by Lila Monroe
Or maybe I should say I “met” cupcakecasanova because I know almost nothing about him. I know that he lives in New York. I know that he hates food substitutions with a passion that borders on demonic. I know that he prefers chocolate to vanilla, strawberry to raspberry, oral to almost everything else … but I don’t even know his name.
My hands fly over the keys.
[email protected]:
Ours is just so hard and shiny and big. I can hardly get a grip on it.
[email protected]:
How big?
[email protected]:
Twelve, thirteen inches …
[email protected]:
Daaaaamn!
[email protected]:
Usually I have no problem handling something that size, but my hands just get so slippery when I’m working. Today I managed to squirt chocolate ganache right up my
—but before I can finish that thought, the bell on our front door jangles. I slam my laptop shut, and look up with a perfect, professional smile. A familiar face greets me: Wes Lansing, a high school buddy of mine. Okay, maybe we were more than buddies once. But he’s got a wife and a gut and a gaggle of kids now keeping him busy. All I have are my innuendos and my cake stands. Still, I’m always happy to see his face.
“Wes!” I say, leaning over the counter to press a kiss to his stubbly cheek. He lets out a low, easy chuckle. When I pull away, I see how he’s blushing a faint red. Some things never change.
“‘llo Jules,” he rumbles. “How’s business?”
“Slow!” comes a sarcastic voice from in back. That’s Summer. She has two modes: skeptical, and extreme eye roll. It would be real pain in the ass, if she wasn’t so damned good at her job. But she can cook a poundcake as rich as a gold brick, shape marzipan into miniature unicorns, and whip up a wedding cake all in an afternoon, so I keep her around. I let out an easy laugh.
“Slow,” I agree. Wes shakes his head.
“Oh. Hoped things would pick up after all that television hullaballoo.”
Wes means Park Avenue Princess, the reality TV show that filmed in our hometown about forty miles north last year. Pixie, the princess in question, almost got hitched to her rock star boyfriend—and I was supposed to supply the cake. But the wedding never happened. Pixie fell for the wedding planner’s dashing assistant instead. Though I saw a small spike in business right around the time their tasting aired, I never got my grand unveiling: the twelve tiered monstrosity of double-chocolate bourbon I’d crafted especially with rock star Clyde Kincaid in mind. Their cake smash was supposed to by my moment in the limelight! Instead, I still have half that thing taking up space in our deep freezer.
“What can you do?” I say, forcing a cheerful shrug. I don’t like to let people know that I’m struggling, especially not my high school ex. He doesn’t need to know that I’m barely in the black most months.
“I’ll tell you what I can do,” Wes says, and he pulls out his wallet. “I can order a few cupcakes from you—”
“Wes,” I say, doing my best not to cringe. It feels weird to take money from him. For one thing, he’s a cop, and they usually eat free in my shop. For another, I once gave him a handjob on a science class field trip. What can I say? We were in a planetarium. It was dark. Stars are sexy.
But Wes won’t take no for an answer. “No, no. They’re not for me. They’re for Camille’s soccer fundraiser. We’ll need six dozen, black and gold icing. I want them to say ‘Go Poodle Moths’ on them, and if you can draw a poodle moth, too, that’d be great. The kids would love that.”
I stare at him a minute, hoping he’s joking. But then he gives me his best cop-glower.
“What are you waiting for?”
Hastily, I reach for a pad and begin jotting down Wes’ order. “Black and yellow, you said?”
“No, black and gold.”
I do my best not to roll my eyes. I’d forgotten why Wes and I had broken up. He always seems so sweet in my memories, like a Floridian Clark Kent with manners and muscles to match. But he can also be a real prick sometimes.
“When do you need them by?”
“Tonight before I head back up to Pelican Key. Don’t want to have to be driving down the Overseas Highway at the asscrack of dawn tomorrow before Camille’s meet just to pick up some cupcakes.”
Wes chuckles again, like he’s made a real clever joke. But I only glance at the Felix the Cat clock that hangs by the door. It’s almost three—just two hours until closing. We’ll have to work fast, but I’m not about to turn away an order for six dozen cupcakes.
“Sure!” I say cheerfully. I ring him up. Wes pays, then slips a single into the tip jar with a wink.
“See you at five,” he says, then lets out a low, tuneless whistle as he saunters out the door, the bell jingling behind him.
There’s a moment’s silence before Summer’s voice lifts up from the back, dry, as always.
“What the fuck’s a poodle moth ?” she asks.
#
By some miracle, Summer and I pull everything together. She googles poodle moths on her phone (terrifying creatures, like something from the Island of Dr. Moreau), I whip up some chocolate raspberry batter that’s sure to please the pickiest eater on Camille’s team, we get to baking and cooling and icing and spraying gold frosting spray all over the store. By the time Wes has returned, we’re just boxing up the last of the cupcakes. Summer looks dirty, tired, and gold at the edges. I’m sure I don’t look much better. But Wes is smiling broader at me than he ever did on prom night. I guess some things beat even motel room cherry popping—like making your kid happy.
“Camille will love these. Thanks, Jules,” he says. I tell him it’s nothing and usher him from the store.
“I’m going to go home,” Summer says. She doesn’t even offer to help clean up, but then, she never does. “Put on some pajamas, drink some whiskey, have nightmares about those poodle … things.”
“Sweet dreams,” I tell her, waving her out. Honestly, I can’t wait for her to leave. It’s not that I mind Summer’s company. She’s sparkling, as always. Tonight, you might even say she glitters. But once I get the store locked up, I can sit back down at my laptop in peace to finish my conversation with cupcakecasanova.
But as she leaves, Mrs. O’Gilligan shuffles in. I wince. I’d almost forgotten our nightly regular. Mrs. O’G is about ninety years old, but she’s not your ordinary old lady. She rides a pink vespa, has a fluffy pink beehive of cotton candy hair, and is never seen without the vintage Hell’s Angel’s jacket that belonged to her old man. And every. Single. Night she stops in to get the same thing.
“I’ll have the Pink Surprise, dear,” she says, waiting patiently in front of the register. I concocted the Pink Surprise just for her. It’s red velvet with pink frosting inside—incredibly rich and incredibly sweet. I guess the sugar doesn’t bother Mrs. O’G. All of her teeth are artificial, anyway.
“Sure thing,” I tell her, sliding off my stool behind the counter to fetch her the last cupcake of the day. I place it carefully in a box and begin stapling it shut. Then I tie my signature black and white checkerboard ribbon around the box.
“Such personal service,” she says. “I’m sure you won’t find that at that new bakeshop down the street.”
My hands go cold as I go to hand Mrs. O’G the cupcake box.
“New bakeshop?”
It’s impossible. I know everything that happens in this end of Key West. If there was competition, I would have heard about it.
Or would I? I glance out the window, at the tourists coming and going. Business has been so slow that lately, we’re even bleeding regulars. I haven’t caught half the gossip I usually do.
“Don’t worry, darling,” Mrs. O’G says. She’s confused my dismay for something else. She thinks I’m scared of losing her rather than my hard-earned cash. “I’m very loyal.”
“Well,” I say, smiling kindly at her as I ring her up
. “That’s good to know.”
“Hos before bros. Is that what the kids say?”
My eyes go wide. I wish Summer were here. I can almost hear her dry, sardonic laughter ringing in my head.
“It is.”
“Good night, sweetie,” she says, dropping a few coins into the tip jar.
“Good night!” I call back, and add awkwardly, “Sweetie,” just as the door shuts behind her.
But it’s not a good night. Not at all. I grab my keys and lock up the store, then head out into the perfect, beautiful Key West night, my stomach in knots, eager to scope out my competition.
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Table of Contents
Title
Copyright
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
