Chapter 4

There’s something Zen-like about baking. Maybe it’s the ratios, or the constant humming of the machines I use, or the repetitive nature of rolling and shaping pastries? But there are times, especially in the early mornings when I’m getting the fresh batters together for the morning rush, when I love just being alone and letting my mind wander.

This morning, mine wanders to only one thing . . . my bed.

I’m beat after the late-night gala. Cleanup duty had been fast, mostly because I’d been hoping I’d see Lance again and we could pick up where we left off. But I didn’t see him the rest of the night.

Except for in my dreams. And holy hell, were they hot.

I’d imagined we’d snuck out of the gala and into a private alcove in the hallway, where he’d shoved me up against the wall and kissed the very breath out of me. I’d dreamed he pulled the thick cock I felt out of his tuxedo pants and I’d held my dress up for him to get access to my slippery pussy.

I loved the thought of him pounding me so hard, right there where anyone could’ve caught us, that he’d had to cover my mouth with his hand to keep us from being discovered because of my orgasmic yells.

And I’d felt ridiculously satisfied when he’d pulled out and iced my cupcake.

Shit. Somehow, over the past few months, thoughts of baking filter into everything, even to my dirty thoughts and fantasies.

But I’d woken up this morning in a fog, one filled with lust, excitement, and okay, some exhaustion at the early hour. Baker’s hours start well before sunrise, after all. I’m the one who wakes up the roosters for the farmers.

The back door of the bakery opens, pulling me out of my reverie, and I look over my shoulder to see Trixie coming in, her jacket wet. “Whoo! The heavens are getting ready for a circle jerk up there!”

“That looks like rain,” I deadpan, wiping my hands on my apron. “It’s been a while since my last hand job, but I remember some things.”

She grins like she’s storing that info away for later dissection and then flips into a ‘television preacher voice’ straight out of the 90s. “Ah, but you don’t understand the heavenly seed!” Trixie teases, taking off her neon color-blocked windbreaker and rubbing at the dark spots of water on the sleeves. “When the seed falls upon the Earth-ah, the heavenly seed-ah, takes root! The Earth, having been made pregnant-ah, bears forth-ah, the fruits! Let’s raise an offering!”

I can’t help it. I laugh at her antics. She’s such a weirdo. “Then why don’t you have a pine tree growing out of your hair? You telling me you’re not fertile soil?”

Okay, so I’m a weirdo too. It’s why we fit together so well after such a short period of time. Yeah, it’s a lot of intense, long-houred, early morning work, but for someone I met only months ago, Trixie and I are almost thick as thieves.

Trixie thinks for a second and must not come up with any witty reply because she sticks her tongue out at me. Like the mature woman I am, I do the same but add a set of crossed eyes to the insult.

And then we’re both laughing way too loudly and crazily to do anything else.

“Well, you’re in a good mood this morning. That must mean the gala went well?” Trixie asks as she washes her hands and puts on her own apron. She’d stayed back to close up the bakery and do the evening prep while I went last night. I don’t know what I’d do without her.

“It went more than well!” I almost squeal, tossing a ball of dough to the floured table in front of me. As I start to roll it out to the thickness I want for sugar cookies, I tell her all about Thomas’s declared love affair with Cake Culture and the Hope Initiative. Last but not least, I tell her about meeting Lance.

As I describe him, her eyes get bigger, her jaw drops open, and I swear I can see sprinkles shooting out of her ears as I describe him. “So, some former military family type who’s hotter than cakes fresh outta the oven damn near makes you have an orgasm in the middle of the dance floor, and then you run off and don’t find him again to make him finish what he started, when I know damn well how long it’s been since you’ve had a male-facilitated big O? Damn, Cinderellie, you’d better get to brushing that mop on your head before Prince Charming comes hunting you down.”

I laugh and then freeze, another silly thought going through my head. “Oh, shit, does that make Mia my Fairy Godmother? Do not tell her that or she’ll probably buy a damn wand and go around bippity-boppity-booing everyone on the head in a Russian accent and end up with assault charges.”

Trixie’s smirk is prep for the zinger I know she’s about to unleash. “Uhm, excuse me, but if you’ll recall, I’m the one who got you all gussied up and took care of matters so you could shake your tailfeathers at the ball. Pretty sure that makes me your Fairy Godmother. What’s that gig pay?”

I shrug and hold up a limp, unbaked sugar cookie. She flashes me a thumbs-up, grinning. “Deal. You drive a hard bargain, Cindy.”

The oven timer dings, and she turns it off, grabbing hot pads to pull a tray of morning muffins out. She places each fluffy Blueberry Hill Delight on the tray for the bakery case and I remind her, “Hey, can you pull one for Steven? And get his coffee too?”

She nods, plating one of the huge muffins, but before she heads out front to deliver it, she turns to me. “What’s the deal with him again? At first, I thought he was like a super-overbearing boyfriend, but then you said he was security. Uhm, something worrisome about the bakery business I don’t know about?”

I sigh. I haven’t told Trixie about all the mess with Blackwell. She just knows that I used to work there before opening Cake Culture. Since most of the story isn’t mine to tell, I’ve been hesitant to share that even though we’ve told each other all kinds of other stories.

“Long story short, Thomas is protective of his investments, and of his friends, especially Mia’s besties. Steven and the boys are just a safety precaution, for the business and for me. So be nice to him. Lord knows, he must be going stark-raving mad having to listen to us all day, every day.”

Trixie gets a twinkle in her eye, and I swear I can see the hamster in her mind running faster with ideas on how to spice up Steven’s days. But she smiles sweetly, too sweetly, and says, “Sure thing, Boss. Nice to Security Steven and his boys. One muffin and coffee coming right up.”

She adjusts her boobs through her shirt, making me wonder if she means an actual muffin or something a little more suggestive. She even wiggles a bit as she goes through the double doors, and I’d bet my favorite mixing bowl that she’s out there flirting her ass off. Spicy and sweet, that one.

I finish the cookies, setting them in the oven and traying the chocolate chip muffins I made earlier. When I swoosh through the double doors myself, Trixie jumps like she was busted and I realize that she was taking a picture of Steven.

I smirk, figuring she’s stashing one away for the spank bank or maybe sending the hottie shottie to a friend for some girlish oohs and ahhs. “You good?” I ask, though I suspect she’s more bad girl than good girl.

All-business Steven could probably use a bit of shaking up, Trixie style.

“Yep,” she says, popping the P. “Just checking Tinder one more time before the day gets underway. Swipe city, ya know?”

She says it just a little loudly, and I wonder if she’s trying to communicate that she’s single and ready to mingle. I chance a glance over my shoulder, but Steven is looking out the window, eyes scanning left and right up the empty sidewalk as he sips his coffee. Trixie sighs.

“Can you make sure everything’s ready out here? I’m going to grab the rest of the goodies for the case.” I head to the back, leaving Trixie at her post.

Busting through the double doors, I stop at the sight before me. Flour-covered stainless steel prep table, two huge wall ovens filled with treats I made, a stack of boxes with my logo on them, and a whiteboard with all this month’s special orders written out. Honestly, it looks like a barely-controlled bomb’s gone off, and it’s barely seven in the morning.

I never would’ve thought this would be my life. Didn’t think I had the courage to chuck away everything I knew.

My normal life before the bakery was nothing like this. But what’s normal?

Normal’s boring. Normal’s stagnating. Normal’s sitting on your ass in a cubicle in a job you hate just so you can say you’ve got health insurance and a 401(k).

Normal’s dying . . . just doing it slowly.

“So fuck normal,” I tell the empty room.

This is my new normal. Risky, adventurous, something I’m passionate about, and something I can give to the world to make their day a bit better. Because sugar definitely makes everything better.

I take a couple of trips back and forth and am just loading up the last tray when I hear a loud knocking on the front door. Trixie pops her head through the door. “Hey, Char, you definitely want to take this. It’s your stepsister, I think? Expensive dye job with streaky highlights, looks like she smelled something rank? Steven’s about to go Judge Dredd on her ass.”

“Shit,” I reply. “I’m coming. Can you take this last tray, and maybe serve as a witness in my defense at the trial?” I roll my eyes, but I’m half-serious because I already know this is going to get ugly.

Up front, Sabrina is raging, slapping a palm against my freshly-applied logo, and Steven is standing wide-spread with his arms crossed in front of the door.

“I got this, thanks,” I tell him before hollering through the door. “Stop banging on my door so I can unlock the damn thing.”

She waits, but I can see her foot tapping, which makes me go even slower.

As soon as she hears the lock click open, she jerks on the door, finger pointing in my face. “What the hell are you thinking, bitch?”

“Good morning to you too, Sabrina,” I reply, and while I sound sweet, we both know I’m faking. “What brings you by this morning? Need a coffee and muffin?”

“You know why I’m here!” she hisses. “Lance is my man. Mother already set it all up, so you can just crawl back to whatever basement you came out of and leave him the fuck alone.”

A hilarious joke about Mia being a basement dweller who got the hottest bachelor in the city almost works its way out, but Sabrina wouldn’t understand the beautiful irony of it so I let it go and focus on the rest of her statement.

“Sabrina, last time I checked, you can’t call dibs on someone. It’s not like you can buy him at an auction. And if we’re going by childhood rules . . . I licked him, so he’s mine.”

I know, even as I say it, that I’m poking the bear, but it’s so fun to finally be at a point where I can get a rise out of her and give it back. I shrank under her insults and superiority complex for way too long. So what if I didn’t actually lick him?

Sabrina sputters, a quiet squeak of affront passing her perfectly painted lips. Yes, at seven in the morning, she’s already fully coiffed. Unlike my messy hair, bare face, and polo and jeans uniform covered with a floury apron.

“Whatever Priscilla might have told you,” I say, because I never call Priscilla anything resembling Mom or Mother, “Lance is a grown man and can flirt, dance, and date anyone he wants. I know you’d hoped it’d be you.” I fake a tsk and shake my head sadly, looking her up and down. There’s nothing out of place. She’s the perfect socialite, but I make it seem like it’s not remotely up to muster. “But Lance seems to have felt otherwise.”

Sabrina seemingly gets over her initial flashy rage and reverts to her training, which has been drummed into her head since birth, I suspect. She sneers, every snotty stereotypical bitch come to life before my very eyes. “And you think he’d prefer someone like you instead?”

She returns my head to toe appraisal, and where I used to cower, hoping she wouldn’t fixate on any one thing to torment me over, now I stand proud. I’ve grown over the years, stronger in many ways because of the hell Priscilla and Sabrina put me through. Even my comfort in my own skin was shaped by their constant criticism.

I still remember the last time Sabrina scanned me this way. I was sixteen, she was eighteen, and she’d had a glint in her eyes as she told her mother that the baby hairs around my hairline surely showed my lack of basic hygiene.

It’d brought on World War III, with any and all body hair as the evil enemy. I’d been so young, still so innocent, that when the waxer started ripping off the strips, I’d cried, not understanding what was wrong with peach fuzz on my arms. I’d been mortified at the full bikini wax, though, feeling intimately violated. It wasn’t until years later, when I finally got waxed by my own choosing, that I realized the first waxer had been intentionally and insanely rough, likely at Priscilla’s behest.

But none of that matters now, not in my new and improved self-image. I may still have insecurities—who doesn’t?—but I can see that Priscilla and Sabrina used every trick in the book to keep me small for my whole childhood.

I don’t think they’re jealous of me. It’s more just that they used me to make themselves feel bigger.

In some ways, I don’t even fault Sabrina for it. She doesn’t know any better, having been raised and shaped by Priscilla. But she’s a full-grown woman now, and she needs to get a grip on how the real world works.

“Judging by how he ditched you and swept me away on the dance floor, I’d say yes, he’d prefer me. The bigger issue is that neither you, nor your mother, can control others the way you think you can,” I explain patiently but evenly. “And stomping your foot or throwing money at problems doesn’t work. Come on, Sabrina . . . do better than your mother.”

It’s wishful thinking that she’ll hear the slight encouragement, but it’s all I can give the person who made so much of my life hell.

“Seems she did pretty well with Daddy.” She lifts her chin, haughty and snarky at the same time.

She knows I hate it when she calls my father Daddy. He’s not her Daddy. Hell, he’s barely even mine anymore. Once upon a time, he was on my side, a fun guy who helped me, loved me. That man was Daddy. But Priscilla ate away at our relationship too, under the guise of guiding me into womanhood, something my dad basically got super-nervous about. And now he’s simply Dad and has been for a long time.

My face falls as her shot hits a bullseye on the button she loves to push, and she knows it, her eyes lighting up. She hair-flips, walking toward the door like the victor she is, but she tosses over shoulder, “Don’t forget your place, Charlotte. Make your little cakes and cookies.” She smirks as she looks around the bakery. “But leave Lance to me. He is mine.”

The jingling bells sound like a death toll as she walks out, the silence heavy as Steven and Trixie stare at me, having seen the whole showdown.

“Miss Dunn?” Steven asks softly. “Would you like me to put her on the persona-non-grata list?”

Trixie interrupts, clucking her tongue. “Uh, no. I’d like you to put her on the shoot-on-sight list, capiche?” She hurries around the case, wrapping an arm around me as she hustles me to the back, muttering the whole way, “Security Steven? He just stood there and let that bitch rail you over. Useless.”

Guess Sabrina ruined Trixie’s crush, along with my crush on Lance. A morning well-spent in her books, probably.