Authors: Bella Cruise
Of
course, I think, as I take another bite of my sandwich, steamy ham
and gooey melted cheese going all drippy in my mouth, I’m still
not entirely sure I can trust him. I’ve been burned by his kind
before. For all I know, what Ginny heard about Angelique is a big fat
lie. Or maybe he has a fiancée back in New York City. Or maybe
even a wife and gaggle of kids somewhere. There’s no telling. I
need to be careful. When Cal lets his leg casually knock mine under
the table, I draw my foot away. He lifts his eyebrows, but doesn’t
acknowledge that it happened.
“I
need to be off soon,” he says, wiping the corner of his mouth
with one of the flimsy paper napkins. What I wouldn’t give to
be that napkin. But no, I scold myself, I’m not going to think
like that. I’m going to behave.
“Back
to Key West?” I ask, training my voice carefully, trying to
sound mild and disinterested. He gives his head a shake.
“No,
Le Cordon Bleu. I’m teaching a class.” It’s cute
hearing him try to wrap his accent around the French name.
“Really?
That’s where I went to school.”
“Hmm,”
Cal says. Seems he’s being as careful as I am. There’s
something on his mind, but he doesn’t say it. Instead, he gives
his muscular shoulders an easy shrug. “Would you like t’come
with?”
I
haven’t been back to school in ages. And while my memories are
complicated—I spent some of the best days of my life there, but
also some of the worst—I can’t imagine anyone I’d
rather return there with. Imagine the looks on my professors’
faces when I walk back in through those doors at the side of a bona
fide celebrity chef. The only way it could be juicier is if we
followed it up with some time naked in bed together.
No.
Goddamnit, I need to nip this insatiable fantasy in the bud.
“I’d
love to,” I say.
#
The
last time I was in one of these teaching kitchens, I was a wide-eyed
student, all full of passion and moxie and hope. I can’t help
but feel a bit jaded as I sit on a stool near the door, watching the
baby chefs stream in. Some of them are clutching books to their
chests. Others are flirting and joking. All have their lives
stretched out ahead of them, no failing business, no loan payments
coming due. They don’t even know how lucky they are. Their
biggest problem is their next exam.
I
notice a few of the girls whispering and blushing as they pass Cal,
and I sit forward a little bit on my stool. I’m tempted to
growl at them, Summer-style, to scare them off. But of course, I have
no right. Cal and I have only hooked up a few times, after all. I
have no claim on him. For all I know, he’s banged every single
coquettish cake decorator in his class, and there’s nothing I
can do about it. But I do watch his body language with them closely.
It’s open, generous, nothing like the prickly hot and cold he’s
run with me.
I
wonder what it would have been like to have a guy like Cal as my
instructor. My girlish heart would have lapped up every ounce of his
attention. And then my girlish mind would have had a lot of fun
imagining him bending me over a teaching stove . . .
He’s
showing them how to bake a soufflé, a deceptively easy task.
After all, there are only a few ingredients: chocolate, egg whites,
sugar, butter, a dash of cream of tartar, and a splash of vanilla
extract, too. But I catch a few students overbeating the eggs. I
can’t help myself. I rush to intervene.
“Whoa
whoa whoa,” I say, as gently as I can muster. “Go easy on
those. Your approach matters here. You don’t want to work those
too hard.”
The
students look a little flustered. One, a slender, bored-looking girl,
arches an eyebrow at me. But they do as they’re told, to my
relief. There’s nothing worse than overworked eggs.
Cal,
busy chatting with another student, pauses to lift an eyebrow at me.
But he doesn’t say anything, not at first. Not until the
ramekins are all in the oven and I spot the same student nearly open
the oven door to check on hers.
“Don’t!
It will fall!” I cry, dashing up from my stool again. She gives
me a sour look, but Cal appears, and puts a firm hand on the oven
handle.
“Listen
to her,” he says firmly, his voice velvety smooth. “She
knows what she’s doing.”
“Who
is she, anyway?” the student snaps back. Cal looks surprised by
her viciousness.
“Juliette
Rockwell. She owns the best damned bakery on Key West, and you should
listen to her. Not every chef has a television show. But they don’t
all need it. Some, their passion shows in every recipe they dream up,
every cake they bake.”
I’m
blushing furiously. “I just didn’t want your soufflé
to fall,” I tell the student, eager to turn her attention away
from me. She rolls her eyes, and whispers something to one of her
classmates. I’m not rattled. I remember her type from school.
They’re all running themselves ragged now, trying to compete
with each other in New York and London and LA. But that life was
never for me.
Still,
I have imagined coming back here, teaching a few classes myself. If
Cal can do it, why not me? Clearly he thinks I’ve got something
to share. I go to join him at the front of the class, where he waits
for the soufflés to finish baking.
“Thanks,”
I say.
“Don’t
mention it,” he replies. But then he does something that
surprises me. He lifts up his broad, strong hand and lets it rest on
the small of my back. I don’t shrug away his touch this time. I
let him linger there, all the while savoring the heat of his hand
through the fabric of my dress.
#
When
we walk together through the halls, our knuckles sometimes touch. I
let them. I let Cal hold the door for me, too. I watch him when he
pauses to speak to another faculty member, then introduces me. He
calls Rock N Roll Cakes a Key West institution. He talks to me like I
matter in the industry, like I matter to
him
.
When we walk down the halls together, everyone turns to look.
I
was so hardened to him before, so sure he was nothing but a bossy
jerk. And okay, maybe he is, in some ways. He’s not kind to his
employees. And he seemed to get off on ordering me around in that
alleyway, leaving me panting and begging for satisfaction. But
honestly? I got off on it, too.
As
I walk besides Cal, something inside me is softening like a sugar
cube dropped into a tall, cold glass of lemonade. All that’s
left is sticky sweetness.
“So
this is where the magic happened?” Cal asks, gesturing to the
echoing ceilings and the classrooms we pass. My eyes wrinkle at the
corners.
“No,
the magic happened in my dorm. This is where a lot of struggling
happened.”
He
looks at me seriously, his green eyes open. “What happened?”
I’m
disarmed by how closely he seems to be listening to me. I let out an
uneasy laugh. “I guess I just never fit in here. It felt like
the other students were used to having things handed to them.”
He
laughs too, but it’s a comfortable laugh. “I can imagine.
You’re nothing like the chefs I teach. Half the students have
never set foot in a real kitchen. Bunch of virgins.”
“That’s
an . . . interesting way to put it,” I say,
wondering again if he’s bedded any of them. He touches my
shoulder, just a light glance of reassurance. And yet goosebumps
travel up and down my back.
“Now,
don’t take it the wrong way. But I clawed my way to the top.
Stomped on a lot of heads in the process. Washed dishes. Prepped
stock rooms. Held the door shut while my boss fucked his mistress. I
would have done anything to get ahead when I was young.”
“But
you never went to school for it?”
“No,
couldn’t afford it. My dad had his head too far up a bottle to
help. And then when I could, it was too late. I’d learned more
than a school could ever teach me.” He’s smirking at me,
teasing. Then he gives me a wink. “Don’t tell the
administration that. They’d have my hide. I’ve heard what
they charge for my lectures.”
I
bite my lip. I can only imagine. I remember what tuition cost here,
how I scrambled and worked to pay every bill.
“It
was never really a question for me,” I say. “It was
either this or college. My mom and dad worked their whole lives to
save for me to go to school. They weren’t going to let me
squander it bussing tables after graduation. No offense.”
I’m
grinning now, too, teasing him back. He takes it in stride, lifting
his hands. “None taken.”
Funny
thing is, I knew he wouldn’t be offended. He’s
surprisingly easy-going beneath it all, even when I’m all
prickly fire and white-hot rage. And now, things feel deliciously
easy. He holds the door open for me as we step back into the broiling
heat of the parking garage. His car, a gleaming silver Chevy suburban
with leather seats and a moon roof, is waiting for us at the far end.
We walk in silence toward it. But it’s not an awkward silence,
not at all. Still, I feel my heart beating faster. He reaches past me
to open the passenger door, but before he can open it, his thick arm
lightly brushes my chest. I startle back, just a little, and our
gazes catch.
His
eyes are so, so green, like crème de menthe. He has a dimple
in the corner of his mouth when he smiles. I can see now that there’s
a small scar near his brow line. I can smell him, vanilla extract and
cocoa powder, a dash of cinnamon, like his skin and hair have soaked
up the scents of the kitchen. I’m remembering what his mouth
tasted like, how hungry he seems whenever he touches me And god, I’m
hungry, too.
I’m
just thinking about how much I need him when he gathers me into his
arms and kisses me, hard. His mouth is hot against mine. The movement
of his tongue into my mouth sends wild butterflies free in my belly.
His hands tangle in my hair, then down along my back. I arch into
him, feeling the strength of his muscles. My thighs shake with
pleasure as he presses wild, rough kisses into the soft flesh of my
throat.
My
fingers blindly trace the line of his hip down, into the front of his
jeans. I unbutton his fly, trying to shoot him my most taunting look.
“I’m taking you up on that rain check,” I tell him,
wrapping my hand around his cock. He is so long, and so thick. His
skin is as hot as the Miami afternoon. He lets out a low murmur . . .
And
that’s when we hear a cackle of laughter. Cal looks over his
shoulder.
“Christ,”
he mutters. My hand is still on his pulsing cock. But I glance over
the muscular line of his arm. There’s his student from class,
the bitchy one. And she’s fumbling in her purse for something.
“Quick,”
he mumbles to me, “before she finds her phone and takes a
picture. Don’t want to find yourself on
Perez
Hilton
tomorrow.”
And
just like that, he peels his body away from mine and is around the
other side of the car. I’m almost dizzy with desire, but I pull
myself into the passenger seat. Cal looks angry as he buckles his
seatbelt and speeds out of the parking garage.
He
turns the radio on, loud. We drive through downtown Miami until he
finds my car again. I try to think of something to say, but I can’t.
My thoughts are clouded with desire. And, to be honest, I’m a
little pissed. Yes, he has a reputation to uphold, but he could at
least offer me an explanation. How can he turn on a dime like that?
The way he goes from hot and heavy to cold and commanding . . . it
dashes even the tiniest trust I’m starting to feel for him.
If
only he weren’t so goddamn irresistible.
“Cal,”
I begin, but he bursts out, pounding a fist on the steering wheel.
“I
hate it,” he growls. “I can’t escape them. Not even
for a second. Not even when it matters.”
I
spin to look at him. That declaration hangs heavy in the air between
us as I take in his implication. I matter to him.
We
matter. But he doesn’t catch the slow melting of my icy
exterior. He’s too angry about the gawkers.
He
pulls up beside my parked car, leaning across me to open the door.
“I
promise you, next time, we’ll do this right. No interlopers,”
he says. Stunned, I don’t move.
Is
the Cake Nazi asking me on a
date
?
“When?”
I ask, more than a little skeptical.
He
leans over again. In a moment, he’s kissing me, his hands hot
and heavy all over me, curling around the curve of my ass. It’s
a long, slow, sensuous kiss. My body is full of electricity.
“Soon,”
he says.
I
echo back softly, “Soon,” as I hop out of his truck and
make my way to my car. Then I stand there, crazy with lust, watching
as Cal drives off into the pink and gold Miami sunset.
Did
I just agree to go on a date with the man who’s kind of ruining
my life?
And
am I unbelievably excited about it?
What
the hell is wrong with me?
I
think about fucking him the whole ride home, finally riding that cock
and getting the satisfaction no amount of time with my rabbit has
been able to bring. I’m wound tight as a spring, my panties
wet, squirming in my seat every time I shift gears. Then my phone
vibrates in my lap and I almost veer right off the interstate. It’s
not until I get back to Key West that I hit a stoplight and can check
my messages.
It’s
precisely what I need at that insanely horny moment: a g-chat message
from cupcakecasanova.
Hey, cupcake! Up for a little fun?
Grinning madly, I speed all the way home.
It’s
early in the season for a storm, but the sky has been darkening for
hours through the front window glass of Rock N Roll Cakes. Ginny is
here, leaning over the counter with an elaborate sketch of a client’s
dream wedding cake. And as much as I love her company, I’m
starting to get worried.