Sweetest Obsessions - Anthology

by Anthony, Jane

  I tiptoed down the hallway, realizing if any of the other employees caught me back here, I would be in “big trouble.” I didn’t want to make a bad impression on my first day, but—curiosity killed the cat and all that. I slowly pushed open the heavy doors that sealed off the queen’s throne room and scanned the long, elegantly appointed chamber for…

  My eyes landed right on the gold throne. There, regally perched in the center of the plush crimson cushion was the most beautiful, elegant, royal creature I had ever seen in my life. She had glossy black hair falling in big, sumptuous curls around her ivory shoulders; lush, creamy décolletage spilling out the top of her red velvet corseted dress; and the most exquisite red lips I’d ever seen. Her nose, cheekbones, and graceful neck were sculpted by a master artist, and most entrancing of all were the glittering gemstones looking at me from behind thick, dark lashes. Her perfectly groomed eyebrow shot up as soon as she saw me.

  “Oh, sorry, wrong room!” I called out in that blasted British accent and went flying back through the doors as though I’d just seen a ghost. Okay, maybe not a ghost, but she definitely had to be a mythical creature of some sort!

  I’d never been startled—or even slightly taken aback—by a woman’s beauty before. I guessed there was a first time for everything, but I was simply in awe. Maybe it was just the costume, but I’d never seen anything quite like her. Clem and Carson said she was hot, but they didn’t say she was a goddess. Despite my lowly stature as a seasonal bakery cashier, I would have to find a way to make her acquaintance…the sooner the better.

  No, wait. I’m going back to talk to her right now. If I’d learned one thing since becoming an adult and traveling around the world it was there’s no time like the present.

  Jolie

  I swear to god the guy who just came in here had a British accent. Where the hell are they getting these employees? Apparently hiring American doesn’t mean anything to the Sweets.

  I finished up my internal rant, erased any lingering thoughts of that rude interruption, and tried to look regal as my colleagues fixed the red velvet curtains around my throne area and adjusted the lighting so it pierced straight into my retinas. I was usually half-blind by the end of my work day, and I couldn’t even get vision insurance.

  “You all ready, Jolie?” the throne room manager asked. She reached up to brush a stray hair out of my eye. “Our guests will be here any minute.”

  I nodded, affixing a royal smile to my face and warming up my wrists to do my queenly wave approximately five zillion times throughout the course of the day. The hundreds of little girls (and a few little boys, don’t want to leave them out), who made my throne room their first stop of the day in Sweetopia were the real die-hard fans. They’d read all my books. Seen all the cartoons. They probably owned a Red Velvet Queen doll or two. And a lot of the girls showed up wearing their own Red Velvet Queen dresses. It was an adorable sight, seeing them all lined up out the throne room door. They were always so excited to meet me, and I wanted to be everything they imagined I would be.

  The only reason they picked me to play this part is because I looked good in a corset, had a pretty face, and little kids weren’t scared of me.

  But trust me, I’m no queen.

  I was all set to greet my subjects when I noticed the British guy pushing through the red velvet curtains again. What is this dude’s problem? He gave me a sheepish smile, and I noticed he was cute in a quirky sort of way, with the beginnings of a beard and black plastic-rimmed glasses. He had that sort of hair that always looked a little tousled, long on top and like he’d been running his fingers through it all morning. And he looked younger than me, maybe mid-twenties? I couldn’t deny that I sort of wanted to hear his accent again, but he appeared to be waiting for me to speak.

  “Yes?” I ventured, hoping that would help him relax. I was sure he was new around here and probably a bit disoriented. This place could be overwhelming at first. I remembered my orientation all too well.

  Upon hearing my affirmation, he approached me with his hand outstretched. “Good morning, I just wanted to introduce myself.” He kept walking and talking, but when he reached me, he just stood there awkwardly with his hand out.

  Boy, that accent sure does funny things to the area the V of this corset points toward. I took his hand into mine to shake because I didn’t think he’d ever work up the courage to touch me. His eyes were certainly glued to mine, though. He had no shyness when it came to eye contact. They were so deep and brown, I was afraid of getting lost in them, so I quickly averted my gaze to his lips.

  Nope, that was a landmine too as they were outlined in manly scruff and looked so damn kissable that I once again moved my focus to someplace that would allow me to keep my cool: the Sweetopia logo on the breast of his pink polo shirt. Ah yes, work—nothing was more effective at dousing any flames of desire I might be feeling than the thought of the fucking Sweets and their fucking lame-ass evil corporate empire.

  “Well, are you going to tell me your name?” I prompted him.

  He straightened up immediately, though he was still gripping my hand tightly. “Yes, ma’am. I’m Marcus Young.” His grin never faltered. “I’ll be over at The Bard’s Bakery if you should ever require my services.”

  As though he had finally managed to gather his wits about him, he raised my hand to his lips and pressed those beautiful plump babies against my skin, making my insides turn to goo.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Marcus.” And, boy, did I mean that. It would be nice to have a polite, handsome gentleman over at the bakery. I couldn’t go there during work hours, of course—what queen visited a bakery when there were servants to deliver anything she could possibly desire? But I did stop in there before and after work pretty often. Even queens needed their coffee fix.

  “Oh, where are my manners? I’m The Red Velvet Queen,” I told him in my royal voice, trying to stay in character. It was only seconds before the ropes dropped and my fangirls (and boys) came squealing into the throne room.

  “I assure you, Your Highness, the pleasure is all mine…”

  2

  Cy

  It’s a pleasure to meet you, Marcus.

  Her words were still echoing in my head the entire time my new boss, Colleen, was trying to train me on how to operate the cash register. Who knew cash registers could be so fuckin’ difficult to master?

  This whole day had been a huge eye-opener to me, actually.

  It wasn’t any secret that I was born with somewhat of a silver spoon in my mouth. Okay, maybe it was a big-ass silver spoon. But I knew how hard my parents worked to build their empire. I didn’t really remember them struggling, but I’d heard stories about how they were living on ramen noodles when they first opened the park. They were able to secure a couple of loans that made all the difference for them, but my dad regularly pulled seventy, eighty-hour work weeks when I was growing up. I hardly ever saw him. If I wanted to spend time with him, I had to go to Sweetopia.

  Not a bad place for Take Your Kid to Work Day, if I do say so myself.

  But the people in The Bard’s Bakery, where I’d been placed for this whole undercover mission thing, they were really working their asses off too. This place was hopping from the time we opened the doors at nine this morning till we closed them at seven tonight. I couldn’t believe I just worked ten hours. I felt like I might collapse at any moment, whereas Colleen still looked fresh as a daisy, like she was just getting warmed up. She was used to this kind of work and putting in these long hours.

  Whatever we paid these people, it was not enough. I’d have to speak to my father about that.

  “So what did you think of your first day at Sweetopia, Marcus?” Colleen asked as she wiped down the stainless steel counters in the prep area.

  “Well, I thought—” I forgot to use my accent. Fuck. I repeated myself, this time with a heavier sprinkling of British spice. “It was bloody busy in here, but I think I caught on right quick, if I do say so myself!”
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  It looked as though Colleen was struggling not to roll her eyes at me, her lips quirking up in lieu of an eye roll. “Well, hope you’ll come back tomorrow,” is all she said.

  I shrugged. “I don’t have much of a choice, to tell you the truth.”

  And that was definitely the truth. Twenty-five Gs on the line was a pretty big incentive. Not to mention staying in my parents’ good graces.

  I lifted the candy-striped apron over my head and set it on the counter. I wondered if The Red Velvet Queen was still perched on her throne. I hadn’t been able to get the image of her with her long, curly black hair or the feel of her delicate hand in mine out of my head all day.

  “So now what?” I asked Colleen, who was still standing there looking at me like she’d never seen a dude take off an apron before.

  She laughed and shook her head. “Now you can leave, Marcus. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  That was weird. I gave her a fake salute and hightailed it out of the bakery, trying not to slip on the sparkling clean tiles I’d just mopped. I had never used a mop before. Colleen, in her infinite patience, had to show me how. No wonder she was looking at me like I was a freak of nature. Who doesn’t know how to use a mop, right?

  In seconds I made it out into the main corridor of Cotton Candy Castle. To my right was the entrance for the boat ride I mentioned earlier. Straight ahead was the queue for the throne room where the beautiful queen I’d met earlier that day might still be lingering. Guess where I headed?

  I had to see if she was still there.

  I parted the plush red velvet curtains and walked down the crimson and gold carpet that led to the shiny gold jewel-encrusted throne. I’d never noticed the exquisite craftsmanship of this piece in all my visits to the throne room, and I certainly didn’t notice this morning when I was here. At the time, I couldn’t take my eyes off the gorgeous woman perched upon it. I was so overwhelmed by her beauty, it actually took me a few moments to get my swagger on so I could talk to her and not sound like a complete idiot. It was literally the first time that has ever happened to me in the history of all my flirtations—and trust me, there have been a great many.

  She liked me though, I was sure of it. I didn’t know why I chose to cop a British accent for this undercover role, but the Man Upstairs must have known a beautiful lady was waiting to be seduced by it. And by Man Upstairs, I didn’t mean my father, whose office was on the top floor of the castle. I meant a Higher Power.

  I scanned the throne room looking for her, but it appeared to be empty. It was just as well because I knew there were cameras mounted in the corners of the room, and if we did end up conversing—or other activities—I really didn’t want my brothers, who were now in charge of park security and HR respectively, to know about it.

  My curiosity still running rampant, I decided to peek behind the curtains, so to speak. I’d never been back there, but I knew The Red Velvet Queen had a dressing room, and there were a staff lounge and staging area for other employees on the other side. Those rooms connected to the underground tunnels the staff used to get from building to building, avoiding the crowds. I just needed to find the entrance, and sure enough, once I lifted the heavy velvet material, I saw the metal door just waiting to be opened. When I twisted the handle and found it unlocked, a bolt of excitement spiked from the top of my head all the way down to my fingers and toes.

  It didn’t take me long to get my bearings and see that the dressing room door was standing wide open. I figured that meant the queen had already left for the day, but when I got to the door, I noticed her ample backside sticking up, set off by the narrow, tight laces of her corset as she bent over. I couldn’t be bothered to ascertain what she was doing because tearing my eyes away from her gloriously curvy ass was an impossible feat.

  So, allow me to clarify something right here and now: skinny girls with waify, boyish figures were not my jam. I’d always had a sincere appreciation for curves—the curvier the better. I was a student and lover of fine art, and in my estimation, nothing was finer art than full, mouthwatering breasts and juicy, fleshy asses. I subscribed to the Sir Mix-a-Lot theory of the feminine physique, if you get my drift. “Baby got back,” and all that.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, finally sensing my presence. She whipped around, the look of shock on her face flipping a primal switch deep inside me. There was no denying my rampant desire to bend her over that counter, hike up those many layers of her elegant gown and have my way with her.

  And if I’d been able to introduce myself as Cyrus Sweet, one-third heir to the Sweet Enterprises fortune, I’m sure I’d be able to pull off that maneuver with flying colors.

  But I’d already introduced myself as Marcus Young, summer temp bakery cashier. This was a problem. A big problem.

  “Marcus?” she gasped, and I could see her body vibrating with her surprise. She dropped the purse she’d just retrieved when she bent over as if she couldn’t quite get her fingers and lips to work in tandem.

  “I’ll get it.” I moved toward her, swiftly grabbing the bright yellow canvas pocketbook from the dark green carpet before lifting it into her still-trembling hand.

  “I didn’t think anyone else was here,” she admitted. “Normally I’m not so paranoid.”

  “It’s fine…” At least I remembered the British accent this time. I bet by the end of my mission, it would be second nature to me. Maybe I’d just go ahead and take it to Greece with me when I went to study sculpture. I wondered if Greek women were as enamored with British accents as American women were. Probably not. After all, they had Greek men to fancy. I hoped I could compete, but, in consolation, I could always rely on the whole being rich thing to woo any Grecian goddesses I encountered.

  “Are you lost or something?” She scanned my face, blatantly searching for my motives.

  Why was I creeping around her dressing room, I’m sure she wanted to know. When she caught the smoldering look in my eyes, her mouth curled into a smile. I was close enough now I could see the details of her features: the pronounced Cupid’s bow of her lips, her delicate nose and cheekbones, the curve of her arched brows, and her thickly lashed eyes that were a silvery gray, nearly lavender color, a stark contrast with her raven locks.

  She was exquisite, radiant, even after working all day. I wondered if she had her own makeup team who came in to freshen up her face during her breaks. I wondered what she looked like under all of it, if those black curls falling gently onto her bare shoulders were natural.

  I didn’t care one way or the other, though. I wanted her, and I was pretty sure she could tell. Furthermore, I was pretty sure my desire was reciprocated.

  She had a worldly, wanton look in her eyes as I continued to assess her face and her body, my eyes slowly wandering up and down her figure as though I was studying art at the Louvre, which I did in college during a semester abroad, naturally. She seemed to enjoy the attention; it was probably a welcome change from having millions of snot-nosed kids stare at her all day.

  “Marcus?” she repeated because I hadn’t answered her question.

  “I am lost…actually,” I admitted with more confidence than I should exude while wearing this god-awful pink polo shirt, “…lost in your eyes, that is. They are such an unusual color.”

  She let out the very tiniest scoff, as if she couldn’t believe I had the audacity to toss out such a horrible attempt at flirting. But then her features softened as she soaked up my cheesy line like a sponge.

  “Are you heading home for the evening?”

  I wanted to kiss away every word that appeared on her lips. How could I leverage this without blowing my cover?

  “How long have you been The Red Velvet Queen?” I asked instead of responding to her inquiry.

  “About six months,” she answered. “Why?”

  “It seems like a role you were born to play.” I reached out, gesturing for her hand, which she surrendered to me with a skeptical look on her face, but a surrender nonetheless. I spun her around in p
lace, watching her voluminous velvet skirt rustle around her legs. Oh, how I wished to know what those legs looked like…if the skin was as soft and porcelain white as her shoulders and the elegant curve of her neck.

  “You certainly have a way with words, don’t you?” She shook her head, trying to hide her smile. “Are you really British?”

  “Do you think I’d come in here and fake a British accent?” I retorted. I mean, would I? Of course I would.

  She giggled. “I don’t suppose so.” Her gaze swept up my body again, and the smile remained afterward, proving she liked what she saw. “I do need to go, though…”

  “Do you want to grab a drink?” As soon as I asked, I realized what a horrible idea it was considering I was driving that god-awful beat-up truck. I would rather have a sharp stick poked in my eye than drive her around in that thing. I considered negotiating with my parents to let me drive a nicer car tomorrow. Maybe not their Mercedes or Jaguar, something a little more understated but still classy. The Acura maybe? Or the Infiniti? Clem has an older-model Lexus in his garage he’s not using…

  “I can’t,” she answered, her smile finally dissipating as though she was genuinely disappointed. “I need to get home. I’m really sorry. Raincheck?”

  “Would you think I was crazy if I asked for a goodbye kiss?” I blurted out.

  I had never been turned down for a kiss, and though I didn’t have the cash or family fame to back up my request like usual, I did have the accent and the beginnings of a beard. From what I understood, most women were defenseless to these things.

  “You are quite forward, Marcus.” She came one step closer to me, and she couldn’t decide whether to focus on my eyes or my lips. It was a good sign. “What is it you said you do here at the park?”

  She’d probably seen so many faces today, she couldn’t even remember the conversation we had this morning. That was good for me—I wouldn’t have to admit I was a cashier at the bakery down the hall.