Chapter Three
SHAY
IREACH FOR the door handle and stop.
“It’s you two again.”
I survived the town smothered in hearts, roses, and Valentine’s cheer shoved down my throat at every turn. Even the small talk and a woman who tried to sell me a cat pillow, she claimed had been knitted with cat hair.
Not sure how I feel about that.
But I’m pretty sure I won’t make it past the dogs waiting on the other side of the glass oval in the heavy wooden front door.
Not humping.
Not growling.
Just sitting. Watching.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say through the glass.
They don’t blink.
One tilts its head. The other’s lip rises just enough to show teeth. It’s not a snarl, but it’s not a smile either.
I lift my camera, press my eye to the viewfinder, and take the shot.
Both dogs shift at once. Not forward or backward. Just shift enough to scrape claws against the floor.
“That felt like a mistake.” I lower the camera.
The dogs don’t move. They watch, tails still and bodies alert.
“You didn’t like that, huh? My bad. No more paparazzi. This is a very private moment you’re having. I respect that.”
I twist the handle, but still can’t seem to manage to twist the whole thing. Not because it’s stuck. It’s the way the dogs are quietly staring.
The long-haired black Chihuahua sits. The other doesn’t. It steps closer.
“This is weird.” My voice is a little louder. “You know this is weird, right?”
They’re not exactly blocking the hallway to my room, but I’d have to pass them to get around.
“I don’t like this game.”
I edge away from the door. The white dog mirrors my step—the other stands.
“Nope.” I point at them. “I don’t like this version of you. I liked it much better when you were dry humping the naked man. Remember him? Go find him.”
They don’t move.
“Fine. There’s more than one entrance.”
I circle the house. The stone path curves along the foundation, and flower beds crowd the walkway. They’re thick with color and already in bloom.
The camera bumps against my chest as I skip up the wooden deck stairs.
Along the back of the house, glass panes stretch the length of the hallway, and the lace curtains do nothing to hide our room doors.
I freeze at the back door.
The dogs are there.
Blocking it.
Sitting perfectly still.
I laugh once, sharp and breathless. “How did you— You know what, never mind. I don’t want to know.”
The white-haired one stands. The other follows.
“Please don’t.”
They take a step closer.
I back away, holding up my hands. “This is escalating. This is on me. I see that now.”
I told them my plan. Not this time.
“I’m going to take a long walk.” Do I really think they understand me?
Don’t care at this point. I run to the front of the house.
No dogs.
I wait and count to ten before I slip inside, easing the door shut inch by inch.
Still no dogs.
I carry my shoes as I creep down the floral runner in the hallway beside the curved staircase.
The floorboards groan beneath each step. There’s no escaping them. They broadcast my every move, but no leg-humping dogs appear.
The hallway smells like roasted vegetables with hits of herbs. Maybe it’s a soup or stew. Either way, my stomach growls.
I make it to the back of the house when a high-pitched shout comes from behind me.
“She’s back!”
I shriek and spin around, nearly flinging my camera like a weapon.
A dozen or more ladies in the kitchen stare at me.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Faye’s voice is kind. “Did we scare you?”
“Yes.” I clutch my chest.
“How did you not hear us?” A woman in her fifties wearing big red glasses smiles at me with matching red lips.
That’s when I really take in the room.
Red and pink have exploded on every surface. Material looped garland drapes from the exposed wooden beams. Sewn hearts hang from the ceiling and dangle from cabinet knobs.
And the room itself is pure old Victorian with expansive counters, a farmhouse sink, and wooden cabinets. But it’s also frozen in a late-eighties, early-nineties glow of pinks and florals.
That might be enough to make anyone stop, but for me, it’s the dozen women at individual cooking stations with neatly laid out ingredients.
Dressed cute.
Like effort cute.
Dresses, boots, curled hair, and lip gloss.
One woman adjusts her cardigan as she whispers to another. Two more giggle over a bowl of strawberries.
I looked down at myself. Oversized T-shirt. Joggers. And fluffy socks Tess gave me last year for Christmas.
“I was looking for—”
“Cash?” The woman who introduces herself as Jaclyn digs her long fingernails into her blonde spikes. “Aren’t we all, sweetheart.”
She adjusts her leopard-print blouse with a diving neckline.
“No. I—”
“Is he here now?” A delicate older lady sits beside Jaclyn with white, tousled hair.
“Not yet, Ma.” Jaclyn faces her and raises her voice before glancing back at me. “She didn’t wear her hearing aid. Did you, Ma?”
“What?”
“Exactly.” She takes a deep breath. “Her name is Nettie. And your name is?”
“Shay, but I’m not here for—”
“If I were twenty years younger, I’d be trying to wrestle that boy into my rocking chair.” There’s a wickedly naughty sparkle in Nettie’s eyes.
The rest of the ladies burst into laughter.
“I believe you would.” Her daughter’s hand moves along the vibrant swirls of Nettie’s cardigan.
“You hungry?” Faye stops as she grabs a plate off the counter. “I saved a meal for you.”
Even she’s changed outfits. However, this one might be even more over-the-top than the last one.
Her Kentucky Derby hat has a giant pink frosted cinnamon bun so high it nearly hits the garland when she walks. And her tea dress is sprinkled with the same cinnamon bun pattern.
“Yes, please.” I take a step inside the kitchen, feeling all eyes on me.
“Unless you’ve changed your mind and are staying for the class.” She looks hopeful.
I shake my head. “I had a busy day. The town is gorgeous, and I want to get a good night’s sleep so I can check out more local spots tomorrow. The bridge at the park looks especially interesting.”
Am I babbling?
Yes. Definitely. My nerves have gotten the best of me.
“That will be fun.” Faye lifts the lid of a Crockpot and steam wafts out. “But not nearly as fun as tonight’s baking lesson.”
“Orgasmically fun.” Jaclyn leans on the counter.
Her hip juts out as her fingers tap the leopard print of her blouse. Her big red glasses catch the light as she winks at no one in particular.
“We’re about to make erotically enthralled edibles,” Nettie adds with a low giggle, which makes me think she has selective hearing.
Twins with long auburn hair jump into the conversation.
“Baking with bliss.” The one in a pink dress with a black belt smirks. “My name is Zoe, and this is my sister Zara.”
“Wait until he licks the cream.” Her sister wears a black dress with a pink belt and licks her lips.
A round of sighs follows.
What kind of baking cult have I walked into?
I don’t realize Wilma is staring at me until I focus back on the present.
“Staying or going?” She holds a steaming plate.
“Going.”
Wilma sets the plate on a tray and settles a dome-shaped cover over it.
“You could always stay and watch.” Steam rises from the coffee cup Faye places on the tray.
I do not want to watch.
“You should stay and watch,” Jaclyn purrs. “Every woman should watch.”
I wouldn’t be surprised if this cult has secret handshakes and a chant.
“Trust. I’ll pour you a drink.” She pours an extra glass of wine, and it’s in my hand before I can object.
“Thank you, but—”
“It’s the cinnamon rolls.” She says it like I’m supposed to know what she’s talking about. “I’ve watched that cinnamon roll video a hundred times,” one of the twins says.
I don’t know which one.
But apparently, there’s a video.
Are there incantations and sacred symbols, too?
“Over one hundred if you count the slow-motion replay,” her sister chimes in.
Laughter pierces the room.
“Seeing him on social media is one thing”—Jaclyn inhales—“seeing him teach us in person is dangerous.”
I sip the wine, realizing he might not be as arrogant as I first thought. I mean, he’s definitely arrogant, but he also has a following of women who look ready to pounce him right now. Possibly all at the same time.
“It’s the cowboy hat,” Zoe says.
“It’s the forearms.” The women make noises of agreement. “And the way he talks to the dough like it hears his every whisper.” Zara‘s voice powers to a whisper.
Yes, definitely a cult.
“I’m ready to watch him knead dough in real life.” Zoe pretends to knead dough, and I’m not sure if she means to make it look erotic, but she does. “I’m going to get it all wrong, so he comes over to help and says, ‘Just like this,’ and puts his hands—”
“Don’t even finish that sentence.” Her sister’s elbow catches her ribs, and she lets out a little squeak.
“I’ll be finishing something,” she shoots back, spinning the rolling pin between her hands.
They all laugh.
“He’ll smile.” Jaclyn taps her heels on the floor. “He’ll tease. He’ll make you think the flour is flirting with you.”
“That doesn’t sound professional.” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it.
But I stand by the statement.
He doesn’t sound very professional.
“That’s the thing.” Jaclyn takes a long sip of her wine. “It never goes anywhere.”
I doubt that’s true, but then again, he did straight up tell me he wasn’t sleeping with me.
“Never,” Zoe agrees. “We know the rules.”
“The rules?” If I stopped asking questions, I could leave, but it seems my mouth isn’t syncing with my brain.
“Boundaries.” Zara leans her elbow on her station, facing me. “Clear ones.”
“Confidence, not confusion.” Jaclyn tilts her glass and pours more wine. “He knows exactly where the edge is and doesn’t step over it.”
“And neither do we,” Zoe says.
“If my hips were still fast, he wouldn’t stand a chance.” Nettie’s in her own world.
“It’s a good thing you’re not twenty years younger, Ma. You’d get us kicked out.”
“What?”
Jaclyn squeezes her shoulder. “Boundaries are why this works.”
Are they sharing the instruction manual because they think I’m staying?
Eww.
No.
But they all dive in at once, and I can’t tell who’s saying what anymore.
“He’ll tease a little, smile a little, let the room warm up—” A voice from the far corner starts.
“But the moment it leans the wrong way, he redirects,” another one closer cuts in. “Back to food. Back to craft.”
“So the energy stays safe.”
“That’s the discipline.”
“That’s the appeal.”
“No,” Nettie says loudly. “The appeal is he’s shirtless.”
The women purr.
Again, are they sure her hearing aid is missing?
“Apron on. Shirt nowhere to be found.”
“And the abs,” Jaclyn says. “Not even flexing, just moving when he breathes.”
My chest tightens.
Annoyingly.
Traitorously.
Remembering exactly what his abs felt like under my fingers and against my chest.
“Don’t forget the arms,” someone whispers, fingers tapping the edge of a bowl. “When he reaches for the counter. When he braces—oh, those biceps do something to me.”
A soft moan drifts through the group.
I take a longer sip of wine than necessary. It does nothing to cool the heat creeping up my neck.
“And then he starts cooking.” Zoe lowers her voice, leaning forward, tucking her thin hair behind her ears. “That’s when it really happens.”
Of course it does.
“He treats the ingredients like they’re sacred,” her sister adds, rearranging the cooking utensils on her station.
Sacred like a secret cult.
“The way he presses into the dough,” another murmurs. “Slow. Precise. Unhurried.”
My grip tightens on the glass. I absolutely do not need this visual.
“And when he folds something,” a third voice breathes, tilting her head. “Gentle, like he’s coaxing it.”
I swallow.
Hard.
“Then he slaps.” A grin and a half gasp from the woman in the middle. “Once. Twice. Sharp. Confident.”
Heat pools low, unwelcome and unmistakable.
“That sound,” someone else whispers, fingers twirling a napkin, eyes wide. “Every time.”
I glance at the door, briefly considering escape.
“And he never rushes.” Jaclyn runs her finger around the rim of her wine glass. “He takes his time, savoring the process.”
My pulse stutters.
“The spoon,” a voice breathes.
“Oh God, the spoon!” One squeals.
I’m afraid to ask what he does with the spoon.
“When he tastes what he’s prepared”—a soft gasp—“he closes his eyes for half a second.”
I close my eyes for half a second—big mistake.
“Like he’s alone.”
“Like it’s just him and the flavor.”
The visual hits me.
“And he licks it clean.” A lady trails her hand over the countertop as if following his motion. “Not for us. For the food.”
“That’s the thing,” Zoe starts. “He’s not performing desire. He’s immersed in it.”
“And we just happen to be lucky enough to watch,” Zara finishes.
I glance around, clutching my wine glass.
A cult.
He has a full-blown cult.
“Baked pasta with roasted tomatoes.” Faye holds the tray to me, and it takes me too long to focus on it. “Unless you’ve decided to stay.”
I take the tray so fast that coffee spills over the edge of the mug.
“Thanks, but I’m feeling”—warm, tingling, lightheaded—“tired. But thank you for the offer. Have a great lesson, ladies.”
“You know we will.”
Ew.
My face is hot. I can feel it. The wine, their words, and my nerves are all tangled together.
It’s worse when I get down the hallway, and his room door opens, and he steps out.