TUESDAY: A Double Shot (Hookup Café Book 2)

by Fifi Flowers

  Released from his grip, I pulled on my panties, jeans and shirt, then washed my hands and went to put my hands into oven mitts that had been on the counter. Too late, I saw that my delivery man was opening the oven doors and moving the trays to my cooling racks. Not wasting anytime, I thanked him and grabbed the other prepared trays and placed them into the oven, setting the timer.

  “Ummm…” I wasn’t sure what to say to him as his intense gaze burned into me.

  He seemed to be at a loss for words as well as he began to talk about my safety. “You know you really should have a peephole in the side door. Someone might catch on to your knock system. You’re here all by yourself. It’s not safe and I’d feel so much better knowing you could see who is on the other side instead of secret thumps.”

  Nodding my head, I agreed.

  “I better get to my next stop,” were his next words as I seemed to have lost my voice and just stared at him. I’d had a one-night stand before but never just stripped and let someone fuck me—unbelievably, fucking fantastic.

  Gathering my wits at the last minute when he grabbed his dolly and headed for the door, I shouted, “Wait!” Thinking fast. “Would you like a coffee-to-go too? I can whip one up for you quickly.”

  “Sounds great! I like my coffee the same way I like my liquor; with a double shot. Hit me! Make it knock my socks off.” I’d like to knock off a hell of a lot more than his socks again! Hopefully on the following Tuesday.

  Smiling at my wicked thoughts, I went to ready his preferred beverage. Returning promptly, I handed it to him as he stood next to the side door, and then I moved to remove my first muffins of the day before they burnt.

  “I already set them on the cooling racks. If I knew what was next to go in the oven, I would’ve loaded it.” Shocked, I looked at the racks and then back to him. “I better get going… let you get back to baking.”

  Before he left, I went to the cooling racks with one of the Cafélicious bags I had grabbed while getting his coffee along with some napkins and filled it with a chocolate croissant, a plain one and a banana nut muffin topped with my secret streusel topping.

  “Thanks for the delivery,” was all I managed to get out as I handed him the bag, but I think he liked my double meaning because he winked at me. Sexy as hell!

  “See you next Tuesday, Frosting.” Did he not know my name? Had I just allowed a totally hot stranger to fuck me without knowing my name?

  Once he was gone, I looked at the invoice—my name clearly printed along with all of the items I had ordered. Items that were nowhere to be seen, put away like my regular delivery man did, but how could he know where everything went? He did though and it was evident when I opened my cabinets and refrigerator. The guy he was filling in for must’ve drawn him a diagram of my kitchen, great service with both of his deliveries; the personal one I would never forget.

  In fact, his delivery moves replayed in my head all day as I restocked the bakery cases that we had strategically faced toward the tables rather than the front counter. It was a little tricky for customers to look at items and then order coffee, but it was great for those hanging out with the pastry staring at them—they often gave in to it! Giving in to it… I couldn’t wait for the next Tuesday—provided the old restaurant supply company guy didn’t return—to give in to more delicious deliveries.

  Chapter Three…

  Luck was on my side! Tuesday quickly became the best day of the week for me—delivery day equaled my edible delivery man knocking on my door. He even signaled the code though a peephole had been installed thanks to a maintenance man who came by the very next afternoon after the first infamous delivery day. I loved that day and the rest that came to pass; our heated, rushed moments that involved no thinking whatsoever. I was living out one of my naughty fantasies, giving up my goodies to him in a variety of ways. Pure unadulterated bliss… lust with a stranger.

  What did I know about him? I only knew that he was able to somehow switch his delivery schedule with my original guy… what-was-his-name… I couldn’t for the life of me remember. I knew that he looked like he ate too many baked goods, like the Pillsbury dough boy with a rounded belly that rested on the top of his black work pants. Not like my new guy in his tight jeans that showed off his assets in the back and front, divinely.

  He could’ve been married for all I knew as he seemed perfectly happy with our brief encounters in my kitchen. Who could complain about getting a free fuck or blowjob—whatever happened to be on the morning’s naughty menu—followed by fresh, warm pastry and a good cup of coffee with a double shot. Ha! He got a double shot alright or maybe it was me that got the double shot.

  So caught up in a graphic memory I didn’t even realize that Saylor had walked in, but I did notice the tattered boxer briefs that she was holding up. “Ummm, Marzi, do you care to explain these?”

  “No, I most certainly do not,” I said, snatching the dangling reminder of a delicious blow job to my man with a big delivery that morning and depositing them into a trash can before walking out of the kitchen with a tray of mouthwatering orgasm cookies.

  An early delivery had me on my knees with a pair of scissors. No time to waste on him taking his pants off, I simply pulled them to the lower part of his thighs and cut the boxer-briefs right off of him. There was something exhilarating about it, like when you read in a romance novel that the alpha man ripped her panties off of her and buried his face between her legs. Lacking the strength to tear the cotton, cutting shears were the next best thing, and totally within reach. I think I shocked the hell out of him or scared him. Whatever his original reaction was, I quickly changed it as I took him deep into my mouth and took him to another dimension with my mad sucking skills.

  It was what he did to me to return the favor that really had me smiling as I went back into my kitchen to decorate some just baked cookies that were on the cooling rack. The sprinkles, in particular, made me laugh as I pictured myself spread eagle on the cool stainless steel counter—sanitized after—with his tongue licking all around my cookie as he called the space between my thighs. I also remember being disappointed when he stood and walked away from me. But when he returned with a container of decorative sprinkles… well… let’s just say that they stick well to dampened skin. And according to him, they are delectable when mixed with pussy frosting—his words, not mine.

  He made my body tingle all over, both in thought and in his presence. I found myself spending way too much time dwelling on things that I wanted to share with him, experience with him. I had already told him on a number of occasions that I didn’t have time for a relationship even though he didn’t really ask for one, but he did show interest in me, more than just fucking. We had conversations mixed in with his delivery time before he had to rush off to other restaurants on his route—I wasn’t the only one that needed items. But I couldn’t help but hope that he was only sharing his special package with me. Silly when we were really nothing more than a casual hookup where he had held all the cards, including limiting what we spoke about—mainly he asked me questions.

  “Where did you learn to bake all this deliciousness?”

  “I got started at an early age; my mother was a Home Ec teacher until the district cut their budget and got rid of her department.”

  “I hate to hear that. I heard that metal shop is a thing of the past too. I would’ve been lost without a class that I truly understood and liked.”

  “Why aren’t you a mechanic? Do you work on maintaining the delivery trucks too, besides making deliveries?”

  “Well… I… No, I don’t work on the delivery trucks. So, your mother taught you everything you know?”

  He had a habit of changing the subject when I asked too many questions, and especially if they pertained to his delivery job. Yes, those always seemed to make him turn the conversation back to me immediately. Was he hiding something, I wondered, or just really into getting to know me personally, besides physically? He definitely knew my body well and, for that matte
r, I knew his; what he liked, what he liked even more, and how he sounded when he lost all control. It was certain that we both enjoyed our early morning sessions. I’d have to say that they invigorated me for the whole rest of the day… and week—he was that good! So if he wanted to focus on me, so be it.

  “Yes, my mother is brilliant at baking, cooking in general, but her specialty is cakes. She has a shop—The Cake Shop—that only creates custom cakes…”

  “…For celebrities! I saw her… Your mom is Linny Morrow!”

  “You watch reality TV, I take it.”

  “Not usually…” There was that secretive tone again. “Her cakes are just wow!”

  He’s right, her designs are spectacular as well as delicious, and what’s even more amazing is that she taught herself. She hadn’t received extra training like I had in culinary school, but that didn’t make her a lesser baker. I learned all of my basic skills from her and some they did not teach like her cupped hand technique for measurement since she often created without a recipe in mind. Those are things that cannot be taught while learning terminology, textbook techniques, proper use of kitchen tools, and fancy sauces in school.

  “Her cakes are stunning and she is doing even more intricate confection touches to them since she caught me making some marzipan figures. Watch what you say about the correlation to my name.” I laughed knowing that my name was always an easy mark, but that time he took a different road—he often surprised me.

  “You can make candy?” I swear he sounded and looked like a little kid, asking with wide eyes.

  “Yes.” I shook my head with a slight smile. “I have made up special boxed treats during the holidays for Pansie. You don’t carry paper goods for those; I order those from a paper company that specializes in packaging.”

  “Do you have another delivery man?” I knew that had a double meaning—do you fuck another man—by the way his voice asked, serious.

  “No, comes by mail.” That almost sounded naughty with the tone I used and the little sway of my hips I threw in. I nearly laughed but then I remembered I needed to order some items at the insistence of my new intern. “As a matter of fact, I need some special clear candy wrap and baggies.”

  “Am I throwing off your game? Distracting you too much?” A sexy grin… damn!

  That was an understatement! Morning, noon, and night he threw me off my game and distracted me so much that I burnt my first batch of cookies, ever. And though that doesn’t seem like a big deal, but when I say batch that means at least six trays of cookies that had to be tossed into the trash can, and walked out to a big dumpster before the whole café smelled like an oops! That was the day that was without my afternoon intern because she had called in to tell me that she had a catering job she could not refuse. I was pretty sure that was code for “I got a better paying job and be prepared for my departure.”

  It also happened to be a day where a new girl from my same culinary alma mater came in for an interview. Only she had attended in their world-renowned Paris location and wasn’t so sure about working with a non-Parisian-trained pastry chef. Suddenly I had felt like I was the one being interviewed and that I needed to meet her standards. She didn’t even seem impressed that I had attended some specialty course in her school. The real clincher for her was that I wasn’t able to converse with her in French when she began to ramble off and I just stood there. I definitely wasn’t about to confess that my instructor had been an American in Paris pastry chef—she may have asked me to revoke my credibility altogether. But it was me in the end who got the upper hand when she began to quiz my knowledge of fancy technique terms. That was it, I quickly stopped her by saying that we were done and wished her luck somewhere else, pushing her literally out my kitchen door. A little shove was better than nearly hitting her over the head with my rolling pin.

  Well, at least she got me back on track and focused on baking—proving that I had the talent and creativity. I stayed in the kitchen far longer than I usually did and dolled up my cookies, cupcakes and miniature cakes with a hell of a lot more than frosting and sprinkles. When I got done I had marzipan flowers, caterpillars, ladybugs, butterflies and dragon flies adorning my baked goods. It also got me far more attention than I planned for it to since there happened to be a food critic in Cafélicious the next day when I unveiled my garden themed treats. The write up was great but the expectations and orders coming in from customers and other restaurants and hotels in the area were overwhelming to say the least.

  I had loved my simple—already busy week—filled up with amazing fucking and little conversations. My delivery man began staying to drink coffee and eat pastry while I got back to baking after our morning delight. And though he was still vague about himself and almost interrogating me, I truly enjoyed it. I had nothing to hide. Then I had to go and create magical treats as he started asking me to go out with him. No time was my excuse and, yet, it was true. Since I had taken on selling my new desserts to a few area restaurants and hotels, along with donating cookies, minus fancy marzipan, to a nearby shelter, I was spent even with a new likable intern. And I will admit that he scared me a bit—why ruin a good thing?

  Chapter Four…

  Why did there always have to be bumps in the road? I just wanted things to go smoothly. I hadn’t thought beyond going to work each day. I hadn’t thought past baking on a small scale for the café. I had everything I needed; a house, an adorable car, and a job to pay for my expenses which were very minimal. I had no real desire for change. But the forces were not in my favor and some of which I brought on myself. Truthfully, the new pastry demands weren’t so bad and I did like seeing the marzipan elements on my pastries—they are cheerful. It was the notices on my door that bothered me the most and the fact that I couldn’t walk away from the offers to buy my little shack.

  Guilt and regret was written all over my face as I left for work that morning knowing that there was no turning back. I had accepted and thrown my Aunt Moreen’s cottage with wonderful memories away with my signature. It was also the words that I read in places they had me signing quietly with brief explanations. Heir. Daughter. Father. I wasn’t certain but just maybe the original property owner and my aunt really were a thing and if I wasn’t mistaken I was their daughter. I was in a complete fog and thankful that it wasn’t Tuesday as I’d hate for my favorite day to be tarnished.

  Done with my morning of baking, I slipped into place at the counter and began to fill coffee orders and then grabbed my own coffee as Pansie came to my rescue. “You look like hell? Everything okay?” I shook my head no before walking to a table where Vixen, one of our servers, sat quietly but angrily speaking into her cellphone. Once she hung up I told her to spill, I was ready to hear about someone else’s troubles. I had no idea they would possibly be hitting home for me.

  “My ex is remarried and threatening to take my son away from me. She can’t have children so she wants mine. I was trying to be nice. I know he loves my son, but I can’t let him take him away from me. He’s not even his son. I was pregnant when we met. Our romance was a whirlwind; we were never apart, and we got married within a month. I should’ve told him but I didn’t want to scare him off. The real dad was a bit of a player, not father material. My ex is a great dad but with him putting me in this position, I think I have to tell him.” Vixen was rattling off a shit-storm to a wide-eyed Evie who stood quietly listening.

  Wow! I wondered what my aunt’s story was—if I was hers.

  “You better have proof to back it if he is serious about taking your son away from you. You better look at your situation too. Are you set up to raise him alone and is your environment good for him?” I knew she was juggling men. “Not saying that you don’t… just concerned.” She hadn’t been talking to me, but I spoke up anyway before walking away.

  It really wasn’t my business, but if her ex fought her or tried to prove her unfit… I had no idea how it worked whether you were the father or not. My words and the paperwork I had received earlier that se
aled the deal had me thinking about my own family life and questioning my aunt’s will and the owner of the property’s own will. It seemed that nothing made sense unless my suspicions were true.

  “You okay, Marzi?” Pansie suddenly appeared and rubbed my arm.

  “No, Flower, I don’t think I am.”

  I wondered how much Pansie knew or if she had ever overheard anything over the years. I remembered her telling me that I deserved everything that our aunt had left to me when we found out that she had only left her estate to Pansie and me; the majority to me. No one else in our family seemed to be bothered by it either. I had always heard that families fell apart and went to war over wills when relatives passed away. Nothing. Of course, my aunt’s sisters were not in need of her estate as they were all successful in their own right.

  “Wanna talk about it?” She has always been my main go-to for problems.

  “I think Aunt Moreen is my mother.” I watched for a reaction from Pansie and saw nothing that resembled shock or an attempt to deny it.

  “You need to talk to your mother, Marzi.” There it was; confirmation in my eyes. And the rub to my upper arm was all I needed to be sure that my assumptions were correct. Time to talk to my parents… my mother.

  Finished with my day, I texted to see if my famous mother had a moment to spare since she was about to start working on a full-length film as a pastry chef for some high maintenance wedding planner. It seemed like every time I turned around she was doing more pretend baking rather than baking for real clients. I had also noticed that she was a bit snappy if we did more than texting, conversations seemed to irritate her or maybe she was spreading herself thin and was just plain tired. But I knew that if I asked her she would brush me off. But since what I wanted to talk about had nothing to do with her work and slowing down she might be more willing to talk. She hated to be told what to do and I didn’t blame her, it wasn’t my favorite either.