Tasty (3 page)

“Nah,
just spam.” I clear my throat. “Let’s get going.
Don’t want to miss those reservations.”

Ginny
shrugs. We exit out the back. But even as our conversation turns to
Luke and their wedding plans, I can’t help but think about the
mystery man who’s out there, somewhere, waiting for me to write
back. Because I know that as soon as I get home, I’ll be
grabbing my rabbit, jumping online, and sending him an IM. I just
can’t help myself.

Even
when I should know better.

If
there’s one thing I love about being a small business owner,
it’s the power of word of mouth. Mrs. O’Gilligan loves my
Pink Surprise cupcakes so much that she’s told all her old
Harley biddies about it, and on Saturday I get an order for three
dozen of them for a Ladies’ Tea she’s hosting for her
best friend’s ninety-fifth. I spend Sunday and Monday licking
my wounds over Mecca Cakes, doing my best to distract myself with my
anonymous beau and my shower massager. Then I wake up bright-eyed and
bushy-tailed Tuesday morning, ready to work.

“What
are you on?” Summer asks, watching me as I pull out our cherry
red industrial KitchenAid. I grab a rag and start polishing it to a
shine. It’s a fair question. Most mornings, I linger over my
latte, check my email, and let her handle the prep work for the day.
But maybe that’s been my problem. I haven’t been getting
my hands dirty enough lately. I’ve been checked out, coasting.
No more. Not if I’m going to defend my business against Callum
McKenzie.

“I’m
high on life, Summer,” I tell her, sopping the bright red
batter into the cupcake tins. “I had a realization this
weekend. I’m a
business
owner
.
I get to make food for a living, to make people happy! Plenty of
people would kill to be in my position.”

“Yeah,
okay,” Summer says, and she lets out a snort. I roll my eyes
and use the spatula to flatten the batter out in the cups. I’m
not
going to let Summer get me down.

“Don’t
you have any ambitions, Summer? Any dreams?”

“Yes,”
she says, in a flat, dry tone. “Last night I dreamed I rode a
pegacorn through the vast star-prairies of Venus.”

“A
pegacorn?” I ask, as I hand her the cupcake tray. She takes it
and slides it into the Wedgewood.

“A
pegasus with a unicorn horn,” she says, in exactly the same
tone of voice I used with my mother when I was twelve years old.
Like,
Duh,
mom, you should totally know which Hanson brother is which
.

“You’re
a strange woman, Summer.”

“Could
be worse.”

“Could
it?”

“I
could be a grown adult who has no idea what a pegacorn is.”

I
pelt my oven mitt at her head.

#

By
noon, I’m carting the Pink Surprises over to Mrs. O’Gilligan’s
party on the back of our shop bicycle. It’s a blue vintage
Schwinn with a banana seat, a basket, and black and white streamers.
I bought it when I realized we couldn’t afford a delivery
truck, but it’s become a Key West staple. I ring my bell.
People wave as I pedal by. Despite the looming threat of Mecca Cake’s
grand opening, I’m feeling good as I round the corner to the
restaurant where Mrs. O’Gilligan’s friends have all
gathered. I know it’s the right place by the number of gleaming
chrome Harleys parked by the curb, each one shining in the flawless
Key West sunlight.

I’m
so dazzled by the sight, I almost don’t see six feet four
inches of pedestrian planted on the sidewalk.

“Watch
out!” I cry, as I tighten my grip around the handbrake. The
bike skids to a stop. He steps out of my way just in time to avoid my
wheels. But then I watch in horror as the cupcake box goes flying
toward the pavement—and the burly pedestrian takes a dive,
catching them in the nick of time.

“Oh,
thank god,” I say, exhaling hard. But then, as he slowly rolls
up his spine, my breath catches in my throat.

He’s
gorgeous
.
Broad chested, with thick muscles visible beneath his perfect white
T-shirt. There’s a tuft of auburn chest hair showing right at
the base of his throat. His dark blue jeans are slouchy around his
hips, but his posture is straight, confident. He holds out the
cupcakes. He’s got a day’s worth of stubble; his dark
hair is disheveled, but clean.

“Oi,
I think you dropped this.” Oh god, he’s got an accent.
Welsh, maybe, or Scottish. I’ve never been good at telling the
difference.

His
eyes are a dazzling clear shade of green. Maybe one of his parents
was a traffic light, that’s how bright they are. But that’s
not the only reason I’m flustered, my cheeks and throat
suddenly burning. I have a feeling I’ve met him before. It’s
not only those eyes, thickly lashed, or the slightly square shape of
his jaw, or his teeth, perfectly white, and perfectly straight. It’s
something about his smoldering features. They’re intensely,
incredibly familiar.

But
I shake off the feeling. I’m great with names and faces. If I
knew this guy—tall, cut, foreign—I’d
definitely
know his name.

“What
gave you that idea?” I ask, taking the box back. Our hands
brush as I do. I train my expression carefully.

“Call
it intuition. I’m psychic, you know.”

He
actually
winks
at me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a grown man wink,
except in movies. And yet it doesn’t look fake or forced at
all. Only gently teasing.

Well,
two can play at that game. Though my face still feels warm from the
rush of blood, I hold my chin firm and high. Then I glance at the box
I hold in both hands, at the neatly tied ribbon on top.

“Well,
then,” I begin, “tell me what’s in here then.”

“Mmm,”
he says slowly. Then he sets his broad hand on top. Good, no ring. He
curls his fingers slightly, as if he’s trying to read the
contents through his palm. “If I’m not mistaken there’s
no fewer than three dozen cupcakes in that box there.”

My
eyes go wide. Maybe we
do
know
each other. Maybe this is some kind of joke, set up by Summer—revenge
for not knowing about pegacorns. But then he lets out a low, warm
laugh.

“I’m
only pulling your leg. I was standin’ out here a few minutes
ago when a bunch of old ladies accosted me to ask me if I were the
cupcake man. Plus the name of the bakery is all over your bike. And
seeing as to the size of the box, I figured three dozen was a fair
guess.”

“Oh!”
I say, and let out a relieved laugh. For a second, I thought maybe
I’d acquired a stalker. He’s still laughing, too.

“You
looked like you swallowed a flamingo fer a second. Those are the
birds down here in this godforsaken state, yeah?”

“One
of them,” I agree. I start to take a few steps toward the
restaurant. I need to get inside to give Mrs. O’G her cupcakes.
But something is keeping me here, riveted to the sidewalk. Maybe it’s
the way he’s grinning at me, those laser green eyes squinted
into the sunlight. Maybe it’s the way it makes me feel, warm
all over. Or maybe it’s the fact that I still haven’t
shaken the sense that I
know
him.

“Hey,
would you like a cupcake? Since you saved the day and all, I’m
sure the old ladies won’t mind sparing one.”

He
lifts his eyebrows, surprised. I am, too. I never give away baked
goods, except to cops. And even though I could have a good time
imagining this guy in a blue uniform, he lacks the traditional cop
gut. He’s no Wes Lansing, that’s for sure.

“Aye,
would love one,” he says, and holds out a hand. I fumble with
the ribbon and pull out a Pink Surprise. His expression is measured,
even as he takes it from me. One bite is usually all it takes to win
a customer over. But this guy is a tough sell. He takes a taste,
slowly, carefully, posey pink frosting nearly touching his nose. He
swallows, but his expression remains slightly chilly.

“Not
bad. You know, there’s a new bakery in town. Heard it just
opened today—”

God
,
Mecca Cakes! I don’t want to hear it.

“That’s
nice. But you know, Rock N Roll Cakes is a Key West institution.
We’ve been around for years. Our customers are extremely
loyal.”

His
eyebrow arches. He’s still holding the rest of my cupcake in
hand, but he’s yet to take another bite. Damn, it’s not
usually this hard. Maybe he’s one of those low carb freaks.

“Is
that so?” he asks. What’s he getting at? I stand tall.

“You’re
damn right. I’m not worried about Callum McKenzie’s new
place. Those TV chefs think they’re hot shit, but they can’t
compete with a little small-town moxie and charm. I was born and
raised on the Keys, and I’m not going to let myself get scared
of a little competition.”

I’m
hoping he’ll admire the pride I take in my work, but his mouth
is a stiff line.

“Well,”
he says, “nice talking to you. Drive carefully, now. Wouldn’t
want you to break a limb.”

With
that, he hands me back what’s left of the cupcake. I’m
flummoxed. No one’s ever given one of my cupcakes back
half-eaten before! Usually, all that’s left are crumbs. I turn
as he starts to leave, calling to him over my shoulder.

“I’d
love for you to stop by the shop sometime, say hello.”

He
waves one finger toward the palm trees overhead. It’s
half-assed even for a goodbye. Man, I must have seriously blown it.
Too bad, too. Even walking away, this guy’s a treat, all hard
muscles and perfect glutes under those jeans.

But
maybe it’s better, safer. It’s been a long time since
I’ve fallen for a real flesh-and-blood person. People are
messy. And they can hurt you, bad. Safer to keep my love life to the
internet.

I
let out a sigh. Then I stuff what’s left of the Pink Surprise
in my mouth, wipe the crumbs on my pants, and go to make my delivery.

#

Mrs.
O’G and her friends are thrilled by the cupcakes, and even more
thrilled when a male stripper bursts through the door in a fireman
outfit and starts peeling off his clothes. At her insistence, I stay
and watch for a few minutes, but even a red bulging thong doesn’t
cheer me up. I can’t stop thinking about the Scotsman outside,
and how I blew it with him. Damn, I must be really losing my touch.
My baked goods have
never
fallen flat before. I can’t stop thinking about it. As the
fireman gyrates on Mrs. O’G’s lap, I leave the restaurant
and hop on my bike.

I
should be heading back toward the shop. I’ve left Summer there
alone, and the last time that happened, she made a chocolate cake in
the shape of a throbbing cock and terrified a bunch of middle
schoolers who had stopped by after school with their lunch money
hoping for a snack. But instead of returning to the store, I find
myself pedaling straight to Mecca Cakes. Maybe I just want to punish
myself. Usually, when I get in this kind of mood I read all of my
one-star Yelp reviews. But at least here, there’s a chance I
might spot a celebrity.

My
heart sinks into my stomach as I near the store. The line is trailing
halfway around the block. And it’s packed with regulars from
Rock N Roll Cakes, too. As I tie up my bike and get in line, I notice
Jorge Rondon from the restaurant down the street where I get my ropa
viejas. And there, further down, is Chet Keplinger, who fixed my
bicycle when it ran a flat. And I can’t be certain, but I swear
that I see Wes Lansing coming out with a towering cake box. Probably
packed with cupcakes for his little poopsy, poodle moths and all. God
damn it.

It
takes nearly forty minutes until I’m through the gleaming glass
and steel front door of Mecca Cakes. The place is huge—cathedral
ceilings with massive metal girders hanging low, giant steel ovens
lining the back wall, the bakery case spotless and shining and filled
to the brim with every kind of cake you can think of. It’s not
my taste at all. It’s too big, too echoing, and not nearly cozy
enough. But it’s also packed with people, loitering by the
counter, lounging in plush leather chairs all over the front of the
store. This isn’t just a bakeshop. It’s a gathering
place. I have bakery envy, bad. As I shuffle forward in line, I can’t
help but imagine what I’d do if I owned this space. Maybe paint
it in bright colors to reflect the local flavor. Cover those exposed
beams. Make it a little more comfortable, a little less . . . male.

But
that’s a pipe dream. I could never afford the rent on a space
like this. I can barely afford our current postage stamp.

A
booming voice, echoing through the rafters, pulls me out of my sulk.

“Oi,
get off your arse! We have customers waiting here!”

The
man behind the counter has a Scottish accent. Or is it Welsh? I’m
awful at these things. He’s wearing a white T-shirt, and blue
jeans, but he’s thrown a flour-dusted apron overtop both. And
he’s bellowing at the terrified-looking counter girl, who
hustles to cram a slice of cake into a brown paper box.

It’s
the man from the sidewalk. That’s why he looked so familiar.
He’s not just any smarmy Scotsman. He’s Callum McKenzie,
green eyed and perfect and terrifying. He’s the Cake Nazi.

And
he’s my competition.

Twenty
minutes later, I’m sitting in one of the plush leather
armchairs, finally glowering over a Tahitian vanilla cupcake with a
Key lime center. It’s delicious—the perfect contrast of
sweet and sour, light and indulgent. The wrapper is plain brown
paper, no flash or pretention, even though there’s a sliver of
dried lime peel curled on top. It’s like Callum McKenzie has to
make a big show about how little he cares even though his work
reveals the truth. He does care. A lot. No lazy baker takes the time
to sugar lime peels if he doesn’t have to.