Sweet Seduction

by Camilla Stevens

  “You’re good!” Layla heard Bree shout. Mario inched the van further and further out a bit less hesitantly at this point.

  They both heard the roar of the engine long before they heard Bree scream for dear life.

  “Stop!”

  Whether it was the pure terror in the girl’s voice or the urgency with which she yelled the single word, Layla wasn’t sure, but Mario instinctively slammed his foot on the brake causing the van to lurch violently.

  At the same time there was the loud screech of tires from the other car desperately searching for purchase along the pavement. Both Mario and Layla cringed waiting for the feel of the crash that was the well-known climax to that sound.

  They both blinked in surprise as all went silent and the van was still in one piece. In the ensuing calm, Layla’s mind went straight back into business mode.

  “The cake!” she yelped, reaching out to open her door.

  In all fairness, Patrick had been going just a wee bit over the speed limit. Once he was free of the San Francisco traffic, he found himself twisting around on open roads with other cars being few and far between. Nothing but gorgeous, green vineyards for miles and miles around. It was perfection.

  How could he have not taken advantage of it?

  Olla had come up practically out of nowhere. He'd seen a brief sign in a blur as he sped past, something about “the town that says hello.” Then he'd turned the corner on to the main street and that’s when he began to ease up on the gas. The rest happened as though in slow motion.

  The girl in dreads was just standing there in the middle of the street and spun to face him as he sped toward her. She stayed there, frozen in place like a deer in the headlights while her mouth formed the single word, Stop!

  Patrick heard the tires of his car squeal in protest as his foot slammed on the brakes. The white van ahead of him grew in size as he approached it.

  He hadn't felt an impact, but the front of his car was too damn close to the side of the van for him to take comfort without visual confirmation. He didn't even bother turning off the engine as he opened the door and popped out to investigate. What the hell was a van doing blocking the middle of the road anyway?

  He absorbed how close he'd come to disaster as he eyed the 2-inch gap between his front bumper and the side of the van. Then he heard one of the passenger doors open. Patrick was about to read the occupant the riot act when he saw the woman who popped out of the passenger side.

  Well, hello there....

  His rage was instantly cooled by the face that he took in: skin like melted caramel, big amber-brown eyes, full lips.

  Not too shabby.

  His eyes wandered below neck-level now that she was fully out of the van. The woman’s head would probably barely come up to his neck. Smallish breasts underneath that white blouse, but that was fine. Patrick had always been a leg man. Unfortunately, this one had hers covered by a pair of black slacks. Based on the way her hips generously filled out those slacks, he had a feeling the rest of her was just as curvy.

  "Oh my god!" she cried, looking briefly down at the gap between the two vehicles. He watched as she ran around the back of his car then straight toward him.

  That was more like it. Patrick straightened his shoulders ready to accept the string of apologies owed to him. Maybe he’d make her work for it a bit, he thought, deliciously anticipating the idea.

  Then she ran right past him to the back of the van and threw open the doors in a dramatic fashion. The cute girl who had been standing in the middle of the street came up behind her and a good looking Latino boy joined them as they all stared in the back.

  "Oh, thank God," the woman said, actually putting a hand to her chest and closing her eyes with relief.

  "Excuse me," Patrick said, getting irritated again. "Are we going to address the fact that you nearly caused a rather expensive accident here?”

  Her eyes flew open and the flames he saw in them rushed straight at him, sending a warm wave cursing through his body straight down to his groin.

  You're beautiful when you're angry.

  "Me?” she yelled, storming over to him. "What were you doing speeding down the street like a maniac?"

  “Oh please, I was barely going—”

  "That is a two thousand dollar cake you nearly destroyed," she continued, ignoring him as she pointed to the back of her van.

  "Well, this is a two hundred thousand dollar car you nearly destroyed," he retorted, jutting a finger toward his car, the very model that James Bond had driven in The World is Not Enough. The value of it was a fact that he’d investigated himself for insurance purposes. BMW didn’t even make them anymore.

  Then he processed what she had just said.

  Two thousand dollars? For a cake?

  The same words in his head were on his lips a moment later, full of appalled disbelief.

  "Two thousand dollars? For a cake?"

  She must have had a similar internal thought process running through her head because she spoke up at the same time.

  "Two hundred thousand dollars? For a car? Good grief, just how much are you overcompensating for?" she asked, looking pointedly at the fly of his jeans.

  "Two grand for a cake is insane. It's nothing but sugar and flour, for crying out loud!” he said, getting highly pissed off.

  He saw the mouth of the girl with dreads fall open in an O that was almost as large as her eyes were getting. The boy just crossed his arms, sucked his lips in and shook his head sympathetically at Patrick.

  The fire in the woman's eyes was now a raging inferno as she stuck a finger directly into his chest. "You obviously aren't married, which is no surprise. Anyone who had been would never, ever boil one of the most sentimental aspects of a bride and groom's wedding day down to nothing but sugar and flour."

  As much as he was enjoying the feel of that dainty, little finger poking his chest, Patrick was tired and cranky, and all this talk of flour and sugar was making him hungry.

  He raised his hands in a calming gesture. "Alright, fortunately there was no damage done to my car and it seems as though your…cake," he couldn't help getting that little dig in, "is still fine.”

  He prepared himself for the volcano that was about to erupt, and he couldn’t deny a small part of him was looking forward to it. Let’s see how hot this little spitfire could get. He even gave her an encouraging smirk.

  They were both saved by her two little helper bees.

  “Ms. B we’re going to be late if we don’t get going,” the boy said.

  “Yeah,” the girl said, grabbing her arm, “we should hit the road.”

  He saw the conflict in her eyes. Then she gave an exasperated sigh as she reached out to slam the doors to the back of the van. She gave Patrick one final scowl before following the younger girl into the front of the van.

  Patrick quickly hopped back into his own car and backed up, giving them plenty of room to finish backing out. They took off and he sat there a while watching them go off with a smile on his face.

  Already he was liking this town.

  3

  The bride and groom smiled beatifically as they held the knife over the cake while the photographer snapped away. When the flashes finally stopped, they pressed the blade into the top tier of the cake ceremonially, and removed a small sliver.

  Layla breathed out the air that she always held in until this moment, when the bride and groom fed each other from her creation. Fortunately, they didn’t smother the cake into each other’s face, a practice she personally abhorred. Unfortunately, they’d gone with Vanilla Cream, the least interesting flavor she offered, but a necessary evil.

  “Aaand, your job is officially done,” said Blaire, her best friend and the wedding planner who had coordinated this affair, as she sidled up next to her.

  Blaire towered over Layla’s 5’4 frame at one inch shy of six feet in her heels. She used her height to her advantage in her profession, a subconsciously domineering presence informing any nay-sayers t
hat they should really just follow her lead. When that didn’t work, her blonde, deceptively bubbly, Christy Brinkley-esque good looks did.

  The two of them had met at a wedding, before Layla became Blaire’s go-to person for wedding cakes. Both had been impressed with the other’s professionalism and instantly hit it off with one another.

  “If you ever divorce Stuart and get remarried, please tell me you’ll choose blueberry lemon, or passionfruit vanilla, heck even carrot cake, for your wedding cake,” Layla said. “Just anything other than vanilla or chocolate.”

  “As for me divorcing Stuart, shame on you,” her friend chided. “And as far as flavors go, they don’t seem to be too upset,” she added, nodding toward the happy couple.

  Layla thought back to this afternoon’s adventure and chuckled. “You have no idea. They almost didn’t have a cake at all today.”

  “What?” Blaire asked, looking over at Layla in astonishment.

  Layla gave Blaire a reassuring grin. “I didn’t want to tell you until now, because I know how anal you get over your weddings.”

  “Says the woman who refuses to breathe until the first slice is cut,” Blaire pointed out. “But tell me. What happened?”

  “Some idiot tourist in a convertible comes speeding down Main Street like a lunatic and nearly runs right into us.”

  “No!” Blaire gasped.

  “Yes,” Layla laughed. “And he had the nerve to blame me. Then, get this, he said his car was worth two hundred thousand dollars.”

  Blaire’s eyebrows went up at that. “Was he at least cute?”

  Layla slapped the back of her wrist against her friend’s arm. “If you’d seen what a jerk he was about it, you wouldn’t be asking. I think he was actually getting a kick out of taunting me.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Blaire pressed with a teasing smile.

  “Never mind him, what are we watching tonight?”

  Layla and Blaire had a tradition after every wedding. It was an official Girls' Night, complete with cosmos, facials and RomComs.

  “Princess Bride,” Blaire said. “I’m actually looking forward to a man simply saying ‘as you wish’ all night without argument.”

  “That bad, huh?” Layla said, used to her friend’s complaints about invariably at least one member of the wedding being a particular pain in the ass. “Who was it this time?”

  “Believe it or not, the groom. They’re usually the easiest!” She said sighing out loud. “Frankly that one knows just a little bit too much about place settings and flower arrangements. I’d be surprised if they’re digging into that top tier of the cake this time next year.”

  She was referring to the tradition of preserving the top of the wedding cake to eat on the first anniversary for good luck. Apparently, Blaire had her doubts.

  “You are so bad,” Layla said, laughing and shaking her head.

  “Just promise me when you get married, you’ll do exactly what I say, no questions asked. I don’t need my own best friend going bridezilla on me.”

  “Well, don’t hold your breath, missy,” Layla said raising her eyebrow. “Been there done that, as you well know.”

  “Oh shit!” Blaire hissed, bringing a hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I’m such an ass—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Layla said, able to smile about it now, as she waved her friend off. “Let’s just get through this night. Frankly, I could also use a man who just says, ‘as you wish’.”

  “So tell me about Mr. Two Hundred Thousand Dollar Car.”

  They were in the living room of the large Victorian house that Layla had bought on the outskirts of town. The credits to Princess Bride were rolling and Blaire had turned the sound to mute.

  “Don’t you want to sleep?” Layla asked behind her martini glass. She had multiple bedrooms in the large house, one specifically for her friend on these after-wedding nights when Blaire was too many cosmos in to drive home.

  “Your attempts to deflect tell me everything I need to know about this guy.”

  Layla took a sip, continuing to deflect.

  “More stalling I see. Now I really know you’re into this guy,” Blaire said, giving her friend a knowing smirk.

  “Oh stop it!” Layla chided. “Was he cute? Yes. He had this sort of Aaron Eckhart vibe happening.”

  “Oooh, I likey already,” Blaire said, curling her legs under her as she settled in. “Tell me more.”

  Layla thought back to the way his chest felt under the single finger she’d poked into it. Through the open collar of his dress shirt, with its rolled up sleeves, she could tell the man worked out.

  Then she remembered those blue eyes as they stared down at her, first in anger, then with amusement. By now she was sure he’d been pushing her buttons on purpose toward the end.

  “You want more?” she went on. “Okay, he was also an ass, blaming me for his almost hitting our van. Then he had the nerve to refer to my cake as nothing but sugar and flour.”

  “He didn’t!” Blaire gasped, knowing how seriously her friend took her creations. “Did he even see that magnificent masterpiece today?”

  “Exactly,” Layla said in agreement. “I mean, I don’t think he saw it, but still. Besides, he certainly has a lot of nerve to pick on the cost of my cake. What kind of man buys a two hundred thousand dollar car?”

  “The kind that can afford it hopefully,” Blaire said looking to the side thoughtfully. “So you admit he was cute, and at the very least you could get a nice car in the divorce settlement.”

  “Wow,” Layla said, taking a sip with a smile. “Already past the wedding and straight on to divorce. I guess he really is meant for me.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that,” Blaire said, nudging Layla in the arm.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter. He probably made a hasty escape once he realized Olla wasn’t some wine connoisseur’s tourist spot. So, I’ll never see him again. Good riddance.”

  Layla pondered that as she sipped the rest of her cosmo. He had been a nice little visual distraction from the usual residents in her neck of the woods. She remembered Di-Anne’s words about love not falling into her lap.

  Or at the very least getting laid.

  Then she shook her head. What in the world was she thinking? Love. Ha!

  That guy was absolutely not “love” material. And sex was a whole different sort of complication.

  Layla was damned if she was going to let another charming Casanova work his way into her heart…only to completely destroy her world.

  4

  Being an attorney was half-charm, half-shark. Fortunately, the lovely residents of Olla, California were perfectly amenable to Patrick’s charm and wit. It was a far cry from the hyenas he dealt with on a daily basis in La La land who only responded to shark mode.

  He had made the rounds yesterday afternoon after his almost run-in with Ms. Two Thousand Dollar Cake. As he expected, most of the residents of Olla—pronounced Oh-la, as he had been informed—were completely star-struck with the idea of Hollywood coming to their little burg. It had been easy enough to get most of them to sign the release, giving Lion Studios permission to film with the promise to cover any damage incurred.

  The town had that spectacularly cozy vibe that was perfect for the portion of the Nick Zane movie, based on the latest book by Jake Steele, that was supposed to take place in such a locale. Main Street pretty much screamed “Small Town Americana” and the houses in the outskirts were all small homes from the Victorian era. It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else and no one kept their doors locked at night. It was so quaint it was almost a caricature.

  As far as Lion Studios was concerned, it had boiled down to location and money. The mayor had at first seemed a bit silly to Patrick, but was now somewhat endearing. He had been easily swayed with a little addition to the town coffers, not to mention the publicity that he assumed would follow the release of the film.

  Now Patrick was sitting in the Olla Dine
r, enjoying the most delicious Denver omelet he’d ever tasted. The owner, Angela Bennet came over to his table to top off his coffee, which also wasn’t half bad.

  “Thank you Ms. Bennet,” he said charmingly, using a formal address. “I swear this food is going to have me adding miles to my morning run, it’s so darn good.”

  One side of her mouth ticked up in a half-smile that told him she wasn’t having any of it. “I’ve already signed the release Mr. Fitzgerald,” using a formal address in return, “no need to butter my biscuits. Besides, from what I heard, you’ll have to save all that charm of yours for the Di-vine bakery,” she finished with a smirk as she walked away.

  Patrick frowned into his coffee. In retrospect, yesterday’s little spat had been a stupid move on his part. No need to piss off the locals before the paperwork was signed.

  “Mr. Fitzgerald!” he heard from the front of the diner as the door opened and closed. Patrick lifted his eyes up over the mug in his hand and couldn’t help the amusement he felt looking at the roly-poly man that ambled over to his table. The ever-present smile was plastered on the face of the town mayor, Olaf Peterson.

  “Mr. Peterson,” he said, greeting the man amicably.

  “Now what did I say about calling me Olaf,” the man chided, boldly squeezing his round body into the seat across from him in the booth.

  “In that case, I insist on you calling me Patrick,” he replied.

  Olaf just laughed heartily. “Done and done! I’m so glad we can be cordial with one another. From what I hear most of the releases have been signed. Just so you know, we’re all very excited about Lion Studios coming to our humble little town. Anything you need, anything at all, you just come right up to City Hall and let me know.”

  “City Hall,” in Olla was an office on the first floor of the mayor’s own house. Like everything here it was quaint to the point of absurdity.

  Patrick decided to use the mayor’s good graces to his advantage. “Well, I’m afraid I’ve had a rather unfortunate run in yesterday with one of your residents.”