Authors: Bella Cruise
“Don’t
worry, darling,” Mrs. O’G says. She’s confused my
dismay for something else. She thinks I’m scared of losing
her
rather than my hard-earned cash. “I’m
very
loyal.”
“Well,”
I say, smiling kindly at her as I ring her up, “that’s
good to know.”
“Hos
before bros. Is that what the kids say?”
My
eyes go wide. I wish Summer were here. I can almost hear her dry,
sardonic laughter ringing in my head.
“It
is.”
“Good
night, sweetie,” she says, dropping a few coins into the tip
jar.
“Good
night!” I call back, and add awkwardly, “sweetie,”
just as the door shuts behind her.
But
it’s not a good night. Not at all. I grab my keys and lock up
the store, then head out into the perfect, beautiful Key West night,
my stomach in knots, eager to scope out my competition.
The
sea air is fresh and clean tonight. The sidewalks are lively and
crowded. The sky overhead is liberally speckled with stars. But none
of that makes me feel any better as I stand outside the storefront of
my new competition, just three blocks from Rock n Roll Cakes.
I
swear, just yesterday, this building housed one of my favorite local
dives, one of those trashy tourist bars that served alcoholic brain
freezes in plastic cups shaped like toucans and flamingos. Shops come
and go in Key West all the time. It’s the nature of the
business. But this bar was gutted seemingly overnight. Now the space
inside the shining glass windows is crowded with workers in hard
hats. Here on the sidewalk, a foreman is directing two workers in
hard hats in placing a neon-lit sign:
MECCA
CAKES
it says, and there’s a cupcake beside it in glass tubing. I
grit my teeth. I bet it’s going to look fantastic when it’s
all plugged in.
“Would
you like a flier?” asks a sharp voice behind me. I turn.
There’s a woman standing on the sidewalk in a black pantsuit
and high heels. It’s a ridiculous get-up for the Keys, but
she’s hardly broken a sweat. Her blond hair is pulled severely
back, and despite the heat, she doesn’t have a single flyaway.
“Are
you the owner?” I demand, in a harder voice than I’d
hoped. But she doesn’t even flinch. She’s got delicate
features, and they’re perfectly cool as she clutches the fliers
against her chest.
“No,
I’m the shop manager. Angelique Sutton. And who might you be?”
She offers me a long delicate hand.
Your
worst nightmare
,
is what I fantasize of saying, but instead I just take her hand and
shake it firmly. There’s no need to let her know that I’m
rattled. If she can be chill, I can, too. I think.
“Jules
Rockwell. I own the cake shop down the street.”
“Oh,
yes.” She gives me a small, efficient smile. “Rockabilly
Cakes. You have quite the charming outfit.”
I
tick up an eyebrow and glance down at my flour-dusted work clothes.
But then I realize she means the shop.
“Um,
thank you. It’s Rock N Roll Cakes, actually—”
But
she goes on like she hasn’t even heard me. “You’ve
got an interesting retro theme at Rockabilly. We did quite a bit of
research on you before we selected our location. We understand that
you draw a great deal of business.”
“Yes,
well.” I’m not sure what to say. It’s been true,
until recently. The store
used
to be packed. But the public’s adoration has apparently been
waning in the past few weeks, if my books are any indication. And
then I hesitate. “Wait, who’s ‘we’?”
“My
business partner and I. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. His name
is Callum McKenzie.”
Oh
god, Callum McKenzie. Of
course
I’ve heard of him. The internet forums and gossip rags are
always buzzing with his latest kitchen exploits. He’s one of
those obnoxious celebrity chefs—think a mean Jamie Oliver with
better teeth. He’s even got his own show,
The
Cake Nazi
or something like that. I’ve never watched it. Since my
experience on
Park
Avenue Princess
,
reality TV’s gotten too real for me. I’d rather watch
professional wrestling these days. It’s much more soothing.
“Never
heard of him,” I say quickly. I don’t need this
Angelique, with her perfect, delicate features and tightly pulled
bun, to know how unsettled I am. Because if a TV baker’s opened
a shop on the Keys, I’m going to be mincemeat.
“Oh?”
she says smoothly. “Let me guess: you don’t own a
television. You’re strictly an NPR and Netflix kind of girl.
That surprises me, Jules Rockwell. I didn’t take you for one of
those. Why, there wasn’t a single gluten-free muffin in your
store.”
“I’m
allergic to quinoa flour. It’s a real tragedy.”
The
corner of Angelique’s mouth rises, just slightly. “That’s
not a problem. You won’t find a speck of quinoa in Mecca Cakes.
You should come to our grand opening. Scope out the competition. Or
isn’t that what you came to do?”
She
holds out a flier. I set my jaw, but take the page, giving it a quick
glance. Callum McKenzie has spared no expense—it’s full
color, with spot UV and raised text. A far cry from the xeroxed
fliers Summer hands out on our sidewalk on days when business is
slow. Clip art and Kinko’s, that’s my style. But Callum
McKenzie’s outclassing me already, and his store isn’t
even open yet.
“Sure,”
I say cheerfully, “I’ll see you there.”
I
give her a wave. But as soon as I’m around the corner, I ball
up the flyer and throw it in the trash.
#
Some
chefs cook when they’re angry. Some scream at their kitchen
workers. Some slam pots and rattle pastry pans. Me? I rage-clean.
Forty-five minutes after I leave Mecca Cakes, with its hard hat crew
and pert, perfect manager, Rock N Roll Cakes is sparkling clean. I’ve
scrubbed the display cases until you can see my face in them,
finished the day’s dishes, and mopped the floor. I even start
scraping the gunk out of our ancient Wedgewood. By the time I hear a
knock at the locked front door, there isn’t a single crumb in
sight. I pull my head out of the oven, push back my ponytailed hair,
and go to let my best friend Ginny inside.
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.
From: [email protected]
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.
From: [email protected]
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.