2
I prefer the straight and narrow. Gray and black, that’s how I choose to define my world. She, with her flashes of color—pink hair and lips that threaten to drive me to the edge of distraction—is exactly what I hate.
Give me a female who has her priorities set in life. To pleasure me, get me off, then walk away before her emotions engage. Yeah. That’s what I prefer.
Not this… this bundle of craziness who flings her arms around my shoulders, thrusts her breasts up and into my chest, tips up her chin, opens her mouth, and invites me to take and take.
Does she have no self-preservation? Does she think I am going to fall for her wide-eyed appeal? She has another thing coming.
I tear my mouth away and she protests.
She twines her leg with mine, pushes up her hips, so that melting softness between her thighs cradles my aching hardness.
I glare into her face and she holds my gaze.
Trains her green eyes on me. Her cheeks flush a bright red. Her lips fall open and a moan bleeds into the air. The blood rushes to my dick, which instantly thickens. Fuck.
Time to put distance between myself and the situation.
It’s how I prefer to manage things. Stay in control, always. Cut out anything that threatens to impinge on my equilibrium. Shut it down or buy them off. Reduce it to a transaction. That I understand.
The power of money, to be able to buy and sell—numbers, logic. That’s what’s worked for me so far.
"How much?"
Her forehead furrows.
"Whatever it is, I can afford it."
Her jaw slackens. "You think… you?—"
"A million?"
"What?"
"Pounds, dollars… You name the currency, and it will be in your account."
Her jaw slackens. "You're offering me money?"
"For your time, and for you to fall in line with my plan."
She reddens. "You think I am for sale?"
"Everyone is."
"Not me."
Here we go again. "Is that a challenge?"
Color fades from her face. "Get away from me."
"Are you shy, is that what this is?" I frown. "You can write your price down on a piece of paper if you prefer." I glance up, notice the bartender watching us. I jerk my chin toward the napkins. He grabs one, then offers it to her.
She glowers at him. "Did you buy him, too?"
"What do you think?"
She glances around. "I think everyone here is ignoring us."
"It’s what I’d expect."
"Why is that?"
I wave the tissue in front of her face. "Why do you think?"
"You own the place?"
"As I am going to own you."
She sets her jaw. "Let me leave and you won't regret this."
A chuckle bubbles up. I swallow it away. This is no laughing matter. I never smile during a transaction. Especially not when I am negotiating a new acquisition. And that’s all she is. The final piece in the puzzle I am building.
"No one threatens me."
"You’re right."
"Huh?"
"I’d rather act on my instinct."
Her lips twist, her gaze narrows. All of my senses scream a warning.
No, she wouldn’t, no way—pain slices through my middle and sparks explode behind my eyes.
To find out what happens next read Summer it’s my whole life. What I've worked toward since I was sixteen and knew I was going to become the most phenomenal baker in the world. And now, I'm going to lose it.
“Sure, you can do it.” My brother encourages me from the doorway. “You can do anything you set your mind to.”
“That’s what I used to think. It’s why I started this pastry shop.” I was twelve when I discovered I was good at baking. That, combined with my love for desserts, meant I knew what I wanted to do with my life.
Two years ago, I moved to London to work at a well-known patisserie. I began scouting for a location for my place while I saved every single penny I could.
A year ago, I found the perfect place, and my little artisan bakery with coffee shop seating was born. Of course, I work eighteen-hour workdays, which means I have almost no social life. I barely manage a few hours of sleep in my little apartment over the shop. But nothing can dampen my spirits. I’m spending my days churning out cakes and pastries. It’s what I’ve dreamed of for so long. Only issue?
I don’t have the money to advertise, and despite having a social media post go viral—which is when a lot of people look at your social media feed—and result in a surge of customers, I'm not making enough to salvage my business.
“Don’t give up. You have to believe this can take off.” Ben’s voice is confident. If only I shared his optimism.
“Oh, trust me, I want to believe. But blind faith in yourself only takes you so far.” I wish I could do better at spreading the word about the place and bringing in new customers. I seem to suck at everything outside of baking. It’s why my business is on the decline.
“Success is what’s beyond the dark night of the soul,” my brother, ever the wise one, remarks.
“Is that a saying among you Royal Marines?” I scoff.
“It’s—"
The bell over the door at the front of the shop tinkles.
“—your destiny.” His lips curve in a smile.
“What?” I blink.
“The bell—it’s your future calling.”
I roll my eyes. “If you say so.”
“Go on, your customer is waiting.” My brother walks over and kisses my forehead. “Good luck. Remember, when one door closes, another one opens. Or the one I prefer, she who leaves a trail of glitter is never forgotten."
"Eh?" I stare. "What does that have to do with my situation?"
"Nothing, but it did cheer you up."
I roll my eyes, then can’t stop myself from chuckling.
"That’s my girl." He pats my shoulder.
Yep, that’s my brother. The ever-cheerful, never-surrender person. “You’ll see; it will work out.” He turns me around and points me in the direction of the doorway leading to the shop. "Go on now.”
“Whatever you say, big bro.”
I was ten when my father passed, and Ben became the de facto father figure in my life. I'm fifteen years younger than him, an "oops baby," born when my mother was in her early forties. I hero-worshipped Ben, who, in turn, took care of me and never let me feel the loss of my father. And when my mother passed away, he took a leave of absence and came home and stayed with me, until he was assured I was ready to pick myself up and move on. He’s the most important person in the world, in my life, in so many ways. And the fact that he fights wars so I can be safe is a source of the utmost pride for me. It’s one of the reasons I feel terrible about being on the verge of bankruptcy. I want Ben to be proud of me.
“This is my last chance to get things right. If I can’t find a way to pay off my debts, I’ll have no choice but to shut down." I hear my words and realize I’m being negative. The exact opposite of my brother. I expect him to tell me off, but there’s no answer. I turn to find he’s left the shop. Not that I blame him. He has a two-week break before he has to ship out again. I suspect he’s gone to meet his current squeeze. Ben never lacks female companionship.
As for me? I need to face whatever's in my destiny. If only my every decision didn’t impact Hugo. If only I weren’t running out of money to keep him in the care home that provides round-the-clock attention for him. If I can't pay next month’s fees—no, I’m not going there. I will not contemplate the repercussions of what would happen if I didn’t come up with the money, and fast.
With a last tug at the neckline of my blouse, which dips a little too low in the front, and which I wore to try and cheer myself up—big fail, there—I march out of the kitchen and go behind the counter. And all the air whooshes out of my lungs.
The man standing in the middle of the bakery is so big, he seems to occupy all of the space in my little bakery. He’s so tall, I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. And his shoulders—those shoulders I once held onto—are wider than I remember. They’re broad enough to block out the view of the rest of the space.
His biceps stretch the sleeves of his suit, which must cost my entire annual rent to buy, given its tailor-made finish. He’s wearing a black silk tie, and his jacket is black. Wait, a suit? I’ve never seen him in a suit before, but OMG, does he do it justice. I take in that lean waist, and those massive thighs, which seem ready to burst the seams of his pants, and between them, the tent that was the object of my obsession for so long. He prowls over to the counter and whoa, that predatory walk of his, the way he seems to glide across the floor with the gait of a barely tamed animal turns my bones to jelly.
"There was no one at the counter when I walked in. No wonder, you need a cash infusion," a familiar voice growls.
What the—? How dare he say that! I wrench my gaze up to his face. And any remaining thoughts in my head drain away. I was prepared to give him a piece of my mind, but all of the pieces have scattered.
Those eyes—one piercing blue, the other an amber brown. Those heterochromatic eyes, which have always had the effect of reducing me to a mindless blob of need, stare into mine.
My entire body hurts. My shoulder muscles turn into cement blocks. My stomach twists. It feels like I’ve run into a wall. Frissons of shock reverberate down my spine, and when he rakes his gaze down to my chest, his entire body seems to tense. He brings his gaze back to my face, and it feels like I’ve been punched in the gut. Again.
“What are you doing here?” I manage to croak around the ball of emotion in my throat.
“What do you think I’m doing here?” His jaw tics, a muscle spasms in his jaw, and he curls his fingers into his sides. There’s so much tension radiating from him, I feel faint. Apparently, he doesn’t like what he sees.
That makes two of us. Nathan-bloody-Davenport. My brother’s best friend. The man I’ve had a crush on for more than half my life. The man who turned me down when I threw myself at him the day of my eighteenth birthday party. Not before he kissed me, though.
He hauled me to him, thrust his tongue between my lips, and ravaged my mouth. He squeezed my ample butt and drew me against him, and I felt every inch of what he was packing. The kiss seemed to go on and on. My head spun. My knees gave way underneath me. I stumbled, and he straightened me. Only to tear his mouth from mine and stare into my face, his chest heaving, his breath coming in gusts that seemed to swell his shoulders. He raked his gaze across my features, like he was seeing me for the first time. Like he wanted to throw me down and mount me right there.
“Nate…” I breathed his name.
“Starling,” he whispered against my lips. The sound of his voice seemed to cut through his reverie, for the next second, he released me and jumped back.
A look of confusion, then regret, then anger swept over his features. I felt his rejection even before he blanked all expression from his face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, Skye.” He turned on his heel and walked out of my birthday celebration, and our house. And my life.
That was it; he cut off all communication with me. I never saw him again. Over the last five years, I've heard about his progress in the Marines from my brother, but I never set eyes on him. Until today.
“You’re the last person I want to speak to.” I cross my arms over my chest, thereby pushing my breasts up higher. His eyes move down before he forces them back to my face. It's not that I want to flaunt my double-D tits. Okay, okay, maybe I do. Maybe, I want to make him realize what he's been missing. I’m proud of my assets. I might be a size sixteen, but I’ve never tried to conceal my full figure. So what if I want to run and hide right now?
“The feeling’s mutual,” he growls.
And the sound is so freakin’ hot, so caveman like, my ovaries seem to quiver. Just because my body can’t control itself doesn’t mean I find him attractive. Nope, it doesn’t mean anything that I haven’t stopped thinking of him all these years.
I draw myself up to my full height. Not that it helps, considering I’m five-feet four-inches tall, and he’s a good foot taller than me. Still, this is my space. “This is my shop, and you need to leave.”
“Trust me, I wouldn’t be here if I had any other option," he sneers.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“You’re looking for a bailout.”
“Excuse me?” I gape at him.
“Your business is in trouble. You need money to pay off your debts.”
My flush intensifies. Heat crawls up my cheeks, all the way to the roots of hair, followed closely by anger. How dare he walk in and throw my failure in my face? How dare he not talk to me all these years, only to reappear at the worst possible moment? And right after my brother told me it was my destiny come-a-calling when the bell to the shop rang.
“Wait, did Ben put you up this?”
“Eh?” He stares at my lips. His gaze is so intent that the frisson of awareness, which has crackled up my spine since he arrived, flares into a full-blown shiver. I shake my head, ignoring the buzz of electricity that has always hummed between us. “Are you here because Ben asked you to help me out?”
A weird look comes into his eyes. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I’m here because my grandfather is the chairman of the Davenport Group of companies, and he thinks your bakery would make for a good investment.”
“He does?”
“I’m yet to be convinced.” He crosses his arms across his chest.
So that’s how it's gonna be, eh?
He glances toward the counter, taking in the various desserts on display, and his frown deepens. I follow his gaze and take in the tray of cupcakes displayed: Sp1cy Scene, Red Room, Velvet Ties, Purple Patches, Cave Wonder, The Vanilla Vajayjay, The Earth Moved… You have to admit, they’re innovative names for the treats.
I named the first one in jest, but it proved to be a hot topic of discussion among fellow spicy book readers like me. Before I knew it, I'd ended up naming many of my desserts in a similar vein.
In fact, the dessert shaped like the backside of a woman and called Spanked is one that customers seem to love. Then there's my other hit, a chocolate cake shaped like a vibrator and called C!itasaurus. Yep, they love that one. Also, another raspberry-infused one in the shape of a peach called Moist Goodness, not to forget the honey-glazed fruit cake in the form of a beehive called the Honey Pot, and the strawberry and cream-topped, fig-shaped shortbread I named Sweet Bits. Finally, the doughnut-shaped dark chocolate glazed treat called—you guessed it—A1phah0le, which readers love when I cater at book events.
You’d think business is booming, and I certainly have my share of loyal customers, but it’s not enough to keep me in the black. I need to bring in new customers, and a lot more of them.
He stabs his forefinger at the display. "Is this a joke?"
Skylar
A-n-d that was the absolutely wrong thing to say. No one insults my baby—my bakery, my dream—and gets away unscathed.
"I can assure you; they are popular amongst my customers."
He turns those searing eyes on me, and it feels like I’m looking into the depths of a frozen lake. The surface seems able to bear my weight, but one wrong step, and I’m going to fall right through and find myself trapped. I try to breathe, but all of the oxygen in the room has been sucked out by his presence. My pulse crashes in my ears, and my nerve endings are so tightly stretched, I fear they’ll snap any second. And when he shoves a hand in his pocket, pulling the fabric of his pants taut over that bulge between his legs, a slow thud flares to life between mine.
I cannot find him attractive. Cannot risk acknowledging this chemistry that thickens the air between us. Not when I need his help to save my business. Not when I know who he is, and he’s definitely out-of-bounds. Forbidden. Sirens go off in my mind. Back away. It’s not worth taking on the humungous backlog of complications that are going to come with having anything to do with him.
Then a look of boredom crosses his face. He yawns, and my pulse rate shoots up.
Strike out everything I felt earlier. It’s definitely worth taking on every challenge that comes with getting him to cough up money, because by God, he needs to realize the world doesn’t revolve around him. How can anyone be this full of himself? This insensitive?
Anger squeezes my chest. Adrenaline laces my blood. And how dare he turn the most important meeting of my life into… into… something that doesn’t merit even a few seconds of his attention?
"I’ve seen everything I need to see. Goodbye." He turns to leave.
What the—? He’s leaving? Does that mean he’s decided against investing in the bakery? Think! You need to say something to stop him. You cannot afford to piss off the one guy who might be able to help save your bakery.
"Wait, don’t you want to taste my wares?" I burst out.
He freezes mid-step. His shoulders seem to swell. The planes of his back rise and fall, and the jacket pulls even tighter. Is he going to burst out of his skin and go all Hulk on me? I swallow. And when he turns slowly and makes a growling sound at the back of his throat, I have to stop the yelp that almost spills from my mouth. Every single cell in my body has woken up and is doing the hula. Stop that. You can’t feel this drawn to this… To this arrogant beast who rejected you.
But I also need his help. I have to save my business from going bust. And if that means swallowing my pride, then so be it. I tip up my chin and straighten my back. "I… I mean, maybe you want to taste my Honey Pot?" Ugh. Didn’t mean it to come out like that.
His left eyelid, the one covering his blue eye, twitches, and he seems one step closer to either having a breakdown or walking away. Neither of which is desirable.
"Oh, Fraggle Rock . What I meant to say is, you’ll definitely like the Purple Patches." I point to the range of cupcakes showcased under the counter.
"Did you use Fraggle Rock as a swear word?" He stares.
"I did. It’s because my mother hated me swearing—being a girl, and all that." I roll my eyes. That condition had not applied to my brother. "So instead, I began to use names of TV series as swear words. Also, you could try the C!itasaurus?" I look at him hopefully.
"The whatasaurus?" He tilts his head. His gaze is, once again, fixed on my mouth. My thighs clench, and moisture laces the flesh between my legs. I push away the burst of awareness which seems to have stuck its claws into my skin. No way am I going to succumb to his magnetism, which has multiplied in the years since I last saw him. Especially not when his jerkhole factor hasn’t reduced, either.
It's always been a mystery to me why I found his arrogance such a turn on. Now, I’m also reminded of how he always managed to get on my nerves. Not that it stopped me from throwing myself at him. A mistake I’m not going to make again. When I named that cupcake, it seemed like a stroke of genius. Having to pronounce it aloud in front of the Hulk, however, negates any laughs I’ve had about it so far.
"Uh, you know what I mean?" The color of my cheeks deepens and spreads to my chest. My entire body seems like it’s on fire.
"No, I don’t," he says in a low, hard voice.
I shiver. "You know that…that…pink pastry between the blue cakes that looks like…" I glance around, then slide open the glass door to the under-counter area. I pull on a pair of disposable gloves, reach in and, instead of the C!itasaurus, slide one of the fig-shaped desserts onto a plate. I place it on the counter. "Actually, I think you should eat my Moist Goodness, and everything will be clear to you, and?—"
I hear a gnashing sound, and when I dare to peek at Mr. Grouchy Face, I see the muscles of his jaw ripple. Oh no, at this rate, he’s going to crack a molar. Or two.
I blink rapidly. “Maybe we should start afresh?”
“Start afresh?” he asks in a tone that implies he’d rather have never met me.
Yeah, me, too. Unfortunately, I don’t have that luxury. “You know, pretend we don’t know each other. Pretend the last few minutes never happened?” Pretend that kiss is not seared into my brain, and into other parts of my body I’m not going to think about.
I pull off my gloves and hold out my hand. “Skylar Potter.” Then, because I hate my life and because, apparently, the connection between my brain and my mouth has been lost under the force of his glower, I smile. "No relation to Harry, as you’re aware."
"Harry?" He looks at my slim, pink-tipped fingers, then back at my face, and makes no move to shake my hand.
I set my jaw. Oh, my god, he’s so rude, I should slap one of the pies baking in my oven into his face. Only, they’re too good to waste. Also, I can’t risk messing up a pie when I need every sale I can get. Every part of me wants to turn and run out of here. But I can’t. I owe it to myself, to my dream, to give this one last shot. I will not give up easily. I will not. I will stay polite, even if it kills me. I manage to bare my teeth in the resemblance of a smile. "You know, Harry Potter? Boy wizard? Evanesco. " I pretend to flick my wand in his direction.
His jaw hardens further.
Ooh, he looks pissed. The tips of his ears have turned white. Also, the end of his nose. Also, the vanishing spell on him didn’t work. His Royal Dickness is still here, larger than life and glowering at me.
"I’m sooo immersed in the Potterverse. Oh, and Taylor Swift. I love Taylor Swift.” I beam at him.
His frown deepens.
“I’m guessing you’re not a Swiftie?” I nod.
“What’s that?” he asks in a contemptuous tone.
“Those of us who love Taylor Swift call ourselves Swifties.”
“Sounds contagious,” he sneers.
I ignore his cantankerous attitude because I need to charm him. And because I desperately need him to fork over the money I need. “I love her songs, don’t you?" I chirrup.
His fingers curl into fists at his sides. Which is not a good sign. Then, because I love to go from the sublime to the surreal, I smile even wider. "Guess which Hogwarts’ house Taylor Swift belongs to?" I toss my hair over my shoulder.
“Hogwhat?" He seems like he’s about to have a cardiac event. Or like he went to sleep and woke up in an alternate reality. This is bad. So bad.
And I have to go and put my foot in it by prompting him, "Hogwarts."
"Hogwhat?" he snaps again.
This time, the light goes on in my brain. "Oh, you haven’t heard of Hogwarts?" I titter. "That’s okay. I wasn’t alive when Titanic hit the cinemas, either…" Don’t say it, don’t say it. "Unlike you."
He blinks slowly.
“I meant the movie, not the actual event when the Titanic hit an iceberg and sank.”
His jaw tics.
“Not that you were alive when the Titanic sank.” I cough. “Even I know you’re not that ancient.”
A nerve pops at his temple. That’s not a good sign, is it? Zip your lips. Just shut up already.
"Not that I'm implying you're old or anything.” I try to contain my laughter and end up snorting—ugh, bad habit. “The grey in your hair adds to your distinguished appearance. Besides, you’re only fifteen years older than me." Oh no, I don’t think that makes it better.
The veins on his throat stand out in relief. I try to swallow, but my throat is so dry, it feels like sharp knives line my gullet. I flick out a tongue to wet my lips, and his eyes gleam. He watches my mouth with a rapacious gaze. Every part of his body seems to have turned to stone. Watching me with such intensity, he seems to have turned into a predator who’s planning every possible way to jump me. If he had a tail, I think it’d be swishing from side to side.
The silence deepens. It doesn’t stop me from shaking a finger at him. "You, mister, need a crash course in pop culture. Although, I suppose, I shouldn’t expect someone who has grey at his temples to have a sense of the zeitgeist."
"The fuck you prattling on about?" he bites out through gritted teeth.
"Whoa, hold on, no need to show me your horns." Although, I’d love to see the one between your legs. "In fact, you look so angry, I'm expecting you to breathe fire at any moment." You can turn into a dragon and carry me away anytime. "And seriously, you should taste this." I push the plate with the moist, pink-and-white, fig-shaped shortbread in his direction. It has a button between the lips made of edible silver leaf and there’s glitter around it.
"My desserts are awesome; one bite, and you’ll be a convert." I nod.
He stares.
"Unless you’re worried you’ll get addicted to my Sweet Bits." I tip up my chin.
Did I say my sweet bits? I did say my sweet bits. "I meant the dessert that I’ve named Sweet Bits, not my sweet bits." I hear my words, and argh, didn’t mean for them to sound so… provocative. But I’m not going to apologize for that. Hell no.
"Well? You going to taste it or what?" I scowl.
He must see the challenge in my eyes and, alpha male that he is, of course, he doesn’t back down. Without taking his gaze off of my face, he licks the cream from the hollow in the center. A thousand little fires flare to life under my skin. I swallow; my breath grows shallow. He bites down on one of the plump lips, and a shiver grips me. I clutch at the edge of the counter. The pulse at the base of my throat speeds up. And when he pops the other lip into his mouth, I gulp. He brings his thumb and forefinger to his mouth and sucks on them, and a breathy moan leaves my lips.
"Not bad." He shrugs.
I stare. "What do you mean, not bad?! That is my best-seller.”
"It was okay.” He looks down his nose from his superior height. “I admit, the names you give your baked goods are creative, but I’m not sure that’s enough for me to approve the takeover."
"Takeover?" I stiffen. "Who’s talking about a takeover?"
“It’s the only way I’d consider investing in your business.”
“I only need help,” I say through gritted teeth.
“That’s putting it mildly. I reached out to the bank you took the loan from?—”
“You reached out to my bank?” I burst out.
“You don’t think I’d be here without due diligence?—”
I cut in, “The terms of my deal with them are confidential.” I lock my fingers together.
“Not when you’re about to go bankrupt. When they realized the Davenport Group was considering an acquisition?—”
“An investment; a loan; that’s all I’m looking for. Something to tide me over and buy me some time until I get back on my feet.”
“Keep fooling yourself. You might be a good baker?—”
“So you did like my dessert,” I declare in a triumphant voice.
“—but you’re not a businessperson, by any stretch of the imagination.”
Oh, my god! What I wouldn’t give to wipe that smug look off his face.
“There are ups and downs in any business.” I lock my fingers together. “Things will bounce back.”
“There are ups and downs, and then, there are downs and more downs,” he drawls.
Anger thuds at my temples. I will not lose my temper. I will not.
He slides his hand into his pocket. “Not that I don’t understand your reluctance to sell out.”
“You do?”
“Of course. You’ve invested your sweat and blood, and likely, your entire savings into the venture. Too bad you didn’t have a financial person advising you.”
Of course, he’d say that. Nate’s always been a numbers whiz. I heard that from Ben. It’s why, even when they were in the Marines together, Nate oversaw strategy. He was the person coming up with the game plan for their team. It was Nate’s sharp brain which helped them both stay ahead of the enemy; or so my brother informed me over the years. Too bad his best friend’s temperament leaves much to be desired.
“I would be willing to consider a merger instead of an acquisition of your little business.” His gaze flicks about the place and back at me.
“ Little business?” I curl my fingers into fists. Breathe, count back from ten. Do not give into the impulsive need to throw a pie in his face.
He wipes his thumb under his lip, a considering look in his eyes. “Of course, I don’t have to do anything. But given you’re Ben’s little sister, and he wouldn’t want me to leave you in the lurch, I might have a proposition that could help both of us.”
“Of course you do.”
My sarcasm is lost on him, for he looks me up and down. “Marry me.”