Chapter 6

“Can I get another dozen of those cupcakes I saw on TV?”

It’s a question I’ve heard time and time again this week, ever since the news showed footage of Thomas and Mia’s gala, complete with the Cake Culture cupcake tower. As I box up what we’re calling the ‘Tower Pack’ with each of the five flavors from the gala, I shiver as I think of what it all means.

Most bakeries work for years to get this type of promotional notoriety, struggling just to keep the lights on before they’re well-established. And that’s if you’re good. Because no matter how Instagram famous you may be, nothing will make up for crumbly cupcakes and dry pie.

You’ve gotta have skills, and I’d like to think that I do.

But you’ve also got to have a bit of luck and good fortune on your side, because the truth is, everyone has that grandma or aunt or neighbor who makes the best cake, the most badass cookies, or a mouth-watering pie. And you’ve got to get them in the door to try yours instead.

So I’m counting my lucky stars that Thomas’s bit of magic has proven beneficial, and my culinary skills are exceeding the expectations of the customers. The new and repeat customers, I think with a shimmy-shake of my ass in my increasingly tight jeans.

Okay, the saying, ‘Never trust a skinny cook,’ might end up being true if I don’t stop experimenting and sampling my own creations.

The lady eyes the box of goodies as I hand them over, and Trixie whispers from beside me, “That’s the third time this week that lady’s been in. She’s a realtor and is putting your cupcakes out at every open house. Pretty sure she’s eating one or two for herself, too, because she told me her favorite was the ‘Black As Your Soul’ and that’s not in the tower box she keeps buying.”

I grin, thinking of the prim woman devouring one of my creations, her favorite being a dark chocolate cake with bittersweet chocolate frosting infused with coffee. It’s rich, dark, and decadent, and one of my favorites too because the coffee, chocolate, and sugar give a pick-me-up like no other. It’s practically a Red Bull in a wrapper.

Trixie eyes the woman and then cracks up. “If we keep this up, we’ll need to open a Planet Fitness next door. For our customers and ourselves.” She pats her own slim ass, with nary a pinch of cupcake-given fluff.

“Oh, hush. If anyone’s going to need a few days on the treadmill, it’s me,” I huff, but I’m not really concerned. I eat healthfully and work hard, and around here, that’s workout enough between the cardio I get running back and forth and the strength training I get picking up the heavy trays and pans. Just need to stop sampling the merchandise.

Trixie reads my mind, quipping, “We are working our asses off, and with all the batter we’re stirring, our forearms are gonna be as jacked as a fifteen-year-old who just discovered PornHub.” She flexes, turning her fist one way then the other and showing off her tiny biceps.

“You’re such a goof,” I tell her, laughing way too hard. Oh, God, I think I just snorted a little. Trixie’s eyes go wide with laughter, and I rush to change the subject before she can start calling me a piggy. She wouldn’t do that, probably, but I’ve got trust issues from Priscilla and Sabrina, who would take full advantage of my doing something so uncouth.

“I’ve been thinking about the Hope Initiative,” I say, hoping it’s a big enough distraction. Or that another customer will walk in, but we’re in the afternoon slump, barely thirty minutes till six o’clock closing time.

“Hate to tell ya, but I think everyone in town’s been thinking about it. That’s some serious dough, and I say that as an expert in dough and the lack thereof.” She starts out silly but ends the statement a bit more seriously than her usual cheekiness as she wipes the counter down.

“You planning anything?” I ask cautiously, wondering if she’s open to sharing. I’ve learned a lot about her in our time working to get the bakery open, but I can tell she holds some things back. I get the sense she’s not exactly proud of where she comes from. “Maybe we could work on something together?”

“Kids, maybe? Or old people?” she says aimlessly as we both move to wipe down tables. “Or maybe kids and old people together?”

“Sugar Daddies are kinda gross, and not exactly a community service,” I say, hoping to brighten her back up with a joke that sounds more like her than me.

She smiles, but it’s weak. “No, like kids visiting nursing homes, talking to the people who don’t have family to visit. Or maybe a subsidized preschool at a nursing home, and the old folks can play cars and do puzzles with the kids. Kind of a grandma-on-demand deal.”

My brows go up. “Those are great ideas, Trix.”

Her smirk is more in line with what I’d expect from her when she teases, “You thought I’d suggest massage parlors for PTSD sufferers, or something equally awful, didn’t you? A happy ending every time could be the slogan.” I bust out laughing, my belly hurting from how crazy she is, which only fuels her fire. “Or what about a scholarship for strippers? You know, they always say they’re going to college. We could help them actually go.”

“You have such a dirty mind,” I say, and honestly, it’s a compliment. I love how twisted her sense of humor is and that she gives zero fucks to the appropriateness of the shit that comes out of her mouth. We move to the back, laying pans and mixing bowls in the sink and starting our closing cleanup routine.

She shrugs. “I half-mean that one. Where I grew up, most of the girls I went to high school with ended up working on their backs. Whether that was as a stripper or because they married a guy with a halfway reliable salary, it was the same result either way. Hard to get out of the trailer park when you have no skills other than the ability to spread your legs.”

I stop, looking at her. “That’s awful.”

Her look is sad. “Just the reality. I didn’t grow up in Roseboro. I grew up in the panhandle of Oklahoma. Our only claim to fame is that our county touches four other states. We were so far out there that we had to take a forty-five-minute bus ride to Boise City to go to school because picking everyone up with miles between the few bus stops made it take forever. Made for long days, and most kids just dropped out. I mean, why get some fancy diploma when you’re going to scrape by, anyway? Nobody who could afford to hire you out there required the piece of paper.”

I take a long moment, trying to imagine the type of childhood she’s describing. Mine was far from perfect, really far. But at least I always knew I’d have a roof over my head, food on the table, and an opportunity to learn. “I’m so sorry. How’d you end up getting out?”

Her laugh is ironic, and she shrugs. “Because school was my only outlet. It got me out of my house, and I would’ve ridden that bus twenty-fucking-four-seven if it meant not being at home with my dad. He... did his best when I was little, but he was stuck too and took that out on my mom and me as I got older. My desperation actually meant I got good grades, high enough to be valedictorian, which isn’t nearly as impressive as it sounds. Being number one in a graduating class of twenty isn’t all it’s glammed up to be. But it got me a scholarship for an associate’s degree in business, and I worked my ass off and got an internship in Seattle. The whole town pitched in to buy my one-way plane ticket.”

She smiles like that’s a good memory, at least considering the rest of her life story. “That’s how I ended up in Roseboro. After the internship ended, I couldn’t afford to get back to Oklahoma, and why would I go back there? Seattle’s too rich for my blood, so Roseboro it is.”

She shrugs like it all makes perfect sense, and in a roundabout way, it kinda does. Maybe it’s why we understand each other so well. We come from very different backgrounds, but both of us had to claw our way out of our youth for a better future. And now we both have one.

I make a mental note to give her a raise as soon as I possibly can, though she already carries the Assistant Manager title. Of course, there’s just me and her right now, but she deserves the title for all she does.

She seems weary from the heavy share, so I try to give her an out back to our previous conversation. “Still not sure a stripper scholarship is the direction we should go for the Hope Initiative. But maybe something as impactful, education or vocational training to give marginalized people a better tomorrow?”

She nods, dipping her hands into the sinkful of sudsy water. “Let’s think on it, maybe come up with a few different ways we could meet that objective.”

I can hear the business education coming out, and where before, I’d written it off as no big deal because she sounds like most people I talk to, I can hear just how hard she worked to even the playing field when everyone else had a head start from her humble beginnings.

We get to work, Trixie washing dishes as I mix dough for tomorrow’s breads. She’s got music blaring, singing along like she’s under the spotlight at karaoke night. “Oh, baby, baby . . . how was I supposed to know . . .”

A knock rattles the back door, and we look at each other. I almost go answer it out of habit, but then I remember the rules and pop my head out the front. “Hey, Steven, you expecting anyone? Someone’s at the back door and all my deliveries already came.”

He’s up in a flash, opening the door a small crack with a hard look on his face. He questions whoever’s out there but doesn’t seem concerned, and then he opens the door wide and I almost drop the big wooden spoon I’m holding like a weapon rather than the mixing utensil it was intended to be.

Lance Jacobs.

He’s standing in the back alley behind my bakery, looking good enough to eat. He looks different from before, but no less gorgeous in blue jeans and a white T-shirt, his hair mussed and his scruff glinting in the waning sunlight.

“Hi, the sign out front said you were closed, but I figured you’d still be here.” He looks at Steven, a question in his eyes. “Is it okay if I come in?”

I’m still a bit stuck on how hot it suddenly got in here. I need to turn the air conditioner on if Lance is going to come around. My mouth opens and closes but no sound comes out, so Trixie answers for me.

“Hell yes, boy. You can make deliveries to Charlotte’s back door anytime.”

My eyes widen and my cheeks flush pink, and I know they’re splotchy. I’m not one of those girls who blush prettily on the apples of their cheeks. Nope, I’m a ginger through and through, and my blush is more of the mottled feverish variety. But I suspect Trixie knows exactly what she said, and what it sounded like she meant, because she’s grinning widely.

I shake my head, waving him in. “Please, come in. Of course.”

Lance grins a smile that tells me he was expecting that answer. Cocky.

But that reminds me of his cock, and I blush anew. Lance looks at me like he’s reading my mind and liking what he’s seeing.

Trixie interrupts the stare fest Lance and I engage in, shoving Steven toward the door. “So, I guess we’ll be going if that’s all, Boss Lady? Although, these dishes still need to be done. If you want me to stay and wash them all, I can do that?”

She lets the question hang, and Lance picks up what she’s putting down. “I can help with the dishes and mop floors, whatever you have on your agenda for the evening.”

I shake my head, genuinely confused at why he would want to work with me tonight. I mean, it’s not like doing the dishes is sexy or rolling out dough for cookies is fun for most people. Me and Trixie are the weirdos like that. “Why would you do that?”

His shrug communicates the duh even better than his sweet words. “Because then I get to hang out with you.”

“Oh, okay, but, uh, no funny business in my kitchen. This is my livelihood.” I don’t know if I’m reminding myself or him.

“No baby batter in the muffin batter,” Trixie sing-songs, and I swear Steven chokes on his own tongue.

“Miss Dunn, if you’re in for the evening, I’ll clock out and street patrol will remain in place overnight. Mr. Jacobs has already been cleared. Are we good?” Steven says, his voice low and controlled.

I nod, not bothering to look Steven’s way so I see the questioning look on Lance’s face at the automaton summary, but I’m too far gone, ready for Trixie and Steven to get the fuck out. But maybe that’s a bad idea because I’m afraid I’ll jump into Lance’s arms point-oh-two seconds after the door locks. But still, I nod. “We’re good, Steven. Thanks.” Distantly, I hear them both leave.

And we’re alone.

I half-expect Lance to rush me, pin me against the table, and pick up right where we left off, but he surprises me by coming over slowly. He pushes a wayward curl behind my ear and plants a soft kiss to my lips. He tastes like mint, and I like the idea that he primped a little for me, like his showing up here uninvited and unannounced was as big a deal for him as it is for me.

I don’t have guys chase me down. At most, they swipe right, I swipe right, we show up for drinks, maybe dinner, and that’s that. Occasionally, we scratch an itch, but it feels like Lance is putting forth effort. For me.

“I missed you,” he whispers, the words vibrating against my lips.

I chuckle. “It’s been three days and twenty-some-odd years before that. I don’t think you can miss someone you only met once.”

Shut up, Cynical Charlotte.

But Lance’s mouth lifts on the right side like he can read my thoughts, and it makes him look so kissable I’m tempted to lean in for another peck. “Oh? So you’re telling me you walked away and haven’t given me another thought?”

I shrug noncommittally, inwardly smiling at the first step in this little dance. “Work’s been busy. New business owner, you know.” But we both hear the lie. I’ve been thinking of him and he damn well knows it. But I know he’s been thinking of me too, so I turn it back around on him before he can call me out on it. “What took you so long to track me down?”

“This.” He reaches in his pocket, pulling out something in his hand, and I almost make a joke about having a rocket in his pocket, but I’m glad I held it back because he opens his fist and reveals my bracelet. It’s nothing too expensive, just a pretty trinket I bought at the mall years ago on a whim, but the way he’s holding it, it could be as precious as a Cartier original.

“It took me a day to find someone to repair it since I don’t know the city, and then it took the jeweler two days to fix it. I just picked it up an hour ago and got here as fast as I could.”

“Thank you,” I stammer, my breath gone at the kindness. He reaches down, lifting my hand in his strong but gentle touch, draping the bracelet over my wrist and attaching the delicate fastener. His touch is electric on my skin, paralyzing me. “Really, it’s not that big of a deal, but thank you so much.”

“I think it was a rather big deal,” he says, and I can see the tease at the crinkly corners of his eyes. He’s not talking about the bracelet anymore. Well, two can play that game.

“So were you thinking you’d roll in here with my bracelet and I’d be so thankful, I’d just hop on the nearest table and leave butt imprints in the flour?” I ask, aiming for sassy but failing because honestly, it doesn’t sound like a half-bad idea. “The health inspector might have an issue with that.”

Lance takes a step forward, and I mirror him, moving backward until my ass hits the sink counter. My breath is coming in pants, and I’m scared. Not of him, but maybe of what he could do to me, in a good way. A really good way.

“I just felt like we didn’t get to finish our conversation, and I wanted to see you again. And now it seems” —he pauses, looking around, and I’m expecting a line about our being alone at last, but he goes another way— “you’re in need of a dishwasher. Good thing the Navy taught me how to wash a dish or two.”

His smile is charming and silly, the heat still there, but it’s underneath the lightness. He reaches behind me, dipping his fingers into the suds Trixie left behind and then blowing the iridescent bubbles off his hand. My dirty mind chants, ‘Blow me, blow me, blow me,’ and that’s not even really a thing for women, but the need in my veins doesn’t seem to give a single fuck because it’s racing hot from my head to my toes.

“Well, I guess you could put those muscly arms to good use for something. I do have some dishes that need washing, a floor that needs cleaning, some inventory to put away, and about a dozen things to prep for tomorrow.” I wish I were lying. Or that I could just let someone else do the work and disappear upstairs with Lance for some crazy, flour-dusted sex.

But Cake Culture is my baby. And I won’t half-ass it, even for a piece of ass as hot as Lance Jacobs.

He steps back away from me, and I miss his warmth, even in the heated kitchen. He claps loudly, like the decision’s made. “All right, dishes . . . on it. You . . . baking or whatever it is you were doing with that spoon when I came in.”

And just like that, we’re teammates, working toward a common goal.

The work passes by quickly, with each of us sharing a bit about our families since that’s what started this whole thing last night.

He tells me how he’s worried for his dad and about his brother but doesn’t know what to do about it yet. I tell him how I miss my dad but gave up long ago ever figuring out what he sees in Priscilla. We bond over our mutual distaste for stuck-up, entitled brats like Sabrina. It’s a bitchy move, but my assessment of him goes up by four degrees when he imitates Priscilla’s ‘smelled something bad’ face and Sabrina’s blank stare spot-on.

We even talk about his time in the military, with the standard ‘I’d tell you but I’d have to kill you’ punchline.

He doesn’t get it when I tell him that he should tell my friend Izzy’s guy that joke and see what happens. But I don’t explain, just laugh and shrug it off like Gabe’s a scary guy. I mean, he is. But only for things that threaten Izzy these days.

I think.

Before I know it, the kitchen is spotless and there’s not a single thing I can do to keep him here. At least, not downstairs. I know plenty of things I could do with him upstairs, but I’m not sure that’s a good idea.

As amazing as he seems, I have a lot on my plate and so does he. Add in the family shitstorm our dancing caused, and this seems like a recipe for disaster.

I snort at the joke in my own head and Lance tilts his head. “What?”

“I’m just a little punny in my head sometimes. Who knew baking had so many double-entendres and dad jokes tied up in it?” I chuckle, shaking my head.

“Like Trixie’s baby batter?” he asks, laughing.

“Oh, God, that’s nothing. You should hear her talk about her muffin, her cupcake, her loaves. And the frosting jokes? Enough to make me not want to eat a glazed donut or toaster strudel ever again. Or cream filling. Cream pies. Cherries. It goes on and on...” I trail off, lifting a shoulder. “It’s a baker thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

We both bust up in laughter, and the unspoken pressure of ‘what now’ floats away like the soap bubbles down the drain. “I’d like to see you again,” Lance says confidently.

I want to say yes. Every cell in my body, especially the red blood cells singing through my pussy right now, want to say yes. “I can’t,” I say, forcing my brain, and not my body, to do the talking. “I’m focused on work right now, and it sounds like you are too. But this was . . . nice.”

Nice? What the hell, brain? Come up with something a little less blah next time, please?

My brain shoots back, I’m working on low blood flow here. Give me a break.

Lance bites his lip like he knows exactly what I mean by nice, and it’s not just merely pleasant, for damn sure. “It was nice.”

How in the hell he makes the blandest word in the English language sound like sex talk, I’ll never know, but I don’t analyze it too long because he plants his lips on mine.

He cups my cheek, fingers diving into my hair, and the kiss ignites. Tongues tangle, breath mingles, eyes close. And holy fuck, Lance can kiss. I swear I feel him everywhere, but he’s not touching me except for the kiss. I want him to touch me . . . everywhere.

But he pulls back, smacking satisfiedly like a cat who got the cream. Fuck . . . cream . . . yes, please.

“Nice,” he says simply, and then he moves to the back door. “Lock this behind me, Charlotte. Okay?”

The slam of the heavy door sounds like a death knell. What did I just do? Come back, my body cries. Stay strong, my brain argues. The battle goes on long enough that I know it wouldn’t do me any good to chase after him. He’s gone.

I flip the lock and then the lights before heading upstairs. I trace my lips with my fingers, still feeling the lingering burn of his kiss.