by Avery Duran
When Brooklyn candy store owner Reese Thornton needs a break from the Valentine’s Day rush, a walk seems like a good idea. His day appears to pick up when he sees the man of his dreams pushing a cat in a stroller. Unfortunately, Reese does not have a working brain-to-mouth filter, and Mr. Right, Gideon Trent, finds Reese to be Mr. Wrong. When their paths cross again, will he be able to hold onto Gideon, or will Cupid’s arrow miss them both?
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.
Cupid in a Stroller by Avery Duran, 2nd Edition Copyright 2018
Cover Art: Reese Dante reesedante.com
Cover content is for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted on the cover is a model.
All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Avery Duran, [email protected]
Disclaimer: The material in this book is for mature audiences only and contains graphic content. It is intended only for those aged 18 and older.
All trademarks (including but not limited to those listed below) are the property of their respective owners.
Instagram
Willy Wonka
Oompa Loompa
Hershey
Bobbsey Twins
The following songs are referenced:
Oops I Did It Again sung by Britney Spears
Greased Lightning & There Are Worse things I Could Do from Grease
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
I
II
III
IV
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
THE GUY PUSHING THE BRIGHT red stroller was hot! Definitely the three Bs—big, built, and brawny. Just the way I like them. Mr. B. had to be over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and biceps perfectly sculpted for grabbing. Tousled dirty-blond hair fringed over sunglasses, leaving me to daydream about the color of his eyes. I watched as he walked toward me with a determined stride. The good ones are always taken—but that didn’t mean I couldn’t look. He sure was a fine piece of eye candy; there was something about him that drew my attention. As he got closer, I realized there was no baby in that stroller—he was pushing a cat! Zip-up mesh enclosed where an infant or toddler would typically sit, most likely to keep the cat from running away. I love animals as much as the next guy—but cat-strolling? I burst out laughing, pointed to the stroller and said, “That is one hairy baby.”
I don’t know why I do these things. Obviously, impulse control is not my strong suit. When faced with a hot guy who ticks all my boxes, perhaps laughing in his face is a poor choice. He stopped where he was and pushed his sunglasses over his head. His bright blue eyes, clear and light with depths a person could get lost in, were as cold as they were beautiful. He was stunning, and I had no doubt he was going to rip me to shreds. He slowly ran his icy gaze up and down my body, eventually gesturing toward my groin with his hand. “A grown man wearing a diaper in public probably shouldn’t comment on what others are doing,” he advised. With that, he returned his glasses to their proper place and continued on his way.
I should have kept my big mouth shut. He was right—I was out in public wearing a diaper and flesh-toned unitard. It wasn’t even for a fun reason. My family owns a candy store and with Valentine’s Day coming soon, we thought it would be a great idea to have Cupid make an appearance. While in theory it may have seemed to be marketing genius, the reality turned out to be pretty embarrassing, especially considering Cupid was being played by someone with a leaky brain-to-mouth filter. I should have brought the bow and arrow with me.
Sighing, I started back to the store to get the hell out of my getup. The Sheepshead Bay section of Brooklyn is on the water, and normally the bitter cold coming off the bay would make my outfit unbearable. But today, there was a hint of spring weather signaling the end of a cold, snowy winter.
One of the reasons I love living and working here is that there is so much to see near the docks. The seagulls swooping down into the water to grab a snack. Children pointing excitedly at a sailboat or lovers walking hand-in-hand. Maybe even a couple of drunken twenty-somethings stumbling off a party boat. Forgetting about the Cupid garb and trying to get some fresh air was not my brightest moment. Undoubtedly, I’d already become someone’s joke of the day.
The bell tinkled over the door as I opened it and stepped into the ground-floor shop. That same bell has been announcing customers since my grandparents opened the store over fifty years ago. The Sweet Sailing Candy Shoppe, on Emmons Avenue, still has the old-fashioned candy store appearance. Dark paneling wraps the walls while wood and glass display cases house the sweets for sale. Stained-glass light fixtures cast a warm glow across the well-maintained furniture in the seating area. It’s obvious this store is much more than a business to our family.
When my father was growing up, my grandmother’s delicious candies were a hit. They became so popular, she began to sell them out of her home. Her business grew and eventually, she needed a professional kitchen. My grandparents started renting the store and ultimately bought the building; the business has been family-run ever since. My grandmother, father, and brother were blessed with the cooking talent, while my grandfather, mother, and I worked our magic behind the scenes.
So when I came up with the idea to have Cupid hand out samples and coupons, I’d expected to hire a college kid. My mother, ever fiscally responsible, felt it would be a waste of money when she had two perfectly capable sons who spent way too much time at the gym. My brother, Hershey, claimed he was too busy making the candy to do it. Unfortunately, I didn’t think of an excuse fast enough. That’s how this man with an MBA from NYU ended up wearing long underwear and a cloth diaper in public.
My grandmother glanced up from the candy she was arranging in a gift basket and burst into laughter. “I can’t believe you went along with her. You look ridiculous, Reese,” she declared. “I’ve seen enough of you and Hershey in diapers to last a lifetime.”
I rolled my eyes at her. “I’m going to get out of this thing and we will never speak of it again.” Her laughter followed me as I walked up the stairs to my third-floor apartment. I wanted to change before my brother saw me—he’d have this posted on Instagram before I knew what hit me.
The store took up the entire first floor of the building. The two-bedroom apartment I grew up in was directly above it. Originally, the third floor was the three-bedroom apartment my grandparents occupied. When my brother and I were finished with college and came home to work in the store, they converted the third floor into two studio apartments and my grandmother moved downstairs to live with my parents. The extra flight of steps had become difficult for her to manage, so the solution worked on multiple levels.
I couldn’t stop thinking of Mr. B. I’m a small guy, and while I love to be manhandled in bed, I don’t want somebody trying to control me when we’re not rolling in the sheets. With my big mouth, and—as demonstrated earlier—an inability to censor myself, finding someone who can go toe-to-toe with me but isn’t a bully has been a challenge. I am well aware locating such a guy is as likely as acquiring a unicorn, but I can dream. Fortunately, Mr. B. would set me up with steamy fantasies for quite a while. Those broad shoulders, hair just long enough to grab. Even his voice turned me on—deep and smooth with a hint of the south. Seriously, if a guy pushing a cat in a stroller can still be hot as hell, he’s got
something special. If only I wasn’t a moron, perhaps I wouldn’t have completely offended him.
I changed into jeans and a red T-shirt to go perform my real job: handling the behind-the-scenes work necessary to ensure the success of our business. You name it, I did it. Our internet presence, marketing ideas, negotiating with suppliers—I had my hands in all of it. About the only thing I stayed away from was the candy making. Hershey was a genius when it came to finding new flavor combinations and making the delicate sugar decorations.
My mind was already spinning with Valentine’s-themed ideas for our social media accounts when I opened my front door, only to find my brother standing in the entrance, preparing to knock.
“Hey Reese, Mom wants a family meeting now. She says it’s important.” He did a double take and waved his hands in an up and down motion over my body. “What the fuck are you wearing?”
My identical twin and I had inadvertently put on exactly the same clothing, right down to our shoes. We hated when our parents dressed us alike as children yet as we grew, we ended up with similar tastes in fashion. We never intentionally dress alike, but it’s not unusual for us to end up matching. All that crap you hear about twins being on the same wavelength? Well, sometimes it’s true. My slightly longer brown hair is the only difference in our appearance. We both share the same brown eyes and delicate facial features. We’ve been called pretty boys since before puberty. With our pert noses, high cheekbones, and arched eyebrows, we certainly wouldn’t be considered rugged. The fact that neither of us had a lot of body hair only drove that point home, although not having to shave daily was a bonus.
I pointed to his apartment door. “It’s your turn to change, Hersh, I did it the other day.” I ran my hands down my chest. “Besides, I wear it better!”
He laughed and gave me a wet willie. “Mom says right now, so we’re Bobbsey Twinning it. You can change later.”
I rubbed his slime off my ear and playfully pushed him away. “You’re dead meat!” He laughed and started down the steps with me close on his heels.
We stopped suddenly when we saw our mother standing at the bottom of the staircase, and she didn’t seem happy. “You are grown men—now act like it and listen to your mommy!” As she turned away, I saw the corners of her mouth twitching with a barely restrained smile.
The kitchen was the same one we’d spent many hours in as children. The mauve on the walls was repainted in the same shade every five years or so. Beige linoleum, pitted and scraped from years of chairs, soccer cleats, and dropped dishes, covered the floor. The oak table was equally aged, gouges from steak knives, pen marks left from homework assignments, and glue from when I tried to repair a broken vase stained the finish. The wood cabinets, painted to match the walls, had knobs shaped like lollipops, a whimsical nod to our livelihood.
The three of us sat around the kitchen table; she reached over and took our hands. I didn’t need to lay eyes on my brother in order to pick up on his anxiety—this was a déjà vu moment, back to when we found out about our father’s cancer. Even five years after his death, the memory of that conversation was still painful. I bit my lip and clutched my mother’s hand. “What’s going on?”
“Your grandmother and I have been talking. We want to officially transfer the store into your names. Zadie and Dad are gone, and we aren’t getting any younger. We both have concerns about what will happen as we age and want to make sure we protect the business.”
Hershey stood up; the sudden movement sent his chair skidding back across the linoleum until it hit the wooden chair rail on the wall, seat cushion flying to the floor. “What aren’t you telling us? Is someone sick?” His voice cracked as he spoke.
My mother rose and put her arms around him, rubbing his back. “We are fine,” she said soothingly. “This is purely a business decision. Bubbie was speaking to one of the ladies at her mah-jongg game whose grandson is an estate lawyer. This is exactly the kind of work he does.” She sat back down, and after a moment, Hershey leaned down to pick up the fallen chair cushion and resumed his seat—dragging the chair legs across the linoleum with a loud screech. “We already met with him and he knows what we want. You two have an appointment tomorrow.”
He rubbed his hands over his face and shook his head. “No, Reese has an appointment tomorrow. I’m happy in my fantasy land with my Oompa Loompas. I trust him.” The pleading expression in his eyes begged me to get him out of the meeting, as his stricken countenance morphed into pain and heartache at the implications of what would be discussed. “Tell me what you think and I will do what you say—just don’t make me go with you.”
It always went like that. He was artistic, creative, and fanciful—utterly Willy Wonka. I was…not. I ran my fingers through my hair and swept my eyes from my pleading brother to my mother. “Of course I’ll go.”
THE NEXT MORNING BROUGHT MORE typical winter weather—cold with the promise of snowfall. I hoped it wouldn’t be too bad. With Valentine’s Day less than a week away, we needed all the foot traffic we could get. I was desperate for an extra-strong cup of coffee; I’d stayed up a little too late the night before, researching our options and compiling a list of questions for the lawyer.
As I walked through the shop kitchen, Hershey wolf-whistled at me. Sometimes I didn’t understand that man; my outfit was nothing special, just a pair of khaki pants with an argyle sweater he’d seen plenty of times before. I parted my lips to say something, but before I could get a word out, he shoved a chocolate truffle in my mouth. I curled my tongue around the oval disc, sucking off the silky milk chocolate coating to reveal a hazelnut-laced center with a feather-light texture, which practically melted in my mouth. It was freaking delicious and left me wanting more. My brother was the master. “You figured it out!”
Every year we premiere a new truffle, or a unique twist on an old one, for Valentine’s Day. It was a tradition started by our parents, and one that our customers have grown to count on. Hershey loves to have a chance to let his creativity flow and I love being his taste tester.
He beamed. “I see you’re enjoying our newest truffle. We have samples going out to all the local businesses and per your genius suggestion, coupons advertising anyone purchasing them for February fourteenth gets fourteen percent off.” He fist-bumped me. “We make such a great team, big brother!”
“We sure do. I’m going to the lawyer; are you sure you don’t want to go?”
He nodded his head. “Very, very sure,” he said emphatically. “Here.” He handed me two candy boxes with coupons attached. “Mom said it was a two-person business, so one for the lawyer and one for his secretary.” He waggled his fingers at me. “Have fun!” I stuck my tongue out and blew him a raspberry before I walked out the door.
It was a gray, overcast morning. Even though there was no precipitation, I felt the cold through my coat and clothing, chilling me to the bone. My ancient hatchback reluctantly growled to a start and I drove the short distance to the lawyer’s office. My appointment was for eleven o’clock, but my borderline obsessive need to be punctual meant I was actually running fifteen minutes early. Considering the dearth of parking spots on the street, I was glad I had given myself the extra time.
According to my notes, his office was on the fourth floor of a recently renovated building. It wasn’t hard to find; most of the other structures were far less modern looking, and clearly hadn’t had much exterior work done. I pulled open the heavy glass doors and walked across slick hardwood floors to the board on the wall listing the businesses and their exact locations. Once I confirmed I had the correct suite, I pressed the chrome button to ring for the elevator.
It wasn’t hard to find his office; the elevator doors opened directly into the reception area. A middle-aged woman with bright red hair and a welcoming grin sat behind a circular wooden desk, sorting through some mail. “Good morning, can I help you?” she asked.
I returned her grin with one of my own. “Yes, I’m Reese Thornton from Sweet Sailing Candy Shoppe. I ha
ve an appointment with Gideon Trent.” I reached into my satchel, withdrew a box of candy, and placed it on her desktop. “These are for you.”
She squealed and clapped her hands together. “Are those chocolates? You have totally made my day!” Her phone beeped and she picked it up. “Hi, Gideon. Yes, he’s here—and he has chocolate!” She snickered. “Of course, I’ll send him in.”
“He’s a total chocoholic.” She pointed toward an arched entrance on the opposite side of the room. “His office is the second door on the left.”
I picked up my briefcase and headed down the corridor, calling, “Thank You,” over my shoulder. The plush carpet muffled my steps as I followed the directions to the office. I stopped short when I realized who was standing behind the imposing desk—none other than Mr. B.
Crap.
Our eyes met, and the polite smile on his face wavered a bit. He pulled himself together and stepped around the desk to approach me, hand extended. “I’m Gideon Trent. I was under the impression I was meeting with two of you—are you Hershey or Reese? Are we waiting for someone else?”
After I returned his greeting, he leaned back against the desk, obviously waiting for a response to his question. The longer we stood there, the more annoyed his countenance became. He clenched his jaw, and a crease appeared between his eyebrows. I recognized this expression as one usually followed by a lecture or being dumped. After what seemed like hours—but was likely not more than a minute or two—he cleared his throat, probably in another attempt to get me to actually speak.
I was finally able to pull my head out of my ass and introduce myself. “Sorry, I’m Reese. Hershey couldn’t make it today”—because he’s a big pussy—”but I will go over whatever we discuss with him.”
Look at me, speaking in complete sentences—and without putting my foot in my mouth!
