The discovery of a new dish does more for the happiness of the human race than the discovery of a star.
–Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin
Guy
As soon as Carson returns, my entire body tenses and I want to leap up and demand answers. I force myself into stillness, disturbed to realize it’s requiring a concerted effort to act unaffected and normal.
I have not been waiting for him all morning to return with my latest request.
I have not been thinking about a beautiful redhead for the last week.
And I have not been thinking about kissing a problematic baker with frosting in her hair and a temper that makes her eyes spark and chest heave.
Maybe if I keep lying to myself, those statements will become true.
“Just leave it there.” I motion to the empty space at the corner of my desk. Like the item is unimportant.
Carson sets the small box down and I wave him away, typing on my computer and focusing like I’m in the middle of something serious.
Maybe I’ve been thinking about her a little. Maybe I thought about it all day yesterday and made a point to come up with plans to see her again, even though I have other, more important things to worry about, and I could probably drive her and her little food truck away without having to actually see her again.
But her words keep playing like a loop in my mind, when you use your power for evil instead of good you are doing your part to limit the voice of others, and even though my initial reaction was immediate and unequivocal denial, in retrospect I can’t help but consider, is she right? Even a little bit?
My mind plays over every employee I’ve ever fired or had harsh words for. The number is substantial.
Shame slithers through me like an insidious snake, biting at will. I’ve always existed in this bubble of my own making, ignoring anyone and anything outside it, including people and situations I’d shoved away myself. It allowed me to pick and choose how I perceived my own actions and everyone outside the bubble didn’t matter or exist. But what Scarlett said…. Maybe she’s right.
I wait until Carson is on the phone, scheduling deliveries or something before I reach for the cupcake.
There’s a sticker holding the top fold together. For Goodness Cakes, written in a rainbow swirl of color. I pry it off and open the delicately folded box slowly.
The flavor is written in script on the inside. Rhett Velvet. Red velvet chocolate chip with a butter crème ganache.
There are three miniature cakes in the box. We engage in the stare down, the cupcakes and me.
I have no choice but to blink first. It’s the details that give away the skill behind the ridiculous name and frivolous packaging.
It’s perfectly arranged in the little box, and the frosting isn’t marred or smudged at all. It’s hard to believe this flawless confection came from the same woman who set me on fire and can’t even keep her clothes and hair in order, just in general. At least, not the two times I’ve seen her.
I want it to be bad.
I want it to be good.
I sigh and take a bite.
The flavors melt on my tongue, a flawless balance of flavors, sweet and savory and light. It’s perfect. As someone who requires perfection in all things, I can recognize it when I taste it. Despite what I told her, cupcakes might be simple, but there’s an art to all cooking and we both know it. There’s something surprising in the frosting. A hint of cayenne, I think. Not enough to give it any kind of heat, just a slight smoky essence.
“Carson!” I call.
“Yes?” He’s already at the door.
“Did you try one?”
He hesitates and glances away.
I stare at him. I know he’s been over there nearly every day, and it’s not like I’m going to get mad at him. But still, he won’t meet my gaze. This again. Am I really such an ogre? I mean, I know I am, it’s part of a carefully cultivated image, but it’s also how I get things done and how I’ve made a name for myself, which now creates hundreds of jobs for others. But still. Have I become immune to myself?
“Yes,” he says finally.
“Did you have the same?” I hold up what’s left of the cake in my hand.
“No.” His eyes shift away again. “There was a special today.”
I lift a brow.
He smirks. “It’s called, ‘Guy Chapman is a butt-sniffing douche double chocolate with nougat’.”
I press my lips together. “Really. That’s quite a mouthful.”
His brows lift at my response and I work to keep my expression blank.
His smirk rolls into an all-out grin. “She used a dark chocolate crème anglaise. The cake was good, but the nougat filling, it was inspired. You have to admit it’s kind of funny.”
“Right. Funny.” I will not smile.
When I don’t say anything further, Carson steps away, moving back toward his desk.
“Carson,” I bark.
He steps back to the threshold, waiting for me to continue.
“Do you think I’m mean?”
A few beats of silence pass while he stares at me, wide eyed. “Are you for real?”
My teeth clench. “I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t.”
He shifts from one foot to another. “Well, it’s really kind of subjective.”
I make a derisive sound. “You never quibble over semantics. Tell me straight.”
“You know people are scared of you.”
That’s not an answer. “Do you think I use my influence for evil instead of good?”
“No. I think you’re dedicated to success and you know how many people rely on you. You might be demanding, but you know you have to be strong enough for everyone and you demand no more than you demonstrate.”
For some reason, his words don’t make me feel any better. Being an unemotional prick doesn’t make me strong. Scarlett laid herself bare right in front of me, showing me all her weakest spots. But that didn’t make her fragile or pathetic. Showing her vulnerable underside to me, her current enemy, was probably the bravest thing I’ve ever witnessed. I’ve always lived under a hard and fast rule of flaunting only competence, but showing weakness takes real courage. Real strength.
I consider Carson, his perfect suit and manicured moustache. “You’ve never been scared of me. Not even during your first interview.”
One shoulder lifts in a half shrug. “My dad is six foot five, a two-hundred and fifty-pound former collegiate linebacker and he loves Jesus. I had to have a conversation with him about how much I enjoy penis. Nothing scares me after that.”
I nod.
I don’t want to do it, not really, but I need that slice of real estate in order to continue to pay my staff, Carson included. It’s unfortunate Scarlett is going to get caught in the crossfire but it’s inevitable. There is more on the line than she realizes and there are things out of my control. Like Oliver.
“Get Officer Jackson on the phone.” Jerome is a friend from high school he owes me a favor because I catered his niece’s sweet sixteen last year.
Carson regards me, his expression carefully blank. “Are you sure?”
“There aren’t any other choices.”
He disappears from the doorway and a few seconds later, he’s on the phone.
I take another bite of the Rhett Velvet and can’t help but wonder what the ‘Guy Chapman is a butt-sniffing douche double chocolate with nougat’ cupcake tastes like. I almost wish I could try one.
“Funny,” I murmur. “Clever marketing, too.” Especially from my employees, apparently.
“I’ve got Officer Jackson,” Carson calls.
I lean back in my chair and pick up the phone. Scarlett said she doesn’t have a choice. Well, neither do I. Not really.
We’re on the couch watching Mr. Bean, one of Emma’s favorite shows, when my phone rings.
“Jerome,” I answer. “Tell me something good.”
Emma reaches over and pokes me in the mouth. I swipe her hand away and she grins at me then points at the TV.
Mr. Bean is in a karate class, shoving the teacher over and rolling him in a mat.
Jerome speaks in my ear. “Man, you didn’t tell me what a piece Scarlett was. You could warn a brother.”
“A piece?”
Emma reaches for my face again and I stand to avoid her. Ava sits on my other side and she swats at my thigh. “You’re ruining the show, this is Emma’s favorite part.”
I sneak off into the next room to have the conversation in relative peace.
Jerome continues. “She is something else. She told me she was nervous because I might have to cuff her. Gave me all kinds of ideas.”
I have a sudden and visceral vision of punching Jerome right in the face. Clenching my teeth together, I ignore his statement and force out the question. “Did you check the permit?”
“Yeah, it all checked out. She’s clean. Not much I could do, except get her number.”
“You got her number? You were supposed to scare her, not hit on her.” Heat flushes up the back of my neck. Blood starts a low simmer in my veins.
“She’s gorgeous and she bakes. It’s a no-brainer.”
“You’re a no-brainer.” Great. Now I’ve turned into a middle-schooler.
Jerome laughs. “Does that mean she’s off-limits? Bro code?”
I take a deep breath and glance into the living room where Emma and Ava are watching Mr. Bean, the light from the TV playing over their faces. Emma laughs at something, accompanied by the laugh track emanating from the TV. “No. She’s not off limits. Call her all you want.” The words are forced out through clenched teeth.
Jerome, the dick, laughs harder. “Cool, man, maybe I will. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“You do that.”
“You coming to poker night next week?”
“I’ll have to check my schedule.”
My old friends from college have a long-standing poker night, which I’ve never made. My schedule is too crammed. All my time is spent between work and taking care of the girls.
“Uh huh. I know what that means. You take care, man. And, hey, let me know if you change your mind and decide you like cupcakes after all, okay?”
I hang up on his chuckles and go back to the living room, resuming my spot between my sisters.
Emma pats my head gracelessly and leans against my side, a comforting warmth.
It bothers me more than it should that the annoying baker gave her number to my friend.
It continues to bother me through two more episodes of Mr. Bean and getting the girls ready for bedtime, and even leaks into the next morning.
I get to Decadence an hour late, and For Goodness Cakes is parked outside, mocking me with its colorful visage, happy and bright red and glaring. The generator hums, sending a corresponding drumming through my veins.
Once inside my office, I try to focus on work, but everything takes forever because I can’t get her out of my mind. The things she said, her dark blue eyes, her sincerity and that damn delicious cupcake.
By the time dinner service is about to begin, I’m ready to give up. I can’t let my emotions interfere with business but the need to see her is like an itchy scab that begs to be scratched—but you know if you do, you’ll just bleed.
And that’s why, for the first time in years, I break my routine. I should be here, making sure everything runs smoothly for the intimate seating tonight, but I can’t take it anymore.
Standing, I grab my coat from the rack behind my desk and stalk out.
Laughter and the clank of dishes fill the kitchen, chefs talking over the running sink as the staff cleans dishes and preps ingredients.
“You asshole!” Beatrice throws her apron at Joseph, but they both freeze when they see me passing through.
I don’t have to say anything; they immediately start moving back to their stations, leaving the apron discarded on the floor. I pick it up and a lump of something orange and gooey slides out.
“What’s this?” I ask.
Joseph laughs, the sound high pitched with nerves, “It’s just a prank. I’ll clean it up.” He scrambles in front of me and kneels on the floor with a rag, scrubbing vigorously.
My lips twist. Kitchen pranks. They happen everywhere and normally I might snap at them to make better use of paid time and not waste my eggs but this time…they’ve given me an idea.
“It’s fine.” Without further thought, I hand him the apron and grab a couple of eggs from the carton on the counter on my way out of the kitchen, sliding them carefully into the front pocket of my jacket, my mind already across the street.
“What’s with him?” Someone says behind me in a shocked voice, as I’m leaving, but I don’t pay them any mind. I’ve got a chef to chat with.
The truck window is closed, but light spills through the cracks. I shove my hands into my coat huff out a visible breath into the freezing night air. A lone snowflake drifts in an erratic pattern in front of me on a bitterly cold breeze, an omen of more to come. The girls will be happy if we get a good snowfall before Christmas. They love sledding in Central Park.
I round the red shiny truck to the back door and knock sharply three times.
No sounds of movement from within.
Maybe she’s avoiding me again.
But then she opens the door and I step back in surprise.
“Oh, it’s you.” She wipes her hands on a bright orange dishtowel and considers me with a scowl. “I thought maybe this time you called your momma on me when your cop buddy wasn’t enough.”
“That would be quite the feat for me to accomplish.”
“Why?”
“My mother passed five years ago.”
“Oh. Sorry.” She peers over my head out the door. “It’s fixing to snow. You better—,” she eyeballs me and then comes to a decision, “—come in before you catch your death.”
I step into a gentle heat that smells like vanilla and sugar. I glance around the space. My first thought is warm and cozy. And clean. There’s a double oven on one side with a coffee/tea set up and storage for food and supplies. She’s not wearing her apron and I locate it hanging on the back of the door I came through.
She turns away, wiping down an already clean counter. “What did you want?”
“Just wondering if tomorrow’s special will be as interesting as the one from the other day.”
“I don’t know, you’ll have to find out from your spies.” She turns around, folding her arms over her chest and leaning back against the counter.
“I’ve got some suggestions, actually.”
“This should be good.”
“What about, ‘Guy Chapman has impeccable apple creme cinnamon buns’?”
“Not sure it would sell. You’re lucky all I’ve done is name a cupcake after you, considering what you pulled.”
I shrug it off. “It was just a cop. Would you rather I called the health inspector?”
She turns around to face me, her shoulders tense. “Do your worst. I have all my permits and I follow code to the letter.”
I glance around, frowning in judgment, a move that normally makes people nervous. Scarlett isn’t deterred, and watches me in stony silence.
I try a different tact, taking a step closer in the small space so we’re only a couple feet apart. “You know this is all giving me even more publicity. Thanks for helping me out.”
She scowls. “If it was really helping you out, you wouldn’t be here harassing me.”
“I’m not harassing you. I’m just here to talk to a neighbor. Being neighborly. Maybe I need a cup of sugar.”
“This is intimidation tactics.” She points at me. “I know your methods. And you’re sending your spies over here and sampling my goods.”
“Sampling your goods?” I lift a brow. I only wish I could sample a bite of any part of her. The small taste the other night was not enough.
I freeze at the thought. Where did that come from? I absolutely cannot sample any of her goods, not that she would offer again.
But I can’t stop staring. There’s bit of something on her collarbone, a swipe of flour, and it inexplicably makes me want to bite her, right there. What kind of sound would she make if I did?
“Did you eat it?” she asks, after a too long silence.
I blink. What were we talking about? “Eat what?”
“One of my cupcakes.”
I cross my arms over my chest, mimicking her pose across the small space. “I did.”
Her mouth pops open. “You did?”
“It was too dry. The cayenne in the frosting was okay, but it might be better if you used cardamom instead.”
She turns away, fumbling with a mixer on the counter. “You’re full of it. That cake was perfect.”
I lean over, moving quickly before she turns around again and drop the eggs into the pocket of her apron hanging at the door.
I step back quickly, just before she faces me, except I came back a bit too far and we’re even closer now in the confined space.
“Is anything ever perfect?” It’s all I’ve ever cared about, and yet “perfect” is never quite as fulfilling as it seems like it would be.
She’s staring up at me, her eyes large, pupils dilated. She swallows and I watch the delicate bones of her throat move.
“Why are you here? Did you come over to try and intimidate me?”
“Is it working?”
“No. You’re just making me want to best you even more.”
“What are you going to do? Will you name another cupcake after me?” I want to see her eyes spark again.
“I think the idea of butt-flavored cake has worn out its welcome. I can only shock people so many times before it becomes commonplace.”
I want to laugh, but I press my lips together instead. “You can’t say it, can you?”
“Say what?”
“You want to call me an asshole, but you settle on insults like turd nugget and butt-flavor.” I lean toward her, satisfaction filling me when her mouth parts slightly and her breath comes faster.
She’s not unaffected by me; I know this, and I’m glad. I can’t be the only one fighting this attraction. My own breathing is picking up speed, heart thumping a little faster. What is it about this woman that makes me want to break all my own rules?
“Some of us have manners. Were you raised in a barn?”
“Close enough.”
My eyes flick to the smear of flour on her collarbone. “You have flour on you. Maybe you should wear that apron you left over there before you start baking. I think that’s a health code regulation.”
She groans in frustration and steps away, using my comment as an excuse to get away from me, likely, reaching for the garment. “I hate you.”
“Good.” Because I’m supposed to be keeping her at arm’s length and not doing…whatever it is I’m doing right now.
She’s blushing. Flustered. She grabs the apron and yanks it off the hook to send the eggs flying.