Making Whoopie

by Erin Nicholas

  Grant didn’t remove his hands. “I’m not.”

  She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. He was certain she had no idea she’d even done it. “I… go barefoot a lot.”

  That fit, somehow. “Want me to take my shoes off too?” He, on the other hand, never went barefoot.

  “You don’t have to. The whole house is marble or hardwood floors.”

  “Your feet don’t get cold?” He had no idea why that was the thought that occurred to him.

  She seemed equally surprised. And amused. “They do sometimes,” she admitted. “I have a huge collection of socks.”

  “But you just don’t like shoes?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just here that I go without them. It feels less homey to wear shoes in my own house. I’ve crawled on these floors, slept on these floors, danced and fallen and bled and puked on these floors. Feels weird to be formal on them. And shoes seem formal.”

  He just stared at her. He’d never known anyone who was attached to floors. Who had even given that much thought to floors. Then again, he’d probably never known anyone who’d lived in a place where they had history like that. Except Aiden and Cam.

  His two friends who were also from Appleby. There was definitely something about this little town that seemed to make it hard for people to leave. Permanently, at least.

  Aiden had been gone from home for nine years, but he was definitely back to stay now. Cam seemed determined to avoid his hometown except for the random weekend where he’d come back and donate a boatload of money and accept a boatload of praise and thanks for it. Like when he’d paid to build the youth athletic complex or when he’d saved a historic bridge that ran across a small river outside of town. He did love being the hometown hero even though he seemed a bit allergic to actually being in the town. Still, he’d been fully on board with the idea of their company saving Hot Cakes, the local snack cake factory that employed a huge percentage of the town.

  “I think I want to take my shoes off on your floors,” Grant said. His voice was strangely gruff.

  Jocelyn rewarded him with a smile. “Okay.”

  He let go of her finally and bent to remove his shoes. He was stupidly aware of his footwear for the first time in maybe ever. The shoes were leather, lace up, casual men’s shoes. They weren’t tuxedo shoes. They weren’t the most expensive shoes he owned by a long shot. But they weren’t tennis shoes or work boots, that was for certain, and he was suddenly aware Jocelyn probably saw a lot of both of those. He shouldn’t assume that, of course. She was, after all, attracted to him. And she was single. Gorgeous, sweet, a hometown girl, gorgeous. It was almost ridiculous that she was single. Unless small-town, blue-collar country boys didn’t do it for her.

  Maybe Grant was exactly her type.

  But she went barefoot at home because she felt attached to the floors. In the one-hundred-plus-year-old house that her family had owned for generations. In the town she’d lived in her whole life. Where she worked in a bakery with her best friend and went to dinner once a week at her friend’s mom’s house. Where they served things like cheesy potatoes and lettuce salad with ranch dressing and breaded, baked pork chops.

  He wasn’t her type.

  She didn’t know many guys like him. If any.

  He’d bet a million dollars on it. Literally.

  After he’d kicked his shoes to the side, she took him through the three-season room and into the kitchen.

  She set her purse and car keys on the little table just inside the doorway and then headed to the sink. She washed her hands and then grabbed an apron—one of four—from the little hooks on the wall.

  “What are we making?” he asked. He wanted to watch her bake. It was as strange as wanting to go barefoot, but hey, he was willing to roll with things at this point.

  He’d been friends—and a pseudo babysitter—to Dax Marshall and Oliver Caprinelli for nine years. He was the voice of reason, the guy who talked them out of the dumbest ideas and the one who paid the bail for the ideas he couldn’t talk them out of. Generally, he was the guy who kept them out of the worst-case scenarios.

  And he’d learned the best memories and stories were never the ones where people were toeing the line.

  Dax and Ollie had more fun than Grant did.

  Sometimes he was a little jealous of that.

  Like right now when his head was telling him he should turn around, leave Jocelyn’s house, leave Appleby, leave Iowa. But his heart was saying this is going to be so, so good. Crazy, but good.

  She smiled. “You want to help?”

  “I want to watch.”

  “You want to watch me bake?”

  “I do.”

  “Is that a fetish I’m not aware of?”

  “For me, as of tonight, yes,” he told her truthfully.

  Her eyebrows rose as if surprised, but her smile was sly and pleased. “Well, okay, then.”

  She crossed the room to the stove and grabbed the tea pot. “Hot water?”

  He frowned. “For?”

  “To drink?”

  “Uh, no. Do you have coffee?”

  She turned to face him. “Of course. But you drink hot water with lemon, right? Not coffee?”

  Ah, his order from the bakery every morning. “That’s for Piper.”

  Jocelyn tipped her head. “So you drink coffee.”

  “I do. Strong. Black.”

  “Oh.” She seemed relieved. “But you don’t like our coffee?”

  “I get up early and usually have already had a cup or two by the time I come in,” he said. “And there’s more at the office if I need it.” He peered closer. “Does that offend you? I’ll gladly drink your coffee, Jocelyn. If that would make you happy.”

  That sounded a little like innuendo as well. He meant it that way too.

  She gave him a little smile. “Actually, Zoe makes the coffee, so no. But I do want you to eat my sweets tonight.”

  That was definitely innuendo. Though it was also literal. She was going to bake. And he was going to strip her naked and take her right here on one of her countertops.

  “I can’t remember the last time I had a craving like this,” he admitted.

  She pressed her lips together but then gave a little nod. She turned to the Keurig coffee machine. “Regular or decaf?”

  “Regular.”

  She fixed his coffee and set the mug on the center island. He grabbed it, then propped a shoulder against the doorway that led into the dining room. He figured he’d mostly be out of the way here but could see everything she was doing.

  Jocelyn bustled around the kitchen, retrieving ingredients and bowls, spoons, whisks, and spatulas from the fridge, cupboards, and drawers. She had flour, eggs, cocoa, buttermilk, and various other small bottles and cans laid out before she stepped back to survey the assortment.

  Grant cradled his cup between his hands, mostly forgetting about his coffee. He was intent on the woman who was muttering to herself as she moved around. He was quite sure she was unaware of the way she talked to herself and he found it endearing.

  “Buttermilk, soda, salt, eggs… butter. Dammit.” She turned back to the fridge and retrieved the butter.

  “Buttermilk,” she started again, to herself. “Soda, eggs, butter, cocoa, salt… brown sugar. Fuck.”

  She headed for one of the cupboards and Grant grinned. For some reason, he hadn’t pegged her as someone who said “fuck.” It didn’t offend him in the least, of course. It was one of his favorite, most used, words. But Jocelyn gave off a sweet and sunny air that didn’t quite line up with someone who muttered curse words to herself in the kitchen where she created things like the cupcakes he’d seen just that morning.

  They’d been freaking caterpillars. Of course, you had to buy three cupcakes to get the full caterpillar—head, middle, and tail. Which was brilliant marketing, in his opinion. They had been done in bright colors and each head cupcake had sported a huge smile. Now he wondered how many fucks Jocelyn had dropped whil
e making those brightly smiling cupcake bugs.

  She set the canister of brown sugar down on the worktop with a thunk and a frown. “Buttermilk,” she muttered again, sounding irritated. “Eggs, butter, cocoa, soda, salt, sugar and… flour! Fucking flour!”

  He chuckled at that, but when she looked up with a frown, he quickly lifted his cup to hide his mouth. She narrowed her eyes but turned to stomp into the pantry, retrieve the flour, and return to the work area.

  Grant didn’t know what was going on, but she surely didn’t usually have this much trouble baking every time she tried. She might be Zoe’s best friend, but Zoe couldn’t afford to pay someone who took this long just to gather ingredients.

  Jocelyn started measuring and mixing, but she stopped after adding three ingredients and swore.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  Grant couldn’t hide his laugh this time.

  She looked up and scowled at him. “You’re very distracting.”

  “I’m the problem here?”

  “Do you really think this is how it usually goes when I bake?” she asked.

  “What just happened?”

  “I just added the buttermilk to the flour and soda.”

  “The recipe needs buttermilk, right?” he asked.

  “It does. But not now.”

  “Oh.” He didn’t understand.

  “The texture of the cakes depends on how you mix the ingredients together. I can’t just add the wet ingredients in with some of the dry now and then more later.” She sighed. “Ugh!” She grabbed the bowl and turned to the sink, dumping the contents and washing them down.

  “Can I help?” Grant asked.

  “Can you be less hot and stop watching me, like you’re imagining me doing this naked?” she asked.

  “Um… no,” he finally said. “At least not the last part. For sure.”

  She shook her head. “Maybe we should have sex first. Then I can come back down and bake later. I’ll be a lot less flustered and distracted then.”

  Grant pushed away from the doorframe and crossed to where she stood. He set his coffee cup down and crowded close to her. “Well, one, we’re not going up anywhere. I’m taking you right here, in this kitchen.”

  Her lips parted and her breathing sped up. “Oh.”

  He nodded. “From the first second I met you, you’ve had flour on your cheek or sugar in your hair. You smelled like cake the first time you fell into my arms—and the second, for that matter—and I’ve had some very specific and erotic images of you, sugar and flour, and lots of bare skin since then.”

  She wet her lips and stared up at him, her eyes wide. “Like… what?”

  “Like my flour handprint on your sweet ass,” he told her bluntly and honestly. “Like your nipples coated in sugar. Like icing and batter streaked over your tits and stomach and ass and clit.”

  Her pupils dilated, and he wondered if he’d gone too far. He barely knew this woman. Just a minute ago he’d been shocked to hear her say the word fuck. Maybe she wasn’t the type he should be saying tits and clit to.

  “Holy hell, yes,” she said breathlessly.

  Or maybe she totally was. His body went hot and hard and he leaned in. But he didn’t kiss her. “Mix up some batter, Jocelyn,” he practically growled.

  She wet her lips and nodded. “Yeah.”

  “But I think maybe you need a plan B for whoever it is you’re baking for tonight. Because that batter isn’t going to make it to the oven. And you’re not going to have much time between now and tomorrow morning.”

  “I was thinking about trying something new for her. But I have cookies in the freezer I can give her.”

  Wow, he loved that needy, husky tone in her voice.

  “Excellent,” he told her.

  Jocelyn stood, just staring up at him. Well, at his mouth.

  “Jocelyn?”

  “You should call me Josie.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what my friends call me. People who know me well. And… you’re going to know me well.” She gave him a sexy-but-shy smile.

  “I am,” he agreed. “Very well. But Jocelyn fits you.”

  “Josie doesn’t?”

  “Josie is cute and sweet,” he said with a nod. “It fits. But Jocelyn is gorgeous and sexy and makes your eyes darken.”

  “It does?” Her brows rose.

  “It does.”

  “I think that’s actually because of how you say it.” She wet her lips. “You make it sound sexy and a little bossy.”

  The corner of his mouth curled. “I tend to be bossy.”

  “I like it.”

  “Do you? Is that one of your turn-ons?” God, he could boss her around all fucking night long.

  “I don’t know. There isn’t a single guy in this town—in this county—who would be bossy with me.”

  “No? Why’s that?” His palm itched to reach up and tuck her hair behind her ear.

  “Because they’ve known me forever,” she said, lifting her shoulder. “Because they know my family and it would feel disrespectful maybe? Or because they know my friends and are afraid they’d kick their asses?”

  “Or because they think they know you, and you’ve always been sweet and friendly, and you probably helped them with their homework or worked on a school play or at a fair stand with them or went to Sunday school with them, and they can’t imagine saying something like, put your hands on the counter, bend over, and let me lick your pussy,” Grant said.

  Her eyes flared with surprise and heat. She bit her bottom lip and nodded. “Yeah, maybe that.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I came along. Because I have no qualms about saying that to you.”

  4

  “Wow.” Jocelyn practically breathed the word. “First it was catching me from falling and then it was the potatoes. I didn’t even know that there was all of this to look forward to.”

  “This?” he asked.

  “The dirtiness. The confidence. The bossiness.”

  He nodded. “There’s a lot of all of that.”

  “That’s so good.” She said it with just a touch of wonder.

  “What about the potatoes?” he asked with a frown.

  “You’re sexy when you eat potatoes.”

  “Am I?” That wasn’t something he’d ever heard before.

  She shrugged. “To me.”

  He leaned in. He towered over her and found he loved the size difference between them. He loved how little she was and the images of lifting her up and putting her on the counter or against the wall. Or throwing her over his shoulder and heading for her bedroom. But no, he really did want to lick chocolate cake batter from her tits first.

  He ignored the niggle that said she makes you feel possessive and protective. It was just the alpha-manly-testosterone thing that was rushing through him with all the sex talk and knowing she liked being bossed. Or would like it. Or thought she’d like it.

  He loved the idea that other men hadn’t been like that with her. These small-town farmer guys had probably been nice and gentlemanly toward her. Which was great. In fact, they better fucking have been. She deserved that. But if she wanted a little dominating, he was happy to oblige. It didn’t mean he felt anything soft or serious for her. In fact it was the opposite, right? Bossing her around? Being dirty with her? Those were the opposite of soft. He liked being in charge. So he could give her a little of that while he was in town. Then she could go back to the nice guys, and one of them could get her a white picket fence and a puppy.

  “Jocelyn,” he said, making sure his voice sounded gruff and a little firm.

  “Yes?”

  “Make us some chocolate cake batter to play with.”

  Play. And sex. While talking about dominating her. It didn’t seem like all of that should go together. Play and sex didn’t really go together for him usually. He just didn’t… play. In general. Much.

  Dax made sure he did some. But women never did. He dated sophisticated women who liked sophisticate
d things. Being covered in chocolate cake batter didn’t seem very sophisticated. But he’d been absolutely honest when he’d told Jocelyn that he’d been having very specific fantasies about her and baked goods.

  And she was the type to play. To giggle and tease with chocolate and Lord knew what other fun, sweet, sticky stuff.

  As evidenced by the, “Yes, sir,” she gave him and the smile she flashed as she turned toward the worktable and started pulling ingredients toward her and mixing them up.

  He braced a hand on the table and leaned his hip into the edge, settling in to watch her. “You don’t seem to be having trouble remembering how to put this all together now,” he commented, watching her confident moves.

  “I guess I’m very focused now,” she said, grabbing the whisk and beating the buttermilk and vanilla together.

  “But I’m still here.”

  She nodded, reaching for the hand mixer and turning to plug it into the outlet behind her. “And I’m very motivated to get this done.”

  He smiled. “What’s this supposed to be?”

  She gave him a sly grin that made his cock harden. “Whoopie pies.”

  He lifted a brow. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. You know what they are right? Chocolate cake sandwiches with cream in the middle.”

  “I’ve maybe seen them, but I’ve never had one.”

  “Oh, well, just wait.”

  “I will. But only because you’re sexy as hell when you’re baking. And in that apron.”

  She gave him a sexy smile, then got to work.

  She beat the butter and sugar together, then added the egg. She slowly added the dry mixture and the buttermilk mixture into the bowl in small alternating batches, scraping the sides of the bowl down periodically. Finally, the batter was well combined and smooth.

  She shut the mixer off and then blew out a breath and looked up at him.

  He leaned in. “Now we have to taste test it, right?”

  Jocelyn dipped her whisk into the bowl, then lifted it to her mouth and took a little lick.

  Watching her tongue run over the curved metal of the whisk made Grant’s body tighten. And his smile grow. He liked Jocelyn flirting and teasing.