Baby Spice Forever

by Frankie Love

  Baby Spice Forever

  Frankie Love

  Contents

  About

  1. Wannabe

  2. Spice Up Your Life

  3. 2 Become 1

  4. Say You’ll Be There

  5. Love Thing

  Ready for another round?

  Another Frankie Love Irish Romance!

  About the Author

  About

  I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really, want .

  Her.

  Only Her.

  She walks into my kitchen, hungry as hell.

  “I want to add a little spice to my life.”

  Good.

  I’ll give her that and plenty more.

  It’s Saint Patrick’s day.

  Everyone wants to have fun, to get lucky.

  Me?

  I want to give it to her good and then make her mine.

  Forever.

  Wannabe

  Bridget

  I’m starving. Literally starving. I didn’t have time to eat before the Blackthorn concert and now I’m beyond hangry. I’m spiraling into meltdown mode. I am thoroughly aware that it’s universally not cute to fall apart over the need of a snack, but I’m not exactly concerned about some rando in Dublin thinking I’m sexy. Especially not on St. Paddy’s day. Being hit on by a drunken Irishman isn’t on my priority list.

  Unless that Irishman has a bag of tortilla chips and a vat of queso. Then I’m in. All in.

  The taxi drops me off at the castle where I have a room waiting for me. I graduated from college two years ago. I was a member of the Mi Alpha Alpha sorority, and my roommate Janie reserved rooms this March for lots of the girls we knew from school. Which is crazy sweet of her. I didn’t even have time to set foot on the property, which is just outside the city, before the show. So I just couriered my luggage to the estate and headed to the Dublin Arena.

  The show was great — if you like that kind of thing. Not that I have anything against dreamy rock stars who grace the covers of magazines worldwide. But I’m all about the old-school, girl power. Spice Girls over Nsync. TLC over Backstreet Boys.

  When the concert ended, Janie went off to after parties, and I hightailed it out of there, in need of three things. Food, a bath, and wine. In that particular order. After a day of travel from Bulgaria I’m beyond exhausted.

  Did I mention I was hungry?

  I pay the driver and head to the front entrance. If the kitchen is closed I’m not above picking the lock and finding what I need. Not that I can cook — ironic for a food writer. Just because I can appreciate food doesn’t mean I can prepare it.

  The castle is quiet, but a gray haired woman sits behind a desk and there’s a small lamp on that illuminates her welcoming face. I step toward her, forcing myself to sound pleasant. Normal. Nice even.

  “Hi, I’m Bridget Bower. I have a reservation?”

  The woman’s face brightens. “Of course, dearie. I’m Tabitha. You know, Ms. Locke was so pleased that her dear friends would be staying here. Busy woman, managing that famous band and all, my word!”

  “Yes. Janie is impressive,” I say, knowing Janie has made an incredible life for herself as Blackthorn’s Manager. Me? Well, I’m living my best life too, but it’s not quite five star accommodations yet. I’m a travel food blogger, and I work for myself. Which means I hustle day and night. A little R&R in Dublin, paid for by my old roommate, is a decadent treat.

  “I must say, I’m surprised to see you here so early.” Tabitha laughs gently. “I thought all you kids would be out till the wee hours of the mornin’. It’s St. Paddy’s day, after all.”

  “Yeah, I’m not exactly a party girl,” I say with an overwrought smile pasted on my face.

  “In that case, Bridget, I’ll let you get to bed. Your luggage is in your room, and here’s your key, dear.” She hands me a key for room 212. Just how many rooms are in this castle? “Now, is there anything you need before retiring?”

  “Is there a restaurant still open?”

  Tabitha clucks her tongue, looking at her gold wristwatch. “Oh, dearie, that kitchen just closed at eleven.”

  I exhale, trying to keep my cool. To keep my level of hangry from showing. “Is there a vending machine? Somewhere I can get a bag of chips or something?” I say a bag, but I’m really thinking about how much change I have, how many coins I can insert to get the most bang for my buck.

  “We don’t have anything like that on the estate, but you can pop over to the kitchen, Beckett’s still there and I’m sure he can scrounge you up a leftover piece of corned beef.”

  “Perfect,” I tell her. “Seriously, I owe you.”

  “Don’t mention it, dearie. Beckett isn’t the friendliest man; don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “That bad?” I ask, putting the room key in my purse.

  “He’s grumpy. Forgot the charming bit of being Irish.”

  “As long as he can cook, I’ll be able to handle him.”

  Tabitha smiles. “Cook he can.”

  I walk down the dimly lit hallway, taking in the regal portraits lining the wall, the chandeliers above my head, aware of the way the heels of my boots echo down the hall. I turn left, per Tabitha’s instructions, and find myself in a massive dining room. There are rows of big oak tables and sturdy benches, candelabras. It’s like I’m a student at Hogwarts, not a blogger who is dying for one of Hagrid’s Rock Cakes and a pint of butter beer. My stomach growls. Loudly.

  The dining hall is empty though, so I walk past the tables toward the double doors at the end of the room. There’s a small window on each door and I pause, looking through it, despite my hunger pains.

  The man in the kitchen — Beckett, I presume — wears a green apron and a scowl. But damn, this Irishman is hot. The sleeves on his flannel shirt are rolled up to elbow, unbuttoned just enough for me to want to see more. Dark denim jeans, and when he turns, setting a pan in a sink, I bite my lip. They hug his ass perfectly.

  I could keep watching him — be a peeping Tom — but my priorities right now don’t include stalking the cook. I need him to make me something, or at least show me the pantry.

  Pushing open the door, I brace myself for the man Tabitha described — a grump.

  When he hears the door push open, his eyes flash with annoyance. “And what are you looking for?”

  “I’m looking for Beckett. I heard he’s the cook.”

  “So he is. What’s it to you?”

  I step forward, not in the mood to play nice. I’m hungry. And tired. And falling, fast. Not for him — no, he looks like a brooding Irishman. I mean, a sexy brooding Irishman — but my focus is elsewhere.

  “I’m Bridget and I’m crazy hungry. Tabitha said you could make me something?”

  “The kitchen is closed,” he says, grabbing a towel and wiping down the counter. Not even looking up at me.

  “I know, but see, I just got in from the concert and I haven’t—”

  “You were at the Blackthorn show? Another groupie who knows nothing about Ireland? Just came for a rock concert?”

  “Well, I mean I wouldn’t say groupie. I don’t even like that music.”

  “Sure, and what is it you like, lass?”

  “I maybe be twenty-five, but I have a soft spot for ’90s girl bands. I’m here because my friend offered me a ticket and a fancy hotel room so I kinda jumped at it.”

  He smirks. “I see.”

  I set my hands on my hips. “What is it you see?”

  “A pretty girl who likes expensive things, flashy concerts, and fancy digs. A lass who wouldn’t understand a poor country boy if she tried.”

  I roll my eyes. “Right, you nailed me completely.”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “Do I
now?”

  “Yep.” I give him the fakest smile ever. And he knows it. “Totally. And I’d love to discuss it further, at literally any other time. But right now? I’ve got laser-like focus. A mission.”

  He leans against the counter top. He is tall, lean, muscular and having way too much fun thinking he knows what kind of girl I am. “And what’s that, lassie?”

  “My mission is food. A whole bunch of food. In my belly. Like now.”

  “And you think I’ll just drop everything, my plans for the night, to make you food?”

  I press my lips together. He does not want to see me rage-quit right now. “If you can’t, I will.”

  “You can cook?”

  I bite my lip. “I can cook eggs.”

  He turns, pulling out a bowl of fresh brown eggs from the fridge. “Will these do?”

  I grimace. “Of course.” I look around for a frying pan. He hands me one before I can locate it on my own. “Oh, right. Thanks.”

  I swallow, taking in the massive Aga range. It has ten burners, runs on gas, and one look tells me I can’t keep up this act. “Um. Beckett? This is over my head.”

  He crosses his arms. Biceps bulging. Eyes bright green. A smirk that is verging on cocky. “You want my help?”

  I nod.

  He shrugs. “Then you’ll have to tell me what you want. What you really, really want.”

  Spice Up Your Life

  Beckett

  The gorgeous American is laughing. “Is that a Spice Girls reference?”

  I grin. “You said you like girl bands, thought I’d give it a whirl.”

  “It’s sexy.”

  “Oh, is it now?” Now it’s me who can’t stop laughing. “’90s lyrics turn you on?

  She bites her bottom lip. “Maybe.”

  I spin, pulling open the fridge, grabbing a container of leftovers. Potatoes, onions, carrots, corned hash. When I turn back around I see her cheeks are red. But she doesn’t need to be embarrassed. She’s cuter than any girl I’ve ever seen ‘round here. Those rosy cheeks, the blonde bob of a haircut swishing at her chin. Red lips. Clear blue eyes. And she’s a curvy little thing; hips and tits that tell me she knows how to enjoy life.

  Even if she has terrible taste in music.

  I’ll give her a bit of a hard time though; I like to see if a girl can handle a little snark with a side of corned beef. I got plenty of beef, and damn, I wouldn’t mind sharing a whole meal with her. I’ve got a feeling she’d enjoy every bite.

  “So you’re hungry but you can’t cook? What can ya do?” I ask, setting the items from the fridge on the counter. This kitchen is where my granny used to cook my brother Gerry and I so many of our meals growing up.

  She bites down on her lip. “I can eat. A lot.”

  I chuckle. “That so? In that case, I should be doing more than warming you up tonight’s dinner.”

  “I’d think so if you’re the chef of this fancy castle,” she says with a smile. “I’m a food writer, and I don’t hold back on reviews.”

  “A food writer?” I lift my eyebrows. “See, I knew you were fancy.”

  “I’m not, unless it comes to food. Then I get picky,” she says, peeling back the lid on a food container. “But not tonight. Tonight I can handle these leftovers because I’m starving.”

  “Are ya now?” I offer her a plate of crudités and dip and she grabs a fistful of cucumbers. “If you can wait ten minutes, I’ll make you my specialty.”

  “Oh really? The poor country boy has a specialty now?”

  I laugh loudly, appreciating her humor. I’m not a man who goes for weak lassies. I like a girl who knows who she is, who can speak her mind — who has an appetite.

  “I can make a nice hanger. You fancy that?”

  Her stomach growls, and she presses her hands to her belly. “See, I wasn’t lying.”

  “Alright, you eat the cucumbers while I make you a real meal, darling. Just give me a sec, will ya?”

  I sweep out of the kitchen and grab two pint glasses at the back bar, pouring us both a frothy Guinness. Back in the kitchen, I see she’s set down her purse and taken off her coat. “Bloody hell, woman,” I say, setting down the beer. Her tits look insane in that tight white little tank top. Her nipples have my cock growling. Damn, suddenly I’m the one who is starved.

  She frowns. “What’s wrong?”

  “You just, you took off the coat. You’re just…”

  She lifts an eyebrow, taking the beer. When she pulls it to her ruby lips my body roars to life. “Just what?”

  “You just look fecking gorgeous, Bridget.”

  She laughs, throwing back her head. “You’re not so bad yourself, Beckett. It’s strange though, Tabitha gave me the impression you were much more of a grump than you appear to be.”

  I smirk, taking a cast iron pan and setting it over a burner. I’ll wait to turn on the heat until the meat is ready.

  “Tabitha is an old biddy. My granny’s best friend. She’s mad because I broke her granddaughter’s heart.”

  “How’d you do that?” Bridget sits down on a stool, leaning over the counter. Her gorgeous rack is utterly distracting.

  “She wanted to settle down. I’m not ready for all that. At least not with her. She wanted a life in the country.”

  “And what do you want?” she asks as I toss a chunk of butter into the pan.

  “I want to see the world. Learn to cook more than hanger steak and corned beef.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Bridget smiles, taking another sip of her pint. I ask her about her life in America, but she tells me she is unattached. Grew up in foster care and has always been a lone ranger. Flying solo. But the look in her eyes tells me she wishes for something different. Someone to share the stories with. A surge of protectiveness rises up in me as I listen to her.

  “Sounds like you’ve been through a lot on your own.”

  She shrugs, optimism flowing freely. “Life is what you make it. I like to take chances; risks. Live with no regrets. I want a partner in crime — but only if they want to be there as much as me.”

  “I utterly understand.” I smile as I move to the spice rack on the other wall.

  She follows, and damn, I’d like to lead her somewhere more private. “So tell me, Chef,” she asks. “How do you season your steak?”

  “This for a review?”

  “What else would it be?” She stands from the stool, walking over to the spices. There are dozens of tiny jars and bottles.

  “I don’t know?” I look over at her, her fingers running over the handwritten labels. “Maybe you want to learn all my family secrets and steal them for yourself.”

  “Someone in your family taught you to cook then?” Her eyes soften as she looks at the spices, and I can tell she appreciates the local herbs that I’ve collected. Carraway. Thyme. Bay leaves. Bridget reaches for a special jar containing my Granny’s infamous blend — she had specific thoughts on how and when to use it.

  A blend of juniper berries, salt from the sea, and cloves. My cock twitches — this gorgeous girl ought to put that jar down. She doesn’t know what trouble she might get in if we used it on the steak.

  I nod. “My granny taught me everything I know. She’s the actual cook for this kitchen, I’m just filling in.”

  “Oh, truly?” She turns to me in surprise. “I’d think a castle this size would have a fancy chef.”

  “And how do you know my granny isn’t classically trained? She is, I’ll have you know. Went to Cordon Bleu in Paris.”

  Bridget’s eyes widen. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it, I just —”

  “It’s fine, lassie. My Granny is out of work this week because she twisted her ankle. She asked me to come home for a bit and take over.”

  “And where do you usually live?” she asks.

  “Dublin, working as a cook in a kitchen, but I promise you, it’s not as memorable as this one.”

  “Speaking of memorable — that butter is smoking,” she
says.

  “Oh shit,” I turn down the heat and move the pan from the burner. Bridget is across from me, watching as I look back at the spice rack. “Can you grab me the small bottle, to the left?” I ask.

  She examines the bottom in her hand. “What about this one?” She reads the label aloud. “Baby Spice?”

  “Yeah, you won’t want that one, lass,” I say with a snort.

  “How do you know what I want?” She sets the bottle on the counter.

  “I don’t think you want a stranger to knock you up, is all.”

  Her eyes widen. “Knock me up?”

  I pick up the bottle, open the lid, take a good whiff. “This right here is Granny’s special formula. Guaranteed to make a woman mad with desire.” I lift my eyebrows. “Proven recipe to get ya pregnant. Is that what you want?” I raise the bottle above the steak.

  “Pregnant?” She snorts. “Right, I’m sure.”

  “I don’t know why you’re laughing, Bridget. Are you calling my granny a liar?”

  She rolls her eyes. “There’s just no magic spice that can get someone pregnant, is all.”

  I grin. “In that case, using this won’t hurt us, will it?”

  Her eyes twinkle with confidence. “I don’t suppose it will.” She grabs the bottle from me and starts shaking the spices onto the steak.

  I reach for her hand. “Easy there, lass. Or you’ll end up with triplets.”

  She laughs, her stomach growling, the kitchen suddenly feeling brighter than it has in a good long while. “Triplets? Perfect. I’ve always wanted to have three kids. Might as well get it done in one go.”

  “Is that right? You want to be a mother?” I set the steak into the cast iron pan, the butter sizzling against the meat.