the economy was at its worst. But here we are. Ten in the morning, and even the usual breakfast croissant crowd is missing. Off to Mecca Cakes, I guess, where they can get premade, prewrapped muffins in Cal’s signature brown paper wrappers.
“Do you want me to clean the stove again?” Summer asks. That’s what I’ve had her do every day for the last four. There have been no pies to bake, no cakes to prep, no customers to ring up, either. I keep hoping that business will pick up, but no luck, so far.
But the door jingles before I can answer. I perk up. Summer arches her eyebrows, the closest she ever comes to excited. It’s Sage Tunlaw, one of our regulars. She’s a sixty-something old hippie who always dresses in flimsy, flowing robes with a bikini underneath. You can see everything: every stretch mark and wrinkle on her ancient belly. But it never seems to bother Sage.
“Sage!” I say, maybe a little too brightly as I start to box up her favorite carrot cake muffin. “The usual?”
But she holds up a hand, and in that hand is a receipt with the words MECCA CAKES emblazoned on top.
“Are you still running the Pink Surprise promotion, sister?”
I grit my teeth. Usually Sage’s earth mother vibes get on my nerves, sure. But she’s definitely not my sister if she spends her retirement cash at Cal’s and then comes here looking for a hand-out.
“No, that’s over.”
“Oh!” Her face falls. She gazes down at the receipt. “I was sure you’d honor your word.”
Anger flashes hot inside of me. “You know, I have bills to pay—” I start, but then I see out of the corner of my vision how Summer’s eyes have gone wide. She starts boxing up a Pink Surprise.
“Jules is a fucking girl scout,” she says. “On my honor. All that crap.”
She jostles the cupcake a little bit going in, but still manages to smile at Sage, which is more than I can say for myself. Sage takes the cake box and clutches it to her chest.
“Thank you, sister. You know, I was so thrilled when I heard Callum McKenzie was opening a shop in our little town. I’m sure you are, too, Jules. I have all of his cookbooks. They’re amazing. I bet there’s so much you can learn from him.”
Now my eyes are wide. Summer rushes around the counter.
“I think you should go, Sage.”
“But I was simply saying—”
“GO,” Summer says. And then, when Sage doesn’t move, she actually curls her lips into snarl and lets out a wild, dog-like bark. Sage looks confused, but she rushes from the store anyway, still clutching her cake box to her chest.
“GEEZE!” Summer exclaims as she slams the door shut behind Sage so hard that all the bells jingle. “I hate that hippie fuck!” Then she looks over to me. “Are you okay?”
I’m not okay. After a week of holding shit together, after all that struggle and anger and planning and determination, I’m starting to deflate, fast. The whole thing with Sage was the last in a string of disappointments. I mean, what happened to sisterhood? We’re supposed to support each other, right? But even she’s so star-struck that she has to gush over this stupid, maddening man. It’s exhausting. I’m exhausted.
“I’m fine, Summer,” I lie. From her expression, I’m sure she can see straight through me. But I don’t have the spoons to reassure Summer right now. I’m hardly keeping it together myself. “You know, why don’t you go home? There’s no use in both of us sitting around bored out of our minds.”
Summer waits a beat. “But I’ll get paid, right?”
“I promise, you’ll get paid.”
“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.