Tasty (6 page)

“I
bought the beer, actually. But please, no kisses. Your undying love
is enough thanks.”

“Sure,
Jules,” Luke says, chuckling. He’s still holding Ginny,
but he reaches over her to take a beer from my hand. I start pouring
one for Cal, but he gives a slow, serious shake of his head.

“None
for me, thank you.”

The
way he says it is pointed and a bit peculiar. I hand Ginny her solo
cup and wrinkle my brow.

“Are
you in recovery?” I ask, lowering my voice. Cal shrugs, but I’m
sure there’s a story behind his solemn expression.

“Nah.
Just never had a taste for it.”

“A
Scotsman without a taste for beer,” Luke says, lifting his
eyebrows. “That’s something I’ve never heard of.
Next you’ll be telling us you’ve never been in a fist
fight.”

“Takes
all kinds,” says Ginny. She’s used to navigating delicate
situations, like drunken bridesmaids flashing their undergarments in
wedding photos and groomsmen projectile vomiting when they should be
giving heartwarming speeches. “What do you say we start a new
game? Boys against girls.”

Cal
glances at Luke, his eyebrows lifted. His mouth is wide and cocky.
I’m not sure if it makes me want to slap him or plant a kiss
right on his mouth.

“What
do you say, Luke? Think we can take this gaggle of gals?”

“Careful,”
says Luke with a chortle. He points a finger toward Ginny, who
blushes. “
That
one is a ringer.”

I
roll my eyes and grab a cue off the wall.

“Enough
flirting,” I say. “I’ll break.”

#

I’d
forgotten how good Ginny and I are at pool.

How
could I? We spent all of the summer before sixth grade playing on the
table in her aunt’s basement. Back then, we had all day to
practice while we ranked every boy in our class from hottest to
nottest (Luke always topped her list, even then). I don’t play
often anymore, and didn’t exactly expect it to feel like riding
a bike. But sure enough, the two of us sink shot after shot, cheering
and high-fiving over the table while the men look on, silently
admiring our mad skills.

“See,
boys?” I say, leaning low over the table and taking aim. I can
feel Cal’s eyes on me even now, looking me up and down, resting
on my curves. It feels good to know I can command his attention.
“Pool is easy. It’s just math. Geometry. Just like
cooking is—”

“Science,”
Cal says. Shit. I’m surprised enough that I miss my shot. The
ball goes ricocheting around the table and lands nearly where it
started. Cal saunters over and takes aim. Now it’s his turn to
arch his body over the table, every single one of those massive
muscles tensing. His brow furrows. He takes things seriously, even a
silly little pool game.

“Are
you guys going to talk shop?” Luke asks. “Because I don’t
know anything about this cooking stuff.”

“That’s
not true,” Ginny says softly. “You can grill a mean
steak.”

“Thanks,
hun,” he says, then leans over to kiss her. While they’re
lip-locked, Cal sinks his shot. He stands up straight.

“What’s
there to know?” says Cal. “It’s only chemistry. How
to heat things up, and how to keep them to a simmer.”

“I
wouldn’t say it’s
only
chemistry,” I protest. “There’s a part of it that’s
more like alchemy. Magic. Mixing potions, mixing flavors.”

“Romantic
way of looking at it.” Cal’s hip brushes mine as he
positions himself for the next shot. I try to ignore the electricity
that zaps through me when it does. Damn, this would be so much easier
if he wasn’t so attractive. He wets his lips as he aims. My
eyes are fixed on his mouth.

“It
might be romantic,” I say, shaking myself off, “but it’s
true. Cooking loses something if you don’t take the art of it
into account. The humidity in the air. The altitude. All of that can
make a difference.”

Cal
pockets another ball, easy. He stands up straight. “That’s
no magic. That’s science.”

“If
it’s so simple, why not just replace ourselves with robots? Why
do we even need bakeshops, anyway?” I’m feeling weirdly
upset about this, even for me. Something about the way that Cal’s
looking at me. His eyes are so, so green and so incredibly calm. He’s
barely rattled by our disagreement. My feelings don’t matter to
him. I might as well be a table or a chair.

“Good
question,” he says, arching an eyebrow. The way he’s
looking at me is measured, careful—and infuriating.

“It’s
like you don’t even care! You come down here with your stupid
shop and your stupid, perfect recipes and think you can just take
over. You don’t care that there are people who actually
care
about Key West. All you see is dollar signs!”

“Whoa,”
says Luke softly from across the table. “Are we still talking
about cooking, or . . . ”

“Shhh,”
Ginny hisses back. God bless her. She always knew to lie low when I
was arguing with Wes Lansing. I guess things haven’t changed
much since high school. “Let them talk it out.”

“We
don’t need to talk,” Cal says coolly, bending over to
aim. “I’m not the one who needs to justify myself to
others. I’m good at what I do. I’m skilled. I’m
professional—”

“You’re
infamous for verbally abusing your employees.”

“A
fan of the show, are you?” Cal asks, cracking the slightest of
grins. I don’t want to admit to him that I’ve racked up a
few hours on Netflix marathoning
The
Cake Master
,
remote in one hand, rabbit in the other.

I’m
blushing, but I don’t want him to see it. So I throw my hands
in the air instead.

“God!”
I exclaim. I put the pool cue back on the wall. “You’re
insufferable. Ginny, he and I have nothing to talk about. I hardly
know you, Cal. And I’m not sure I care to, either. Good luck
with your fancy house and your fancy bakeshop. I’m going home.”

“Jules,
wait!” Ginny cries, as I turn to leave. But Luke holds her
back.

“Let
her go,” I hear him say, as I storm out of Lenny’s and
out into the dark, cool night.

#

The
insects are buzzing, loud as anything in the warm Florida air. I
stand over my car, fumbling with my keys. But then I hear footsteps
on the gravel behind me.

“I
don’t want to talk about it, Ginny,” I call out.

“It’s
not Ginny.”

I
turn. There, standing in the golden light of one of the street lamps
that overlooks the parking lot, is Cal. He looks concerned, his wide
mouth downturned, his eyebrows knitted up. But that’s his
problem. I reach for my keys again.

“I
said
I
don’t want to talk about it.” But then my anger flares
hot again and I spin around. “This really doesn’t matter
to you, does it? You think you can just play around with other
people’s lives. I
care
about Rock N Roll Cakes. You’re just some celebrity douchebag
who wants to fritter his time away in the middle of nowhere because
he’s bored.”

“Juliette—”

“And
another thing, it’s extremely uncool to subtweet someone. If
you have something to say, you can say it to my face like a
grown-up.”

“Juliette,
I’m
trying
.”

That’s
when he lets out a laugh, long and low and exasperated. In that
moment, he reminds me a little bit of my dad. He used to let me run
my mouth until I was exhausted, and then he’d stroke the back
of my hair and say,
There,
there, done yet?

I
guess I am done, finally. I let out a sigh.

“Go
ahead,” I say.

“It’s
a
pop-up
shop
.
Mecca Cakes isn’t permanent. You’ll have your business
back in a few weeks.”

I
stare at him, blink hard. “What? The articles online didn’t
say anything about that.”

Cal
shrugs. “The gossip rags aren’t always right. You’re
smart enough to know that.”

I
blush faintly at the compliment. Cal steps closer, until I can see
the way his chest rises and falls with each breath.

“How
long?” I ask. “Because we’re barely keeping it
together at Rock N Roll Cakes. I had to send my assistant home today.
Shit’s bad, Cal.”

“Just
until the end of next month. It’s a trial run. If things are
successful—and they have been, so far—we’ll be
opening Mecca Cake franchises across the country.”

“You’ll
be the next Dunkin’ Donuts,” I say. I’m not sure if
it’s a compliment or not. From the look of him, Cal’s not
sure either.

“I
don’t know about all that. But when Angelique came to me with
this opportunity, I couldn’t resist.”

“She’s
pretty irresistible,” I agree, with a sour note in my voice.
Cal shakes his head.

“All
that gossip is nonsense. It’s just business between me and
her.”

“Good,”
I say firmly, and then instantly regret it. Because really, I’m
not sure what I’m doing in this parking lot with Callum
McKenzie. Is he my business rival? A potential new flame? He’s
a chef. I’ve sworn off chefs. You can’t trust them. Even
when they’re as attractive as Cal.
Especially
then. It’s one thing to flirt with an anonymous internet baker.
It’s another when Cal is stepping closer and closer to me,
until my weight is leaning against the cool metal and glass of my
car, and the heat of his body is beside me. This is dangerous. I
shouldn’t do it. I—

And
then, while my brain is still spinning, Cal sweeps his arms behind me
and draws me close. He smells faintly of cinnamon. His work-hardened
hand reaches up, caressing my cheek. Those green eyes are very still
and very serious. And then they close, and he leans down and presses
his lips to mine.

His
face is rough with stubble. When his mouth opens, I can tell how
hungry his is. And god, I’m starving, too. My tongue seems to
melt into his mouth. I want this. I want him.

He
wants me, too. His hand, cool from the night air, slips under my
shirt and reaches up to cup my breasts. I moan against him. Pressing
myself into his touch, I feel goosebumps cover me. “Juliette,”
he murmurs, his hand squeezing the nipple through my lace bra.

It
feels good, too good. I press against him, feeling the strength of
his muscles, the hardness of his chest, the heat emanating from him.
It’s been too long.

He
grabs my waist with his other hand, pulling me closer, and slowly
snakes down to my ass. His touch grows rougher, more delicious, and
as I come up for air, he squeezes my ass, tilting my hips toward him.
His cock is hard against me, his touch hungry. He’s kissing me
with almost unbelievable desire. It feels so good.

I
slip my hand into his back pocket, trying to create more friction
between us. I almost have a moment of clarity. What the fuck am I
thinking? He’s a chef. He’s my
rival
.
Even if his store is only temporary, he’s a heartless, cold
celebrity.

But
then Cal tugs at the button of my jeans, his strong hand slipping
right inside my panties. “Cal,” I manage, before breaking
my sentence off with a gasp. And, oh god, he knows how to touch me.
He presses a thumb against my clit and deepens our kiss as the
mounting pleasure shoots through my limbs. I moan.

He
pulls my pants down a little further so he can get leverage. My
breath catches as he begins to move his fingers in and out of me, his
other hand still holding me steady. I can feel the shape of his cock
against my hip, taste his breath, hot, panting, against my mouth. My
back arches. He’s fucking me with his fingers. My pelvis lifts
to meet his hand over and over. I’m so close already. When was
the last time a real live man made me come?

“I
want you, you spicy little tease,” he murmurs, kissing my neck.
His palm is up against my clit, the perfect rhythm of his fingers
driving me to the edge, making me shake against his hard body. I’m
losing myself. I’m nearly there. I ride his fingers
desperately.

If
his fingers work this well, I can’t imagine what it would be
like to have his cock inside me. “Juliette,” he growls
and thrusts deeper, connecting with my g-spot and causing sparks in
my vision.

I
come. Shaking, panting, barely holding back a scream, I feel heat and
spice and perfect friction rocketing through me. I grip onto him,
holding on for dear life, as the pleasure explodes from my core,
shooting through my limbs.

When
I come back to earth, I’m melted butter against him, leaning
into him, exhilarated, spent, and so damn satisfied.

Then
realization clicks into place.

What
the fuck did I just do?

I
push myself away from Cal. He’s wearing a smug look, his shirt
disheveled, the corners of his lips quirking upwards. I get wet for
him all over again.
No
.
I take another step away. Netflix and dirty fantasies are one thing,
but I can’t
actually
hook up with TV’s most delicious baker.

I
can’t open up to him. Not physically. Not emotionally. I’d
only get hurt. Again. After what happened the last time I opened up
to a man—a
chef
,
no less—I’ll do anything to avoid that.

“I
gotta go,” I say, my voice tight.

I’m
being an asshole, I know it. Who in hell turns down sex from the most
gorgeous man they’ve ever met? Am I really that jerk who says,
“Thanks for the mind-blowing orgasm. Now catch you later?”

Apparently
yes. Cal takes a step toward me but I shake my head.

God,
my pussy still aches for him. His breathing is ragged. Mine is too.
It’s a civil war between my lust and my rational brain. I can
see the line of his cock through his jeans, tempting me. But I know
better than to open up more. I should have never kissed him in the
first place. I should have left the second I saw him in the bar.

“Juliette,”
he protests, reaching out for me, but I’m opening the door of
my car.