Rugged (36 page)

Flint relaxes against the seat, his hair blowing in the breeze. It’s good to have him with me at home in LA—wonderful, really—but I’m happy to see him back in his natural habitat. “How far away is this surprise?” I ask.

“It’s a couple of hours. But it’ll be worth it in the end,” he says. I shrug.

“No worse than the time we drove all the way to New York.” I grin. “I was as happy to see Charlotte as you were, but we could’ve taken AmTrak.”

“Funny you mention Charlotte. She consulted me on this.” He grins.

“Well, now I’m dying to know.” I try to guess. “We’re going to Atlantic City. No, Hartford. No, Utah.”

“Your sense of direction is terrible. We’ve been heading straight east,” Flint laughs. “All right, it’s the ocean. You don’t spend much time by the Atlantic. I wondered what you’d think of it,” he says. I lean my head back against the headrest and smile.

“I get the feeling I’ll love it.” I love most things these days. Sunshine. Trees. Adorable babies. Quarterly taxes. All right, maybe not the last one.

Soon, we’re driving down the highway with the ocean to our right, and I’m gazing out at the most beautiful, crisp blue water imaginable. The California coast is steep and mountainous, very grand and majestic, but this coast is full of white sand and wispy sea grass, crooked wooden fences and docks leading out onto the water. It feels gentler, more like home would.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, breathing in the salt air.

“Good. I want your opinion on something.” Flint signals right, and we turn off the highway onto a long, beachy stretch of land. We park the truck near the edge of a rocky ledge, which looks out at the ocean. After we get out, we walk to the drop point, hand in hand, and I see it’s not too far down to the beach. God, what a view.

“Did you get a contract to build here?” I ask.

“I got the land. Construction starts in a month. Should take no time at all.” He pulls me against him and kisses me. Even with the chilly ocean air, I’m instantly warm.

“Who’s the lucky owner?” I smile.

“You, as a matter of fact. And me.” He looks out over the astonishing view. “We’ve got your place in LA, my place in Northampton. I figured this could be our getaway, a vacation from everything. What do you think? Is it okay?”

I’m not the bursting into happy fits of tears type of person, but I am the ‘need a moment to collect myself so I don’t make a sobbing, squeaky noise’ type.

“I think you’ve got yourself a fellow vacationer.” I throw my arms around Flint and attack his mouth with mine, trailing one naughty hand down the front of his pants.

“Easy, there,” he says, breathless as we break apart. “I’m adventurous, but I’m not sure I want to take off my clothes and christen the new place just yet.”

I’m almost tempted to change his mind, but…no. Too many perverted seagulls around.

“Soon though,” he says, kissing me again. “We don’t have to rush. I think we’ve got a while,” he whispers in my ear.

“A long while,” I say. Maybe forever?

Yeah.

Forever sounds good.

THE END.

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It's been a year since I first published The Billionaire Bargain, practically on a lark. It's been an unexpectedly satisfying and creative period for me.

Thank you Roxy Sloane for your friendship and encouraging me on this path.

Thank you Rose, Liz C, Donna, Jennifer, Shely, Peggy Lee, Amanda, Cat, and so many more who show enthusiasm for my work and share their enthusiasm with the reading community and me.

Thank you blogs, big and small, for giving me a platform to connect with readers. In particular these blogs who have allowed me to "take over" their pages and whose cheerleading is seemingly endless: The Bookalicious Babes Blog, The Literary Gossip, Dirty Laundry Review, Afterdark Book Lovers, and Obsessed With MyShelf.

Much appreciation to Cynthia Y., contractor extraordinaire and femme fatale in a tool belt. I know you'll never look at a torque wrench the same again.

Keep reading for a sneak peak of a new release by Bella Cruise!

TASTY by Bella Cruise

A sexy stand-alone novel from Bella Cruise.

She wants a taste - but he’s off-limits.
Cupcake queen Jules Rockwell has sworn off men. All men. Because heartbreak is a bitch. But when sexy chef Cal McKenzie shows up in town - with a soft as butter Scottish accent and abs you could like frosting off - she wonders if maybe a no-strings fling is exactly what she needs. 

Then she finds out the truth: he’s opening up his own rival bakery, right down the street from her store. Her sexy fling is now her #1 competition - and Jules never backs down from a fight.  

Cal McKenzie doesn’t play by the rules. His sex appeal and chocolate eclairs are a deadly combination, and he’s got his eye on worldwide pastry domination - but he didn’t reckon on Jules. Full of wit and spice, she's more than just a sexy hook-up. But as their chemistry heats up, so does their rivalry. With her heart and her career on the line, Jules isn't sure she can risk it all again. 

She’s been burned before. Will this fling satisfy both their cravings?

Chapter One

My grandmother always said, “Men are like cupcakes. You have to lick a lot of icing to find one worth finishing off.” I think Grams knew plenty about variety (the spice of life!) but fuck-all about love. She was especially no help when it came to staying in a relationship. She had six husbands, and was engaged to be married to a seventh when she passed away at the ripe old age of ninety-two. God bless her. I got her recipe cards and first edition
Joy of Cooking
when she died. But I have to admit, sometimes I wish she’d passed down the secret of real, honest-to-goodness love, too. Maybe if she had, I wouldn’t be leaning over my laptop on a slow day at my bakery, trying to come up with a dirty metaphor for buttercream.

[email protected]:

You there, muffin?

But fuck it. Maybe Grams had the right idea. I’m pretty finished with love these days, anyway. Sexting and cybering are plenty for me, especially after I went through some traumatic heartbreak a few years ago. It’s healthier, safer, and a hell of a lot more fun. Smiling wickedly, my eyes scan the shop for some inspiration.

Rock n Roll Cakes is a cozy little place, decked out in retro decor, with a checkerboard floor and a fifties vibe. We even have a vintage Wedgewood stove in back, which adds to the charm even though my shop assistant, Summer, is always threatening to leave it on the curb. Anyway, my shop offers lots of inspiration for poodle skirt jokes, but that isn’t quite what I’m looking for. Not today, and not with this guy. At last, my gaze falls on the icing injector tool on the counter.

[email protected]:

Sorry! I was just cleaning up the icing. Was finishing off a big order and it got alllllll over me. It’s everywhere. I’m dripping in it.

There’s a long pause. I let my eyes linger out the front window of my shop. It’s a beautiful Friday in Key West. The sky has just started to go orange and pink at the corners. The palm trees are shivering in the breeze. The sidewalks are packed with tourists, and while usually that would get me a little bit panicked about the lack of business, today I’m content to sit on my laptop and flirt with my anonymous online paramour. Let Summer finish up the groom’s cake for a client’s wedding. I have bigger cakes to bake.

[email protected]:

. . . where?

[email protected]:

Hidden in some unusual places. You know those icing injector tools?

[email protected]:

Of course.

I feel my wicked grin grow. Of course he knows about icing injector tools. I met this guy on the biggest bakery industry forum on the internet. He was arguing against the proliferation of gluten free bake shops in New York City. Those Williamsburg hipsters and their food allergies! I chimed in over direct messages in enthusiastic agreement, and sparks flew from there. We quickly took things off board to g-chat, but I know he’ll always back me up when it comes to crunchy Key West mamas and their disgusting penchant for agave syrup.

Or maybe I should say I “met” cupcakecasanova because I know almost nothing about him. I know that he lives in New York. I know that he hates food substitutions with a passion that borders on demonic. I know that he prefers chocolate to vanilla, strawberry to raspberry, oral to almost everything else . . . but I don’t even know his name.

My hands fly over the keys.

[email protected]:

Ours is just *so* hard and shiny and big. I can hardly get a grip on it.

[email protected]:

How big?

[email protected]:

Twelve, thirteen inches . . .

[email protected]:

Daaaaamn!

[email protected]:

Usually I have no problem handling something that size, but my hands just get so slippery when I’m working. Today I managed to squirt chocolate ganache right up my

--but before I can finish that thought, the bell on our front door jangles. I slam my laptop shut, and look up with a perfect, professional smile. A familiar face greets me: Wes Lansing, a high school buddy of mine. Okay, maybe we were more than buddies once. But he’s got a wife and a gut and a gaggle of kids now keeping him busy. All I have are my innuendos and my cake stands. Still, I’m always happy to see his face.

“Wes!” I say, leaning over the counter to press a kiss to his stubbly cheek. He lets out a low, easy chuckle. When I pull away, I see how he’s blushing a faint red. Some things never change.

“‘llo Jules,” he rumbles. “How’s business?”

“Slow!” comes a sarcastic voice from in back. That’s Summer. She has two modes: skeptical, and extreme eye roll. It would be real pain in the ass, if she wasn’t so damned good at her job. But she can cook a poundcake as rich as a gold brick, shape marzipan into miniature unicorns, and whip up a wedding cake all in an afternoon, so I keep her around. I let out an easy laugh.

“Slow,” I agree. Wes shakes his head.

“Oh. Hoped things would pick up after all that television hullaballoo.”

Wes means
Park Avenue Princess
, the reality TV show that filmed in our hometown about forty miles north last year. Pixie, the princess in question, almost got hitched to her rock star boyfriend--and I was supposed to supply the cake. But the wedding never happened. Pixie fell for the wedding planner’s dashing assistant instead. Though I saw a small spike in business right around the time their tasting aired, I never got my grand unveiling: the twelve tiered monstrosity of double-chocolate bourbon I’d crafted especially with rock star Clyde Kincaid in mind. Their cake smash was supposed to by my moment in the limelight! Instead, I still have half that thing taking up space in our deep freezer.

“What can you do?” I say, forcing a cheerful shrug. I don’t like to let people know that I’m struggling, especially not my high school ex. He doesn’t need to know that I’m barely in the black most months.

“I’ll tell you what I can do,” Wes says, and he pulls out his wallet. “I can order a few cupcakes from you--”

“Wes,” I say, doing my best not to cringe. It feels weird to take money from him. For one thing, he’s a cop, and they usually eat free in my shop. For another, I once gave him a handjob on a science class field trip. What can I say? We were in a planetarium. It was dark. Stars are sexy.

But Wes won’t take no for an answer. “No, no. They’re not for me. They’re for Camille’s soccer fundraiser. We’ll need six dozen, black and gold icing. I want them to say ‘Go Poodle Moths’ on them, and if you can draw a poodle moth, too, that’d be great. The kids would love that.”

I stare at him a minute, hoping he’s joking. But then he gives me his best cop-glower.

“What are you waiting for?”

Hastily, I reach for a pad and begin jotting down Wes’ order. “Black and yellow, you said?”

“No, black and
gold
.”

I do my best not to roll my eyes. I’d forgotten why Wes and I had broken up. He always seems so sweet in my memories, like a Floridian Clark Kent with manners and muscles to match. But he can also be a real prick sometimes.

“When do you need them by?”

“Tonight before I head back up to Pelican Key. Don’t want to have to be driving down the Overseas Highway at the asscrack of dawn tomorrow before Camille’s meet just to pick up some cupcakes.”

Wes chuckles again, like he’s made a real clever joke. But I only glance at the Felix the Cat clock that hangs by the door. It’s almost three--just two hours until closing. We’ll have to work fast, but I’m not about to turn away an order for six dozen cupcakes.

“Sure!” I say cheerfully. I ring him up. Wes pays, then slips a single into the tip jar with a wink.

“See you at five,” he says, then lets out a low, tuneless whistle as he saunters out the door, the bell jingling behind him.

There’s a moment’s silence before Summer’s voice lifts up from the back, dry, as always.

“What the fuck’s a poodle moth ?” she asks.