Chapter 3
ISABELLA
A loud meow next to my face is followed immediately by one paw patting my nose and I shriek in surprise as my body twitches. Looking over at my ginger cat, affectionately named Butterscotch, I raise an eyebrow. “What?”
He loudly meows again, before burrowing his head between the couch cushion and my shoulder.
I sigh loudly, looking toward the kitchen to see the time on the microwave.
Eight o’clock. I’m not sure what time I fell asleep, as I rarely allow myself to even sit on my couch, much less nap there.
I have no memory of anything after I walked into my apartment.
When I found this one-bedroom space, I immediately knew it was for me.
A bright and airy kitchen with two large windows that look out toward a forest. The large island could fit six or eight stools, but my two are perfect for me to eat breakfast while Butterscotch watches, patiently waiting to see if I’ll give him some milk.
The wall that runs the length of the apartment is red brick, except for a small section in the living room where a wood-burning fireplace is the focus.
While the kitchen appliances have been upgraded, the rest of the apartment has not.
Which is why I consider myself so lucky to have an actual claw-foot tub that I use for baths almost every day.
I’m on my feet for eight to ten hours a day, and my hands take a hell of a beating making all the pastries, donuts, and cookies I dish out daily.
My workload tends to double during the summer months, as the tourist traffic increases exponentially, and I’m able to hire on students on summer break to help out.
I typically enjoy summertime, because the extra help means I can relax slightly, but right now, I’m so damn exhausted.
The shit with Rick and Amelia, then Rick showing up at the bakery, and whatever the hell that was with Sebastian — I’m so drained. Did he really say it would be a privilege to take me out? How is that even possible?
As Sebastian drove me home, I felt oddly comfortable in his truck.
I typically walk to and from work, as it’s only a few blocks, but I couldn’t complain once I settled into the passenger seat.
His truck smelled divine, with elements of his cologne and the leather in the car, but he kept his arm on the console between the seats.
I couldn’t help but imagine what it might be like if he slid his arm over to hold my hand.
Or better yet, if he rested his hand on my thigh.
Usually, I’m not into affection in public.
I chalk this odd feeling up to assuming any woman would want to touch him, to stake their claim.
Sebastian is gorgeous. Absolutely breathtaking.
I’m not without eyes. He’s a couple of inches over six feet, with tan skin and dark brown eyes that sparkle with mirth in almost all situations.
His hair and beard, so dark they’re almost black, make me want to reach out and touch them.
I also want to know what his face looks like without the beard …
but I want to know what his beard feels like all over my body. I bet it hurts so good.
Not that I’ll ever find out. Sebastian can talk all he wants.
But I’m me , and he’s well above my pay grade.
I bet I could pick his last five girlfriends out of a lineup.
Blond, blue eyes, lots of makeup, and at most a size six.
Not me, coming in at a size sixteen on a good day.
My brown hair is straight as a board, nothing like the beautiful curls my sister Gianna got, or the waves Arianna has.
They’re both rocking olive complexions, whereas I pulled some random gene out of thin air and look more northern European than anyone else in my family.
If I didn’t have my dad’s nose, I’d think my mom stepped out on him.
I know she never would, though. Nick and Sofia Santo love each other passionately, and our entire town knows it.
All around me, I see perfect examples of love.
None of my siblings ever thought they’d find love, or felt they deserved it.
Hell, we even have this stupid Santo tradition of being carried across the threshold at my parents’ house to prove we’ve found our true loves.
I’ve tried it twice, and both were blatant disappointments.
I tripped, dropping my high school boyfriend, and my college boyfriend broke up with me on the spot, saying he couldn’t afford to chance throwing out his back because of how much I weighed.
I attempted to explain that I had to carry him, but his tires left marks on the driveway before I even got a sentence out.
While it definitely left me down in the dumps, it didn’t really change my outlook on my own body.
I love my body. I have curves, and I love them.
I love food. I love cooking and baking. I’ll never force myself to give up the joys in my life because of some stupid archaic thinking about body types and happiness.
And who the hell would trust a stick-thin pastry chef? I certainly wouldn’t.
It’s also why I doubt I’ll be bothering with dating for quite some time.
I’ve developed a foolproof way of determining if someone is worth any effort.
One of my favorite desserts is creme br?lée.
The best I’ve ever had was at a steak restaurant in Colorado Springs, of all places, and I almost wept with joy as I finished my bowl.
I’ve been fine-tuning a recipe ever since, determined to replicate their version.
So, I think about that dessert. If I had to choose between a potential date and a serving of creme br?lée, which would I choose? Yeah, the dessert wins every damn time.
My phone buzzes, and I tap the screen to see what the notification is. A text chain with the Santo women pops up.
Hannah: Okay, who was responsible for picking the book club book this month? I have a massive bone to pick with you.
Kate: That’s what she said.
Hannah: Oh shut up.
Arianna: Poor Hannah. She’s clearly struggling with her husband’s bone.
Hannah: Are you really talking about your brother’s dick?
Arianna: Crap. Ignore me.
Natalie: I’m only a couple of chapters into the book, so don’t spoil anything!
Gianna: Didn’t Nonna pick this one?
Me: If she picked a JT Geissinger book, I’m going to have a heart attack at the meeting.
Kate: It wouldn’t be bad if she didn’t INSIST on pantomiming one of the spicy scenes with whatever baked goodies you have us make.
Hannah: Honestly, I’m still surprised no man in Eternity knows about our underground Cock Cookie Club. When Luca asked what CCC stood for, I told him Critical Cookie Club. I still can’t believe he bought it.
Gianna: Travis knows, but he doesn’t care. He benefits from me reading any kind of romance books, whether it involves sexy cookies or not.
Arianna: Stone says the same about the books, but he doesn’t know about the baked goods. He’s too close with Alex and Dom. Once one of them finds out, they’ll all know.
Hannah: What are we making this month, Bells?
Me: It’s a surprise.
It’s only a surprise because I completely spaced on book club being next week, and I don’t have anything planned.
My bakery has a small basement that is perfect for an intimate book club meeting.
After reading a book by Amy Daws that involved a main character making charcuterie boards that she renamed ‘Cockuterie’ boards, I had a moment of inspiration.
How often do we see baked goods accidentally turn into phallic shapes because of incorrect ingredients? Why not do it purposely?
That’s how the Triple C group came about.
I can fit eighteen women in the bakery basement, which only leaves a little over half the seats available for other residents besides my family members.
Gianna and Arianna are my only sisters, while Hannah, Kate, and Natalie have married my brothers.
My mom and Nonna both attend, although Nonna embarrasses the hell out of everyone with her antics.
While she claims she hasn’t been with another man since my grandfather passed away, she certainly has a very vivid imagination.
Or she was a freak with my grandfather.
Me: We’ll have a new member joining us since Carol moved out of town, so try to behave, ladies.
Natalie: You better tell Nonna that too.
Me: She won’t listen, so why bother?
Kate: God bless Nonna. She’s my favorite Santo.
Arianna: You’re married to one.
Kate: I said what I said.
Laughing, I turn off the screen and toss my phone onto the chair next to me. Butterscotch takes the opportunity to stand up, stretch, and climb onto my stomach. One slow blink later, and he begins kneading my soft tummy, purring loudly.
“I love you too,” I tell him, absentmindedly scratching his neck, before wincing as his claws breach my shirt and dig into my skin. “But I’ll only let you have at it for about thirty more seconds. I’d rather not bleed through my shirt.”
He chuffs at me as if he’s only slightly offended, and jumps down of his own accord. I follow him into the kitchen, where he waits patiently for me to gift him with a small treat. I’m not sure who trained who here, if I’m being honest.
Sitting at my island, I grab a claw clip from a bowl in the middle, securing my hair in a messy French twist, then pull up Pinterest on my laptop. I need to find a suitable dessert for book club.
The first few months of meeting, it was easy to come up with a dessert.
But we can only make so many dick and boob desserts before it becomes monotonous.
That’s when I had to start getting creative.
The ladies were big fans of the ‘dick on a stick’ cookie, where the tip was dipped in melted white chocolate.
They also enjoyed the coffle: a waffle shaped like a cock.
We even made soft pretzel penises one time.