Tasty (4 page)

At
the counter, I’d mumbled my order quickly and then moved on
down the line to pay. I let my head hang low and hoped he didn’t
see me from the kitchen, where he bellowed and shouted at his cooks
in back. Good, I thought. Let him be distracted. I wasn’t
prepared to face him again, not in person. Not after what happened
today on the sidewalk. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me
who he was, that he just let me talk up my business like he didn’t
already know everything about me. The creep.

“Juliette
Rockwell of Rock N Roll Cakes, innit?”

I
spin around in my seat. There, standing in the middle of his store
like a king surveying his kingdom, is Callum. His entire outfit is
dusted with flour now. He sets his fists on his hips, his broad chest
puffed out like a peacock. It’s like he expects me to be
impressed, but I’m not. I leave my ass firmly planted in that
ridiculous leather armchair.

“Callum
McKenzie,” I say coolly, and for a moment, I feel
ridiculous—like a superhero confronting a supervillain, or
maybe the other way around. But I let my lip curl into a sinister
smirk anyway. I definitely don’t want to seem self-conscious in
front of him. I need to be calm. Self-possessed. “What do they
call you? Der Cake Fuhrer?”

“Actually,
my friends call me Cal.”

“Didn’t
know we were friends.”

“Always
thought all bakers were friends,” he says amicably, like he
actually believes it. “Comrades in the great pastry oven of
life.”

I
wrinkle my nose. “You suck at metaphors,” I say. He looks
baffled, like he can’t believe that I’m not kissing his
feet and asking for an autograph. But how could I? Across the store I
spot Stella Townsend, whose wedding cake I slaved over, waltzing out
with a minimalist cake box all tied up with some burlap twine.
Callum’s store is packed full of
my
customers.
If it weren’t for Mrs. O’Gilligan, I’d think there
was no loyalty in the world at all.

“Sorry,”
I say at last, a little more gently this time. “I guess I’m
sore that you didn’t tell me who you were before.”

“You
didn’t give me a chance. If you’d let me finish my
sentence—”

“You’re
used to holding court, aren’t you?” I’m getting
angry again. He’s standing there, handsome and self-assured,
green eyes burning in the clear, expansive light that fills this
space. He wants to talk, but I’d bet good money that he doesn’t
care at all what I have to say. But I won’t be cowed. “Well,
I’m not one of your dopey little counter girls. If you think
I’m just going to lie down and take this, you have another
thing coming.”

But
he’s not at all rattled by my words. Instead, he only smirks at
me.

“Afraid
of a little friendly competition, are you? Well, I’m not. I’m
a self-made man. I’ve fought for everything I had. Every brick
in this building, every girder, every cuppa flour I earned with elbow
grease and hard work. I’m not going to let a pretty little girl
like you scare me, Juliette—”

“It’s
Jules.”

“I
like Juliette better.” Even though my name sounds lilting and
lovely on his tongue, I cringe. Not even Ginny calls me Juliette.
That name was reserved for my grandmother, and no one else.
Definitely not this guy.

“It’s
not up to you,
Cal
.
Forget friendly competition. We’re not friends. We’re
competitors. There’s only enough room in Key West for one
bakery, and we both know it.”

He
sets his hands on his hips. His lush, full lips are lightly smiling.
Damn, if he wasn’t so handsome this would all be a lot harder
to swallow. But his chest is so broad and muscular beneath his
T-shirt that I can see his muscles tense as he speaks.

“Well
then, let the best man win. But I have to say, Juliette, that I think
today was a notch in my belt.”

“Why’s
that?”

“Grand
opening, for one thing. And I think you’d agree it was a
smashing success.” He holds up his hands again, indicated the
packed, echoing, industrial space. He’s right. I scowl. If the
business here is any indication, Mecca Cakes is going to be very
popular in Key West. I’m a goner. He’s still smiling as
he adds, “Fer another, you seemed to have enjoyed my cupcake.”

I
look down. Crumpled in my palm is the paper wrapper and a few crumbs.
They’re all that’s left of Cal’s Tahitian
vanilla/Key lime creation. I hadn’t even realized I’d
scarfed the whole thing down.

And
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it.

“Argh,”
is all I manage to say. I ball up the wrapper, and shove it into
Cal’s waiting hand. “You haven’t seen the last of
me, Callum McKenzie.”

I’m
furious
,
but as I push
through the crowd and head toward the door, Cal only lets out a warm
laugh at me.

“I
was counting on that, Juliette.”

I
don’t even dignify that with a response. Instead, I hightail it
out of Mecca Cakes, grab my bike, and take off through the streets of
Key West.

#

“How’d
it go?” Summer asks boredly as I burst into Rock N Roll Cakes,
the bell ringing on the door behind me.

“Terrible!”
I exclaim. I let out a dramatic moan, burying my head on the counter.
Summer gingerly touches my hair with her fingertips.

“There,
there,” she says, without a single ounce of empathy or kindness
in her voice. “I’m sure Mrs. O’Gilligan liked her
cupcakes. And if she hated them, it doesn’t really matter. In
our neighborhood, there aren’t exactly a metric shit ton of
bakeshops.”

I
rub my eyes. Just two weeks ago, Summer would have been right. But
there’s a new threat in town.

“I’m
not talking about the Pink Surprises. That went fine. Mrs. O’Gilligan
liked them so much I think I saw her stuff a few in the stripper’s
G-string. I’m talking about the grand opening of Mecca Cakes.”

“Oh
yeah, that,” Summer says. “I’ve been watching the
virtual launch all day on Twitter. It’s been trending for
hours.”

“What?”
I say, lifting my head off the counter. I realize then that Summer’s
been staring at her phone since I came through the door. “You
know, I’m not paying you to mess around on Twitter all day.”

“Yeah,
you’re paying me to serve
all
these customers
.”
She indicates the empty shop with one listless hand. “Besides,
this is work-related. Don’t you want to know what they’re
saying?”

I
purse my lips. I hate to admit that Summer’s got a point, but I
do want to know what people are saying about Cal’s shop—I
really, really do.

“Okay,
hit me.”

“Here’s
a good one. KeyWestGurl45 says,
Wow,
@callummckenzie is just as tasty in person as he is on TV.
#MeccaCakes #KeyWest #hottie
.”

I
roll my eyes. Sure, Cal’s a fine slice of cake. But how much
does that really matter, anyway? The proof’s in the pudding. Or
the ganache, so to speak.

“Get
to the good stuff. What are they saying about his cakes?”

“Hmm.
Okay. FloridaFoodie says,
This
strawberry poundcake is to. Die. For. #meccacakes #mmmmmmmmmm
.
That’s ten M’s. Not nine. Or eleven.”

“Thank
you for counting, Summer.”

“I
aim to please.”

She
flashes me a view of her teeth, but it looks more like she’s
going to eat me than a real smile. I feel a sudden burst of anger,
not at Summer, but at Callum McKenzie. I fight the urge to get down
on my knees and start scrubbing. Because the store is already
spotless, and getting angry won’t help a thing. It’s time
to be proactive instead. I whip my phone out of my back pocket and
open up Twitter.

“New
tweet,” I say to Summer, narrating as I type. “
RNR
Cakes welcomes @callummckenzie to the hood! Let’s celebrate. 1
free Pink Surprise with a receipt from #meccacakes!
”

“Are
you sure that’s a good idea?” Summer asks. But I’m
grinning down at my phone already.

“Of
course it’s a good idea! We’ll remind our regulars why
we’re their favorite. And we’ll look generous in the
process.”

“Yeah,
but are you sure you can afford to give that many cupcakes away? I
mean, I’ve been working here for four years and you still
haven’t given me a raise. Every time I ask, you tell me you
can’t afford it. And I’m
awesome
.”

I
flit my hand through the air. I’m not going to let Summer’s
pessimism stop me, not right now when I’m feeling pumped.

“You’re
the best, kid. But this is only a one-time promotion. I’ll eat
the cost. Get that oven preheated. We’ve got cupcakes to bake.”

Summer
rolls her eyes and goes to fire up the Wedgewood. I head to the
KitchenAid and start mixing. Soon, customers are filing into the
store, brandishing their Mecca Cakes receipts. The crowd fills my
tiny store to the brim. It’s noisy, claustrophobic—and
awesome. Maybe it’s the heat from the oven, but I’m
glowing. It’s working! Soon, all this nonsense will be nothing
but a memory.

But
then, in between boxing up freebies, I make the mistake of glancing
at my phone. I furrow my brow. Callum McKenzie’s tweeted. Not
at
me, but clearly about me.

@callummckenzie: So pitiful when the competition
gets scared. Nothing stinks worse than desperation.

I
shove my phone back into my pocket, then tie the cake box with my
signature black and white bow.

“Thank
you. Please come again!” I say, as I hand off the free cupcake.
My expression is forced, cheerful.

But
inside, I’m furious—and plotting all the ways I can clean
the Wedgewood after we close.

For
four days, we’re swamped as everyone and their grandmother
stops by Rock N Roll Cakes with a receipt from Cal’s store, on
the hunt for free food. And for four days, we see a slight uptick in
business as curious freebie shoppers decide that they might as well
pick up a pie or a cake for mom’s Sunday dinner while they’re
there. But by the end of the week, everything is dead again.
Actually, come to think of it, everything is
way
deader than usual. One customer a day, two if you count Mrs. O’G.
I’ve never seen it like this here, not even when the economy
was at its worst. But here we are. Ten in the morning, and even the
usual breakfast croissant crowd is missing. Off to Mecca Cakes, I
guess, where they can get premade, prewrapped muffins in Cal’s
signature brown paper wrappers.

“Do
you want me to clean the stove again?” Summer asks. That’s
what I’ve had her do every day for the last four. There have
been no pies to bake, no cakes to prep, no customers to ring up,
either. I keep hoping that business will pick up, but no luck, so
far.

But
the door jingles before I can answer. I perk up. Summer arches her
eyebrows, the closest she ever comes to excited. It’s Sage
Tunlaw, one of our regulars. She’s a sixty-something old hippie
who always dresses in flimsy, flowing robes with a bikini underneath.
You can see everything: every stretch mark and wrinkle on her ancient
belly. But it never seems to bother Sage.

“Sage!”
I say, maybe a little too brightly as I start to box up her favorite
carrot cake muffin. “The usual?”

But
she holds up a hand, and in that hand is a receipt with the words
MECCA
CAKES
emblazoned on top.

“Are
you still running the Pink Surprise promotion, sister?”

I
grit my teeth. Usually Sage’s earth mother vibes get on my
nerves, sure. But she’s
definitely
not
my sister if she spends her retirement cash at Cal’s and then
comes here looking for a hand-out.

“No,
that’s over.”

“Oh!”
Her face falls. She gazes down at the receipt. “I was sure
you’d honor your word.”

Anger
flashes hot inside of me. “You know, I have bills to pay—”
I start, but then I see out of the corner of my vision how Summer’s
eyes have gone wide. She starts boxing up a Pink Surprise.

“Jules
is a fucking girl scout,” she says. “On my honor. All
that crap.”

She
jostles the cupcake a little bit going in, but still manages to smile
at Sage, which is more than I can say for myself. Sage takes the cake
box and clutches it to her chest.

“Thank
you, sister. You know, I was so
thrilled
when I heard
Callum
McKenzie
was opening a shop in our little town. I’m sure you are, too,
Jules. I have all of his cookbooks. They’re amazing. I bet
there’s so much you can learn from him.”

Now
my
eyes are wide. Summer rushes around the counter.

“I
think you should go, Sage.”

“But
I was simply saying—”

“GO,”
Summer says. And then, when Sage doesn’t move, she actually
curls her lips into snarl and lets out a wild, dog-like bark. Sage
looks confused, but she rushes from the store anyway, still clutching
her cake box to her chest.

“GEEZE!”
Summer exclaims as she slams the door shut behind Sage so hard that
all the bells jingle. “I hate that hippie fuck!” Then she
looks over to me. “Are you okay?”

I’m
not okay. After a week of holding shit together, after all that
struggle and anger and planning and determination, I’m starting
to deflate, fast. The whole thing with Sage was the last in a string
of disappointments. I mean, what happened to sisterhood? We’re
supposed to support each other, right? But even she’s so
star-struck that she has to gush over this stupid, maddening man.
It’s exhausting. I’m exhausted.

“I’m
fine, Summer,” I lie. From her expression, I’m sure she
can see straight through me. But I don’t have the spoons to
reassure Summer right now. I’m hardly keeping it together
myself. “You know, why don’t you go home? There’s
no use in both of us sitting around bored out of our minds.”

Summer
waits a beat. “But I’ll get paid, right?”