“We wouldn’t miss it.”
Smiling, I wipe my hands on my apron before untying it and hanging it on the rack. “Great… there will be drinks and appetizers starting at seven.”
“See you tonight,” Jenn calls out as I make my way back to the front and out the door, a bag of muffins under my arm. Crossing the street, I walk over to the studio, pausing for a second to admire the new sign.
Viking MMA
Cage toyed with the idea of making this place part of the Erickson MMA brand, but decided he’d rather it be his own, something separate from the family business. I love it.
“Hello,” I call out, walking through the front door. “Cage?”
“Up here,” he calls back, his voice coming from the stairs leading to the apartment. An apartment we now share. Last month, he talked me into moving in with him. I was hesitant, but he said it could be on a trial basis and if it didn’t work out, I could move back to my old apartment… or buy a house… or whatever I want.
It’s one of the things I love the most about him—he lets me be me.
“I brought you muffins,” I call back.
“Hey Good Lookin?” he asks.
“No,” I yell back.
“Forever and Ever, Amen?”
“No!”
“What the hell?” he asks, finally walking down the stairs so we can stop yelling at each other. “You know those are my favorites.”
Holding the bag out to him, I wait for him to take a whiff. He mentioned a few weeks ago that his favorite fruit is pineapple, so I think he’s going to be happy with this combination. When he takes the bag from me and opens it, the groan he makes goes straight to my core.
Cage’s muffin approval is basically the same sound he makes when he’s coming.
I can’t be held responsible for my body’s response to that.
“Islands in the Stream,” I tell him, walking over and stealing a bite from the one he’s holding up.
“Hey!” He pulls the muffin back with a look of disgust on his face… his beautiful, perfect face.
Giving him an unapologetic smile, I walk around him and over to the mats. “So, what’s left to do for tonight? I’m ready for you to put me to work.”
“I’ll put you to work, alright,” Cage mutters, his mouth half-full of muffin.
He actually is going to put me to work, and not just in the bedroom. When his regular classes start next week, I’ll be helping with the self-defense classes. After this week, Cage will no longer work at the Pink Pony, going full-time at the studio.
Ignoring his sexual advances, I redirect the conversation. “You know, when this all started, I thought you were just going to teach me how to channel my anger,” I say, thoughtfully. “But you taught me so much more than that.”
“Like how to kick my ass,” he says, a mischievous grin on his face.
“That,” I agree. “And how to fight, not just physically, but for myself.”
He sits the bag of muffins down and walks over to me, grabbing me by the waist. “You already had it in you… I just helped you find it.”
“You helped me see I was worth fighting for.”
Crystal-blue eyes bore into mine as Cage’s expression turns serious. “You are worth it,” he says, his voice full of earnest. “I’ve known it since the first time I laid eyes on you… I’m glad you finally caught up to speed.”
Rising up on my tip toes, I press my lips to his. “I love you,” I whisper, hoping he knows how much. “Thank you for everything… for being my friend and always being on my side… for helping me fight my battles.”
“Always,” he says, his lips brushing my cheek as he kisses his way to my neck, strong arms wrapping me up and pulling me closer. “I love you, Tempest Cassidy...and I’ll always fight for you… for us. Never doubt that.”
THE END
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, we’d like to thank the Queen, aka Evil Overlord, Penny Reid for giving us this amazing opportunity to write in her world. We’ve been Reiders and fans of her work for a while now, often commenting back and forth between ourselves about how well our characters would fit in the Pennyverse. Then, low and behold, the heavens opened up and she offered us a chance to do just that.
Fiona “Finger Guns” Fisher, you’re the woman! We don’t know how you do all you do, but we bow down to your greatness. Thank you for everything!
Being a part of Smartypants Romance has been a dream come true. The other authors we’re privileged to work with have been nothing short of amazing. Their camaraderie, championship, and creativity are invaluable. In no particular order, because we love you all equally, we’d like to thank Karla Sorensen, Daisy Prescott, April White, M. E. Carter, Cathy Yardley, Piper Sheldon, Ellie Kay, L. B. Dunbar, Katie Ashley, Stella Weaver, and Nora Everly.
To our fellow bakery girls—Karla and Ellie—DONNERBAKERY4LIFE.
For this book, we’d like to give a special shout out to Miranda Lambert for writing the album—Four the Record. Music is the key to our soul and the songs on this album unlocked the heart of our character, Tempest Cassidy.
We’d also like to tip our hats to the Country Western greats that made the muffins possible: Waylon, George, Hank, Willie, Johnny, and Merle.
We can never not thank our amazing families. Our mamas probably read these and they’d be offended if we didn’t show them some love. Also, our kids, who thankfully are now old enough to fend for themselves when we hole up in our writing caves.
Pamela Stephenson is always the first to read our words and we appreciate her honesty and cheerleading skill. She’s always there from the beginning, watching and reading as the story takes shape. Thanks for being you, Pamela!!
We’d also like to thank Nikki, our editor. Thank you for always approaching every new story we throw at you with an insightful eye. We kind of threw this one on you at the last minute and we appreciate you always working us in and making a place for us in your busy schedule.
Our proofreader, friend, and drinking buddy, Mrs. Karin Enders. Thank you for everything! We appreciate your time, effort, and most of all, your friendship!
A special thank you to Shannon for always catching the sneakiest mistakes. You’re the best!
Thank you to our pimp team and everyone in Jiffy Kate’s Southern Belles. All of you make our days better. It takes a village and we’re so happy you’re a part of ours.
About the Author
Jiffy Kate is the joint pen name for Jiff Simpson and Jenny Kate Altman. They're co-writing besties who share a brain. They also share a love of cute boys, stiff drinks, and fun times.
Together, they've written over twenty stories. Their first published book, Finding Focus, was released in November 2015. Since then, they've continued to write what they know--southern settings full of swoony heroes and strong heroines.
* * *
Website: http://www.jiffykate.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/jiffykate
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7352135.Jiffy_Kate
Twitter: @jiffykatewrites
Instagram: @jiffykatewrites
Find Smartypants Romance online:
Website: www.smartypantsromance.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/smartypantsromance/
Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/smartypantsromance
Twitter: @smartypantsrom
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Read on for:
1. Sneak Peek of No Whisk No Reward, Book #3 in the Donner Bakery Series by Ellie Kay
2. Jiffy Kate’s Booklist
Sneak Peek: No Whisk No Reward, Book #3 in the Donner Bakery Series
By Ellie Kay
“I really hope I am not lost. Please don’t let me be lost.”
I was talking to myself. I was doing that a lot lately.
Talking to myself had become a habit over the last couple of weeks and that was because I was more often than not alone.
I’d recently quit, or a
s I prefer to think of it, self-terminated my employment, at a high-end restaurant in Seattle called Paradigm, for reasons following a disastrous appearance on a televised baking competition called No Whisk, No Reward.
As it turns out, I have a pretty epic case of camera shyness and/stage fright.
Information that would have been useful to me prior to allowing myself to be goaded into auditioning, but I digress.
Long story short, I quit my job and was heading east to Boston where my best friend and fellow Culinary Institute of America graduate Anna was going to be opening up her own bakery which she planned to call Yeast Affection. I thought it was hilarious and suited Anna’s irreverent personality perfectly, but I had doubts about whether Bostonians would find it as punny as we did.
Either way, with three months left on an employment contract with a restaurant in Back Bay, Anna didn’t need me until the new year, so I decided to take a cross country sabbatical, stopping at many culinary points of interest along the way.
I thought that I would spend a lot more time weaving in and around any state with a bakery or restaurant with enough of a reputation to make me curious enough to stop in, but as it turned out, I hated driving in the dark. Also, gas, food, and lodging were more expensive than I had initially anticipated, and after just two weeks on the road, I realized that I was becoming quite lonely.
As a social person, I quickly learned that solitary travel was not for me and fleeting encounters with locals in small towns was not enough to sustain my need for human interaction.
Sometimes when I felt especially forlorn, and I had exhausted my vocal cords singing along to one of my many carefully curated playlists, I would talk to Paul Newman.
Or more precisely a laminated picture of him that I took with me everywhere as a good luck charm of sorts.
He kept me company, gave me advice, and sometimes when I really needed cheering up, he’d indulge me by running lines from his movies with me. My favorite movie to quote was Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.
For ten or so minutes, I forgot my troubles and I was Maggie the Cat, imploring Brick Politt to impregnate me.
Some people drink, some people do drugs, but my port of choice in a storm of loneliness was having an imaginary back and forth with a silver screen legend of yesteryear, and I’d be damned if I would apologize for it.
As I started to come to grips with the almost certain possibility that I had no idea how to get off the road I was on, I tried not to panic or engage my blue-eyed guardian angel just yet.
It felt as though I’d been winding down a never-ending mountain road for almost an hour, though in reality, it had probably only been fifteen minutes.
I kept a conservative speed so that I would not miss any possible turn offs or gaps through the trees that might reveal a hint of civilization out in the distance. Then I’d at least know if I was going in the right direction!
It was dusk now, getting close to dark and I needed to at least find my way back onto the highway.
I gripped the steering wheel firmly and leaned toward the windshield watching the thick canopy of trees pass by for what seemed like an age as George Michael cordially requested that I rouse him from slumber before I go-go’ed.
Had I not been so concerned about my whereabouts, I might have taken a moment to appreciate the beauty of the fire-hued, fall foliage.
Red, yellow, and orange leaves made the woods look like dying summer embers, and as I affixed a watchful eye on the road ahead, leaves fell like fiery rain and scattered across the asphalt like sparks.
The steering wheel seemed like it had been permanently hooked to the right as the car descended along the mountain road in what felt like a never-ending spiral.
Every so often I would cast my eyes to the phone in its dashboard mount to see if cell reception had been restored so I could use GPS to track where the hell I was. Each shift in the dimming light made me more and more anxious to find my way off this road.
Up ahead an old, gnarled tree arched its branches across the road only to realize I had already passed beneath that distinctive bit of forestry already.
“Oh wonderful,” I squeaked, my voice straining through my tight throat. “I’m going in circles. How is that even possible? That’s it. I’m gone, I’m dead. This is the Hotel California of forests. I’m in the Blair Witch woods, just point me to the corner and get it over with,” I moaned, peering down momentarily at the radio to turn off the music as though the quiet might help me see better.
When my eyes flickered back to the road, it had straightened out ahead of me and the blinding brightness of approaching headlights alerted me to the fact that I had veered on the wrong side of it.
“Shit!” I yanked the steering wheel fully to the right as a big, black truck came into view and time seemed to slow down as the moment played out before me with the kind of clarity that only a near-death experience can bring.
The driver laid on their horn and both of our tires screeched as we simultaneously slammed on our brakes, maneuvering our cars away from each other and narrowly escaping a crash, which was just as well because that truck would have easily leveled my ’95 Honda Civic with me inside it.
My car stopped abruptly, causing me to lurch forward and then reel back against my seat from the sharp stop. Then silence.
A horror reel of all the possible ways it could have ended differently played in my mind as my white knuckles clutched at the steering wheel.
I forced thoughts of my gruesome demise from my mind and shifted my eyes up to glance in the rearview mirror and saw that the other car had also stopped.
Shock immediately gave way to embarrassment and I knew I should get out of the car and make sure that whoever was in the truck was okay and apologize for my lapse in focus.
I also briefly considered that being a female and alone on a remote mountain road, it might be wiser for me to just put the car in drive and take off without opening myself up to the possibility of being abducted.
Society told me not to generalize but I honestly doubted that I’d find a woman driving a big, honking truck like that.
My eyes lowered to beneath the truck’s back tires and I told myself that if it was sporting a pair of those truck testicles that seemed to be so popular amongst young redneck men then I would be absolutely justified in making a run for it.
Nothing untoward dangled between the back “legs” of the truck but it still did little to ease my nerves about confronting the driver.
I acknowledged and fully accepted that I deserved to be scolded and if that was their intention then I’d dutifully take it on the chin, promise that it would not happen again, reiterate my regret, and then be on my way.
But the longer the moment dragged on, the more my imagination began to run away with all manner of horrific scenarios that involved more sadistic means of punishment.
“I really need to stop listening to true crime podcasts,” I told myself trying desperately to find enough rationality and aplomb to get out of my car and express my repentance to the other driver.
I was still shaking, though I tried to convince myself that it was from the shock of the near head-on collision I’d narrowly avoided, and not the fact that any moment a mountain man wielding a chainsaw in one hand and the head of his last victim in the other might exit the cabin of his vehicle and come lumbering toward me with the inhuman speed of the T-1000.
My eyes flickered to my phone again.
No reception still.
“Shit.”
I swallowed and looked up at the laminated picture of Paul Newman clasped to a nylon lanyard that hung from my rearview mirror the way rosary beads hung from other people’s mirrors.
“Mr. Newman, if you’re up there …” I began, my voice small and breathless as I appealed to the spirit of Paul Newman the way that others appealed to God. “If you get me out of this, I swear I will go back to your Sockarooni sauce, chocolate sandwich cookies, and microwave popcorn. It’s just that … well, the other brands were discount
ed, and I needed to watch my spending,” I explained trying to justify my lapse in brand loyalty. “I see now that everything has a price, but if you please get me out of this next ten minutes unscathed, I swear I won’t stray again. I mean, not that I can commit to feeding myself exclusively with your products, but … you know what I mean. Amen.”
I lowered my chin from my “prayer” in reverence for a moment and then sighed, lifting my eyes back to the rearview mirror.
The driver’s side door of the truck swung open and my shoulders immediately knotted with tension.
I took a long, deep inhalation and held it watching as a pair of jean-clad legs with brown boots stepped out onto the road.
His body exited facing away from me and in the low light, I struggled to make out any level of detail other than the fact that he didn’t seem to be holding a gun or chainsaw.
“It’s fine. This is fine. Everything is fine,” I babbled nervously to myself.
His muted, olive-green T-shirt clad back straightened and his long arm grasped the driver’s side door as he rose to his full height.
He was big, broad, and imposing even from a distance and I made a strangled whimpering sound as I watched him start to turn around.
Tension made my eyes water and I choked out an exhalation; unable to hold in my breath any longer as I mentally weighed the merits of contrition and asking for forgiveness against not being kidnapped, driven to a house with a hidden torture bunker, and killed in backwater nowhere.
“Oh God, he’s massive,” I said as his six-foot-three-ish frame turned around and my eyes involuntarily lowered from the rearview mirror as I reached to unclasp my seatbelt.
My heart thundered with a concerning amount of force within my chest cavity.
I liked to credit myself as being quite a brave person, but I was brave in the sense that I was down for bungee jumping, approaching an attractive man at a club and asking him to dance, or even confronting people in public who were harassing others or being obnoxious or distasteful.
Stud Muffin: Donner Bakery Book #2 Page 28
