The Heavenly Baker (2 page)

Chapter Two – In Dreams

The bar has a modern aesthetic; black marble and chrome and fancy cocktails with a lot of foliage in them. I sit at the bar in my best little black cocktail dress and matching black heels. I have my hair swept up as I nurse my comedy cocktail, pretending to ignore the rest of the clientele, but secretly I'm checking them out, running stories in my head of their secret lives. The guy in the suit sitting in the booth with the smiling girl – an office affair for sure. The girl sitting alone at the table is trawling for rough sex, someone to dull the pain of her lonely life until she has to clock back into the rat race again in the morning, and the guy in the black suit heading in my direction is a government assassin. He nods at the barman before turning his gaze back in my direction. A knowing smile; he is far too assured for his own good, but those eyes, azure blue, have clearly been sold with their very own tractor beam because I'm finding it impossible to look away. The crew cut adds to the action man physique and now my dirty little mind is going into overdrive wondering how good he looks naked underneath that sharply cut suit.

‘Would you like a drink?' he asks, his voice a low growl that is making my insides jump around like so many beans on a speaker drum.

‘I don't normally accept drinks from strangers,' I reply. ‘You hear stories in the news all the time.'

‘You do,' he agrees, nodding back at the barman. ‘I believe some of them are even true.'

The comment brings the corners of my mouth curling into a smile despite my best intentions, and then he smiles and it is a thing of wonder. I'm going to have to hold tight to my panties because this boy is total trouble.

‘One drink is all I'm offering,' he says warmly. ‘You can take it or leave it. I won't be offended.'

‘I'm sure,' I say.

‘Do we have a cynic in the room?' he asks.

‘I know what you want.'

‘So you're a cynic and a mind reader?'

‘So it's one drink with no strings attached?'

‘Yes.'

‘And if I looked like that woman over there?' I point with my eyes.

He follows and smiles again. Murmurs, ‘Definitely no strings attached now.'

‘It's as I suspected,' I say.

‘And if I looked like the guy over there?' he says, indicating with his gaze.

I look.

‘You wouldn't still be talking to me.'

I smile. He has a point. So maybe then we're both hypocrites.

‘One drink, then,' I say by way of agreement.

‘The lady will have …'

Sex, please, and lashings of it. I meet him outside the door to the ladies'. I feel warm all over as the alcohol buzzes through me. He grins, self-assured and in control, a dream man for the age, and pushes open the door. I watch his eyes; there is absolutely no fear in them.

His hand closes on mine, fingers entwining, and the jolt is immediate, and suddenly my body is not my own to control. I am possessed by his spirit. The door to the restroom closes behind us. He doesn't wait to see if we are alone. He senses it like the natural predator he is but I don't feel afraid. I feel energised. I feel reborn. I feel like anything is suddenly possible, as if a door to a completely new world has been opened. I am a giddy schoolgirl facing the world with innocent eyes, but I am far from innocent. His lips close on mine and the heat of his body pressing against me is a neutron bomb detonating my soul.

‘Shouldn't we take this somewhere more private?' I suggest, my eyelids fluttering from the heat we are generating. His right hand is resting on the small of my back as his left cradles the back of my neck. I am at his mercy and it feels completely natural.

‘OK,' he agrees. Removing his left hand, he pushes open the cubicle door and guides me in, securing the door shut behind us.

‘It's not exactly what I had in mind,' I admit.

‘Improvise,' he whispers. Before I can offer further comment his lips are silencing mine and my body heat is going supernova. He is a modern-day Don Juan, his every touch seducing my body and soul. I want to give in. I want to give myself up to his hypnotic touch but a little part of me cries caution.

‘Trust me,' he whispers as the warmth of his lips touches my neck.

I want to, but I have been burned before.

His fingers twine with mine as he backs me further up against the cubicle wall and when I open my eyes those heavenly eyes of his are watching me.

‘You don't trust me,' he says, his voice that of a purring lion.

‘I want to,' I admit too readily.

‘But there's a little voice whispering to you to be careful.'

‘Yes.'

‘Tell me where it's whispering?' A simple smile crosses his face; that angelic face so loaded with devilry. If I am going to walk then it has to be now. To stay is tantamount to collusion.

‘Here.' I touch my neck. His lips follow.

‘Do you hear the voice whispering anywhere else?'

‘Here.' I touch my elbow. His lips follow.

‘And here,' I murmur, touching the palm of my hand. His lips follow.

His lips start to wander and I start to lose control, though I am kidding myself if I ever thought I was in control of this situation. He kisses my stomach through the fabric of my dress as he crouches before me, his hands resting on my thighs, hot to the touch, his palms sizzling through my flesh. Gently he starts to push up the boundary of my dress and I do nothing to stop him. My body tenses in anticipation and I feel the buzz begin deep in my stomach. Yes, I want this. I know I shouldn't but tonight I don't care. Let the whispers go unheard and let the good girl walk away. Tonight I feel wicked. Tonight I want to walk on the wild side.

He inches the dress further up my thighs, seeking my ultimate prize. I start to imagine how his tongue will feel pressing against my pussy and the glorious sensation of having his fingers inside me massaging my clit, stretching me, tasting me, working me. Yes, I really need this tonight.

He pushes my dress up further exposing the crotch of my panties. I shiver with anticipation and await the tell-tale dragging of panties away from my sex, the delicate shiver as the air hits me and then the super-heated warmth of his tongue brushing against my pussy. I bite my lips in anticipation of the groans that will emanate from deep within my soul and press my palms against the walls to steel myself in preparation of the sensual assault that is about to befall me. I can almost feel his breath on my thighs as he prepares to devour me. Just a moment more and then I will …

‘Dude! Dude! Dude looks like a lady!' shrieks Steven Tyler as my alarm clock wails into life.

‘Fuck!'

My glorious dream lies shattered, the pieces lying broken on my duvet all around; in seconds, they will disintegrate and vanish into that magical place to which all dreams return. I lie back in the land of the living, hot and bothered and seriously unfulfilled. How has it come to this, that my dreams are more X-rated than my real life? It is a sad indictment of 21st century living when a girl has to get her rocks off unaided. For a brief, tantalizing moment I consider closing my eyes with the sole intention of chasing my dream down but I know it is now a futile endeavour. With each passing second my dream drifts further away from me and reality takes an increasingly steely grip on my senses. I have a job. I have employees. I have to go to work.

‘Fuck it!' 

Chapter Three – Bright Lights, Killer Smile

I sit on the train, watching the countryside roll past outside my window, and wonder whether I'm doing the right thing. I was drunk when Carly sent in my application and, eyeing the drinks cart as the railway employee rolls it slowly past, getting into the same state now strikes me as sound. The employee looks but I smile and allow him to move on. Maybe it's not such a stellar idea, after all. I need some way of containing these butterflies, though, before they break loose and run amok. I haven't felt this nervous since I started dating boys but perhaps that says more about me than it should.

The magazine lies unwanted on the seat next to me. Try as I might, I cannot sustain the effort required to flip through the glossy pages and the vacuous articles about this year's fashion. Sad, I know, but completely true. All I can think about is meeting the Heavenly Baker himself, and not in a good way. I've read many times about people who've met their idols and more often than not they wish they hadn't. They say that the dream is often far more satisfying than the reality and the closer I roll to the Big City the more I start to think they are right. I want him to like me. No, I want him to fall head-over-heels-crazy-in-love with me, but this is real life and not the silver screen. You'll be lucky if he gives you a smile, I tell myself. Think about it, girl! He's rich and successful and surrounded by beautiful people. You're a small-town girl running a moderately successful bakery. He's major league compared to you. Stop believing in fairy tales and get your head straight.

Herein lies the problem as I see it. I can't say for certain but I'm pretty sure that the handsome stranger with the stunning blue eyes from my X-rated dream is the Heavenly Baker. As I can't recollect his face I can't know for sure, but if I was a gambling girl, which I'm not – well, you get the idea.

So here I am, on my way to the Big City, a collection of nervous energy about to meet my baking idol/stellar crush, and I'm totally lost. I feel nearly as bad as I did the morning after my raincoat disaster.

That was a very bad morning, with the taste of hard liquor and a thumping bass line being pounded out in my skull, and Carly had the cheek to look like the night before had been nothing but a walk in the park. Still, she was waiting for me with emergency coffee and then, around half-past ten, when the pain and misery had decided to settle in for the long haul, we received a phone call and Carly's eyes lit up. She handed me the phone without a word.

‘Hello?' Welcome to the house of the un-dead!

‘Can I speak to Ava Michaels, please?'

Through the fog of alcohol fumes and big beats soundtrack in my head I'd decided I didn't recognise the voice on the other end of the line.

‘This is Ava speaking. How can I help you?'

‘My name is Laura Simmons, and I'm calling from Dreamtime Studios, the production company behind
The Heavenly Baker
. I have your application form sitting in front of me.'

‘OK,' I said. A pretty lame answer, but I was struggling with the basics as it was.

‘We're in the process of filtering through the applications,' Laura went on. ‘As you can imagine, we have quite a stack to go through.'

‘I can imagine,' I agreed.

‘But looking at your application we'd like you to come for a preliminary meeting. I realise this is short notice, but is there any chance you can come this Saturday?'

‘Wow!' I murmured. ‘That is short notice.'

‘I know, but what's that saying – strike while the iron's hot. So how about it?'

‘What would I have to do?'

‘Mostly just come up and meet the team. Really, it's an opportunity for us to get to know you, and that way we can assess your suitability to be included in the baking competition.'

‘Won't I have to audition?'

‘Bring along a few recipes,' Laura suggested. ‘But don't worry. You won't be put through a formal selection process. The way we work here is if we like you, you're in, and looking at your application form and the website for your Little Angels Bakery, I think you'll be a good fit.'

‘This isn't a wind-up, is it?'

‘No, this isn't a wind-up, I promise,' Laura assured me. ‘Go to the Heavenly Baker website and look me up. It's not a great photo, but that's me grinning like a lunatic.'

‘OK then. So what time do you want me?'

‘Say 11. Pack for the night. I'll sort out the hotel and everything and if you can drop me a quick email as to your arrival time I can arrange for transportation to the studio.'

‘OK.'

‘Good,' said Laura. ‘I hope you can shift this bug before the weekend.'

‘Oh, I'm not officially ill,' I explained. ‘I just have a killer hangover, that's all.'

Down the phone I could hear Laura laughing at me.

I sighed. ‘I guess I deserve that.'

‘I'm not laughing at you, sweetie. But I'm pleased I called because I think you're going to fit right in.'

‘I promise not to drink ever again.'

‘At least not until the weekend,' Laura replied. ‘I look forward to seeing you.'

‘Thanks for your call.'

‘It's my pleasure,' Laura said, and rang off.

I was happy, ecstatically happy, but I was too hung over to show it. Truthfully, I felt like death warmed up, and it was only as my headache receded that I began to realise what I'd let myself in for.

The landscape has changed. No more trees and rolling countryside. The vista is now urban; skyscrapers and houses and people. So many people that I inhale without thinking, but I'm here now, so just deal with it. Relax, girlie, and breathe. Collecting my case and suit carrier from the overhead rack, I negotiate exiting the carriage and follow the throng of weekenders flocking to the city for a good time. I stifle a growing desire to turn around and get back on the train. What was I thinking? I wasn't, remember? I was drunk. The architect of all this madness is Carly. I need to plot a suitably fiendish revenge.

Feeding my ticket into the gates at the end of the platform, I spot a casually dressed young man holding a sign with my name on it. I notice the sign bears the Dreamtime Studios logo but, being a naturally suspicious individual, I walk on and reach for my phone. Dialling the studios, I wait for someone to pick up.

‘Hello?'

I recognise Laura's voice from the other day.

‘Hello, Laura,' I say.

‘Hello, Ava.'

‘I know this is going to seem overly paranoid, but bear with me. I'm a country girl at heart.'

‘Yes, I did send a young man to meet you and yes, I can describe him for you.'

‘Thank you.' I feel the weight already starting to lift from my shoulders.

‘He is going to mock you all the way to the studios though,' admits Laura.

‘That's fair enough.'

I pocket my phone and turn around. The guy is smiling smugly, his sign resting against his boot as he watches me with arms folded.

‘Did she tell you I was a serial killer?' he asks.

‘No, but I can call her back if you like?'

‘I'm Bradley and it's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Michaels.'

‘I'm sorry about that,' I say, accepting his offered hand. ‘But you can't be too careful, what with all the psychopaths.'

‘You don't get out much, do you?' he replies.

‘I don't. Why, does it show?'

‘A little,' he admits, ‘but that's OK.'

‘Good,' I say and smile. I'm warming to Bradley already, though not in an I-want-to-jump-his-bones way, because he has immaculately sculpted hair that involves large quantities of hair products and the kind of time spent in front of a mirror which shouts high maintenance. Add that small detail to the fact he works in television and clearly he's gay. That's awful! I must stop jumping to conclusions. But he is wearing red jeans. Boy, I'm a long way from home now.

‘So, country girl,' begins Bradley, taking my case from me and leading me out of the station. ‘Am I right in understanding that you didn't write your own application?'

‘That's supposed to be top secret.'

Bradley rolls his eyes. ‘You need to learn quickly that nothing that you tell Laura remains top secret for very long. I love her dearly, but keeping secrets is not her forte.'

‘My friend wrote the application on the quiet and then sent it when we were both bombed.'

‘Yes, that's what I heard,' admits Bradley. ‘I hope you've got what it takes because, quite frankly, that's genius and what I'm about to tell you is top secret so no blabbing.' He looks at me.

‘OK.'

‘You'll have to do better than that,' he insists.

‘Cross my heart,' I say.

‘Matt wants to take the programme out on the road and has already pencilled in Little Angels Bakery as a possible filming destination for later in the competition, so don't bomb it.'

‘Why did you tell me that?' I complain. ‘Now I feel ultra-pressured.'

‘Well, it's lucky I like you, isn't it?' he murmurs secretively. ‘We'll just have to fix the competition.'

‘No!' I exclaim in mock-horror.

‘Yes,' he replies suitably theatrically, waving down a taxi. ‘You've got a wicked streak, missy.'

‘I think I might have.'

‘Hallelujah!' whispers Bradley in my ear as he opens the door to the taxi and ushers me in.

I think I'm going to be OK but then, as the taxi sets off, I start thinking about meeting the Heavenly Baker and all the things that could possibly go wrong.

So many people, too many names, everyone saying “Hello”, and already I feel caught in the undertow. Does a drowning woman have any last requests?

‘Hi, how do you do?'

It is like Moses parting the Red Sea. A moment ago there were people everywhere and now all I can see is a pair of oceanic blue eyes and a killer smile. He is dressed in blue jeans, ripped at the knee, Timberland boots, and a black polo tee. His chin is covered with a day's stubble, his hair freshly shaved.

‘Hi,' is all I can manage.

His handshake is firm but friendly and there is definite warmth in the smile he offers me. I admire the outline of his biceps and the way his tee clings to him, not skin-tight but fitted enough.

‘So you made it OK, then?' says Matt Richards.

‘I did, thank you.'

‘And there weren't any psychopaths waiting for you at the station?'

I glance at Bradley, who shrugs. ‘I had to give that one up,' he admits. ‘It's comedy gold.'

‘Well, mock away, then,' I say.

‘So, you've met everyone?' asks Matt.

‘I think so, but there's been so many names that my head is spinning.'

‘So my name is?' He ribs me gently.

‘It's on the tip of my tongue,' I say. Oh! My! God! I'm flirting with sex god Matt Richards and it's just so easy!

‘I asked for that,' he admits.

‘You did really.'

‘So thank you for coming up at such short notice.'

‘Is this the start of the interview?' I ask.

‘Don't worry,' he replies, smiling. ‘You passed that already. Anyone who phones to check whether Bradley is a serial killer has a guaranteed spot on any programme I'm producing.'

‘You say that now,' I murmur.

A man is gesticulating at Matt.

‘I have to go now before Henry has a complete heart attack but have a look around. Bradley is at your beck and call and we'll catch up in a little while. OK?'

‘Do I have to prepare anything? I feel like I should prepare something, you know, like people do on real interviews.'

I can see Henry becoming more and more worked up but I can't help myself. I am magnetically attracted to this man. Wherever he goes I feel compelled to follow. It's probably not healthy but I'll put it down to being in the Big City.

‘Are you in the mood to bake?'

‘I'm always in the mood to bake, but isn't that true of everyone?'

‘No,' he says shaking his head.

‘Oh?'

‘I know. It's really puzzling.' He smiles and starts to walk in Henry's direction. ‘Be ready in two minutes,' he calls back.

‘What am I getting ready for?'

‘Welcome to television, country girl,' declares Bradley with a wry shake of his head.

‘What am I missing?' I ask, the fog of confusion hanging heavy around me.

‘This is live television, so no swearing, please,' Bradley reminds me.

I open my mouth to protest as the realisation dawns but Bradley is having none of it. With a hefty shove he propels me in the direction of the televised kitchen, and like a moth to the flame I am powerless to prevent the inevitable from happening. Please let it end quickly.