3. Deals And Dufflebags
Chapter three
Deals And Dufflebags
Sal
T he alley behind Sweet Alchemy is so clean you could eat off the dumpsters. They’re brand new, just like everything in the newly renovated shopping district. The area was a thriving downtown in the late seventies and early eighties, but business fell off, and crime picked up as shoppers moved out into newer developments. Just thirty minutes east of Soda Springs, where Haze’s offices are, Fever Falls is a small valley, still wooded to the west. The drive between the towns is gorgeous at sunrise.
Fever Falls had so much potential to be great again. That’s why Haze invested. The strip of shops and new businesses took two years to develop. An incredible feat, considering what he did with the abandoned YMCA alongside the commercial real estate projects. Now, the kids who used to spray graffiti on the buildings get paid to paint and stain them alongside a lot of their parents.
But I can’t think about the town right now. Not if I want to breathe.
My hand is shaking so hard I can barely get the key in the lock. I should be checking into a motel and getting some rest, but the thought of a strange bed makes my skin itch. I need to be here, at Sweet Alchemy. Yes, Haze’s company provided the capital for my kitchen slash school, but he had no part in the design. Sweet Alchemy is my baby.
I push through the back door and drop the duffle bag, inputting my codes into the security system. The bag stares back as I pause, listening for the lock to click into place. Why did I bring that damn thing in here? It’s not like I can sleep here. I like to work hard, but I’ve never been driven enough to need a couch in my office. Haze doesn’t keep one either.
Drawn together like black velvet and brilliant stars, we spent our nights together.
Flipping on the lights over my personal workstation, I turn to the long black marble tabletop where I create my private commissions. Light reflects off the surface, moving with me as I lean over, not feeling my elbows bash into the stone. I can’t feel anything. Only the raw, gaping edges that used to be fused to Haze. Dropping my face in my hands, I scrub, rubbing my eyes and gripping my hair until I feel a few strands come loose. Willing tears that won’t come to wet my eyes, I rock over the table, wondering if I’ll ever be able to create again.
Haze. The only person I’ve met who speaks without an ounce of artifice. Hard working, driven, and ruthless in the boardroom. He makes money hand over fist like he sold his soul to the Devil for inside information. I laugh, the sound muted between my palms and my mouth as I think about how much I hated him once I found out what he did for a living. But I didn’t stop fucking him. I fucked him as hard and as rough as he fucked me. Every time I swore it would be the last time. Like an addict, I didn’t know I was hooked on his dick until it was too late, and then I didn’t want to quit. Haze Harmon is the only man who’s fulfilled every masculine fantasy I have.
A harsh sob escapes.
And then a rather unmanly scream as a soft hand grips my shoulder. Yelping, I jump, stumbling back far enough to bang my lower back into the countertop running along the back wall of the kitchen. “Oh, oh no. Crap, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry, I’m late, and you didn’t answer your phone, and I didn’t want you to think I was one of those asshole no-call, no-show kind of girls, so I—”
“Albany? What are you doing here? How the f—” I stop myself from cursing at the poor girl. None of this is her fault. “How did you get in?”
Her hand slides off my shoulder. She steps back, her eyes scanning my face. Roving down, I watch her eyes widen, her mouth falling open as she takes in what must be a wild mop on the top of my head, my grief-stricken face, and my slumped, caved-in posture.
“Oh dear. Oh shii…take mushrooms. Dang it. I’m so sorry. I…I’ll just go and…and…” I watch her verbally stumble, dispassionately at first and then with a dull curiosity, her juvenile curses and stumbling words so odd that I can’t help but find them utterly adorable. When she finally stops, she inserts her thumbnail between her teeth, twisting her hand as her eyes skitter around the kitchen. She yanks it out of her mouth and clenches her fist, shifting on her feet. Her body literally undulates, her leg twisting, her hip rotating as she turns her torso away from her arm. “Wow. I mean, holy shirt balls, wowser, wowza! This kitchen is … This is like what I would imagine the love child of Nigella Lawson and Idris Elba would cook in. So flippin’ sexy.”
I tilt my head, watching her move. She’s curvy yet sinuous. She moves without any self-consciousness, her body an extension of her thoughts, as if the energy she didn’t use to finish speaking can only be expressed kinetically.
She’s the exact opposite of Haze. Every movement he makes screams control. He’s precise and intricate, every expression lethally composed, never shaken nor stirred. This woman is a pen full of puppies. A giftbox of exploding butterflies. A bomb of evaporating rainbow glitter.
She’s fascinating. And she’s exactly what I need. Right now, watching her squirm and twist the lone lock of platinum hair escaping her rockabilly bandana, I’m not thinking about Haze. I’m not longing for him or wondering if his emotions are like mine, a pulp of barely pulsating, broken heart. Nope. Right now, I’m wondering what makes a woman like her break into a Chocolaterie.
“I’ll just go,” she whispers, her frame stiff with discomfort.
“No,” I blurt. “I don’t want you to go. I’d still like to know how you got in, but I don’t want you to go.” She tilts her head, studying my face, looking for a lie. As if I would be capable of entertaining anyone right now out of a false sense of obligation to manners. “If there is something wrong with my security system,” I add gently, “I need to make a call.”
“The front door was unlocked,” she replies, twisting to point to the front of the building. “I figured you left it that way for me.” Her brows knit at the confusion that spreads across my countenance. “Didn’t you have to unlock the doors to let yourself in?”
Color floods my pale cheeks as I remember thoughtlessly punching the first code that came to mind when I entered the building. I must have typed in the code to unlock everything. This woman. She could have mocked me or made a snide remark about me missing the obvious, but she didn’t. More blood rushes to my already heated face as I remember the invitation I issued to her in class.
“How is your face?” I ask, stepping forward. My hand reaches for her chin, tilting her face into the light. She doesn’t flinch or step back. I slide my other hand around the back of her neck. With the slightest pressure, she gives, leaning closer. A soft, breathy exhale of mint and chocolate perfumes the small space between us.
“It’s fine. I’m fine. There was no pain by morning.” She snorts, the delicate, sheepish noise a girl makes before she is about to contradict herself with an admission. “Honestly, Piper and I went back to my place and took down a bottle and a half of white wine, so I couldn’t feel my face before bed either.”
A hard, sharp laugh of surprise forces its way out of my chest. “Nothing wrong with that,” I offer, not removing my hands. Another slight press, and her hands come up to grasp my forearms. And then I pull on her chin, an infinitesimal amount, unable to stop myself from matching the pitch of her head as her lips part just below mine.
The way she moves in my hands. She’s pliable, tempered perfectly, as if my body heat is the only source of a perfect melt. Desire flares, so hot and bright I’m afraid I might burn her. Haze bleeds into the background as my nostrils flare, capturing and savoring the soft, muted mint and milk chocolate. Vanilla and cardamom radiate from her skin: Secondary notes that make me feel like I’ve bitten into a double-layer confection.
She is delectable.
I want her. I rub my lips over hers before parting them, as if I’m marking her. My hand slides down her back, pressing her into my body as my mouth moves in a firm exploration of hers. She lets go of that forearm and slides an arm around my side, fully immersing herself in the kiss.
I slide my hand lower, under her ass, gasping a little into her mouth as she takes my cue and leaps up. I let go of her chin and grasp her bottom, both hands now firmly planted on her ass. Her free hand slides through the back of my hair. Thick thighs encased in skinny jeans wrap around my hips, her flats barely making a thud as she kicks them off her feet and digs her heels into my behind. Her stomach is pressed against mine, soft and molding through her thin top. Her tits are tiny, smashed flat against my chest, just the way I like them.
My pulse thrumming wildly, I slide her onto my marble confectioner’s table, never breaking our kiss once. She tastes like cocoa with heavy cream on a fall afternoon, and she smells like she belongs to me. I rip my mouth away from hers, not bothering to speak. The pace of her panting breaths matches mine as she matches my stare.
I reach for the hem of her shirt.
She lifts her arms, our locked stare only broken for the brief second it takes me to deftly pull the shirt over her head. I step between her split legs and lift the shirt off her arms, dropping it like a rag on the table. Her bra is a scrap of fabric, petal pink against the stark white of her skin. I’ve never seen anyone as pale as this magical creature. The bralette hooks in the front, and by the time I’ve flicked open the clasp, her arms are pointed down, positioned for me to slide the slip of satiny material off her body. Once I’ve uncovered her, I take a step back to better admire the view.
My mouth works, opening and closing before the words come. “You’re…stunning. And the way you feel in my hands…I...”
She smiles. She doesn’t preen or gloat, nor does she sidestep the compliment. Her lips curl, flourishing into a pleased grin as she watches me react to her smile. Her eyes light up, joy modulating some of the passion still heating her gaze.
She leans back on her palms, displaying a comfort in her skin that I rarely observe women exhibiting. “That’s high praise from a sculptor.”
I can’t help it. I blush again, pleased that she sees me as more than a candy maker. Nothing is hotter to me than my art being acknowledged. I swallow. “I prefer art that engages multiple senses.” I reach out, running the tip of my index finger between her breasts. Lifting the finger to my nose, I inhale deeply, wrapping my lips around it and dragging it over my tongue.
She gasps sharply, her eyes glued to my mouth. After my finger pops out of my mouth, she opens hers.
Fuuuuuuck me. This woman was created for me. She sits up and grabs my hand, dragging the same finger over her tongue. “We taste better together,” she says softly.
What kind of riot recipe created this little sweet tart? The sassy hairdo and cat eyes, pink lips and platinum hair, the malleable, soft body with curvy thighs, and the flawlessly fat ass topped by a perfect pair of amuse-bouche tits. She was made for us .
I blink and shake my head, trying to rattle the sobering thought loose. Her brows draw together as she senses the change. She reaches to the side and grabs her shirt, slipping it over her head with no discernable thought for her hair. Then she takes one of my hands, wrapping it between both of hers. “Wanna get a drink and talk about it?”
“Yes. No.” I scrub a hand through my hair. “That wouldn’t be very fair. I owe you a lesson. And a drink. I think I should be the one listening. I owe you my full attention as I secretly agree with you about how awful Waverly is and what an unprofessional asshat that chocolatier is for letting you get burned on the face during the first class, no less.”
She cocks her head, smiling at the shitty joke I’ve made. A tiny dimple puckers her right cheek. That cheeky smile, along with her shirt being back on, has transformed her from a modern-day platinum Venus to the gorgeous girl who lives next door.
I must look like a simpering fool, standing here staring at her with gaga eyes and a stupid grin.
“Chef,” she begins.
“Sal,” I interrupt.
“Only outside of class,” she amends agreeably. She clears her throat. “Sal…”
Oh God. Here it comes. I’m going to get dumped for the second time in one day. The fact I was the one who walked out is inconsequential. By not even trying to meet me halfway, Haze is the one who—
“Someone really did a number on you today, didn’t they?” she asks softly, shaking my hand to bring me back.
“You have no idea.” I place on finger on her parting lips. “Nor should you learn,” I say firmly.
She sighs, her shoulders slumping. Sadness permeates the kitchen, a weighted miasma of misery that swirls around and between us. “I really like you, Sal. Holy H-E-double hockey sticks, you’re so fine I’m going to have to soak the effects of you out of these little panties.” We both chuckle as she places her palm against my cheek. “Someone broke your heart today, didn’t they?”
I press my lips together hard and nod, leaning into her palm. She sighs softly before speaking. “I’m so sorry. I can’t do broken hearted. I tried it once. I wasn’t enough to save him. All I did was carry his heartache on my shoulders until it buried me.”
I drop my forehead to hers. “He didn’t dig you out?”
“He couldn’t lift a shovel,” she answers, her voice thick with sorrow.
I wonder if she still loves him. Maybe she’ll always love a piece of him. As badly as I hurt for Haze right now, there isn’t any room in my heart for judgment. Poor, sad sap. I bet he misses her now. I don’t even want to think about what the guy might have lost to end up in a place she couldn’t save him from.
“Could we just be friends? You teach me how to sculpt chocolate, and I’ll teach you how to breathe again. I’m practically a therapist at my day job.” She bites her lip, smiling as she rolls her forehead gently over mine. “Can you answer a question for me?”
“Sure,” I answer faintly, trying to right myself in the dizzying, zero-gravity atmosphere of emotions I’ve found myself in. She lifts her arms up and rests them over my shoulders, and I sigh in relief, the little bit of weight from her limbs pressing me to the floor.
“Why is there a duffle bag on the floor? You going somewhere?” She rubs her nose against mine. A butterfly kiss. A universally innocent gesture of affection. Her arms melt into my shoulders. Her breath is a confection’s caress, both warm and cool, upon my cheek. She stops rolling her forehead and begins to rock us.
“To a motel. I moved out.” I close my eyes, looking for Haze in his nightly routine. When I picture him walking in on this, a pang of guilt and shame shoots through my chest, surprising me. I didn’t think there was anything left inside of me to hurt. Haze wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t get what was happening here.
“I’m so very sorry, Sal. Please, come stay with me.”
That wakes me up. “No. You don’t know me.” I back up, dragging her arms off my shoulders until only her hands rest upon my shirt. The next sentiment gets tangled as I try to tease apart how to say what I mean without offending her. “It’s dangerous!”
She sits up taller, smiling with that charming ease. “You’ll be surprised at how much security I have. I’m not inviting you into my house per se but onto my property. I have a guest house. An empty guest house. Trade me a couple of private lessons for rent. You’ll agree I need them when I tell you why I signed up for this class.”
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. There is only Albany, glowing in the light of my kitchen, and the crest of my irrational urge to burst into tears. She’s only offering the trade in an effort to get me to accept. “Please, Sal,” she pleads quietly. “I won’t get any sleep worrying about you in some firetrap motel. Please come home with me and sleep in my guesthouse.”
The kindness of strangers… The full meaning of that quote fills my thickening throat as her utter sincerity and goodness blind me.
She rotates her legs to the side and slides off the table. Then she leans over and picks up my duffle bag, grunting as she heaves it over her shoulder. Grinning, she teases. “Poopy chicken! Are there knives in here? You’re a chef. Of course, you have knives. Those are part of the chef starter kit. Amiright? Offer’s off the table, bucko. I can’t have you hacking me up in my sleep like I’m a mismelting block of the expensive stuff.”
I take a deep breath in, herd her to the door, and punch in the code. The night air is warm as we step out, serenaded by crickets, buzzing street lamps, and the occasional, barely sticky grip of tires over freshly paved streets.
“Too late,” I answer once we are outside, fishing my keys out of my pocket. “Get in. I’ll drive you around to the front. And mismelting isn’t a thing. I expect you to start getting your chocolate lingo right, thank you.” My Jeep beeps as I unlock it.
She grins with a grunt as she dips to the side, letting me slide my bag off her shoulder. “We’re going to be best friends; I know it.”
“Oh yeah? Why is that?” I open the passenger door and toss my bag into the back seat. She squeals as I grab her waist and lift her into the vehicle.
She doesn’t answer until my door is shut. As I push the start button she says, “Because mismelting is definitely going to be a thing if we do.” She smirks, her hand reaching across the seat and twirling a bit of hair at the nape of my neck. I don’t think she even knows she’s doing it. “And you’re welcome.”
I pull in next to her vehicle, the only one parked in front of Sweet Alchemy. She hops out, her smile bright and sassy, mouthing, “Follow me, stalker,” as she unlocks her car and slides in gracefully. A sense of humor, too . I’m fucking done for. Haze would be too if he could only pull his head out of his poopy chicken.