by Lili Valente
“Yum. Find out if West has a brother who likes poker and exceptionally good-looking book editors.”
“I’ll make no such inquiry,” I say with a smile as I swipe open the email and begin to read. “But I will text him, right after I—”
I break off with a gasp and drop my phone like it’s hot.
I see red—fire engine red as smoke billows from my eyes.
“What is it?” Harrison asks, concerned. “Did the promo code I sent for fifty percent off at Twice Around expire before you could use it?”
“Worse! West is out to get me.” I tap a frantic nail on the phone. “He’s in the competition! West Byron is in the Mr. or Mrs. Sweet Stuff contest. His name is right under mine!” I shove the screen in my brother’s face. His eyes widen, confirming that this is bad news. Very bad indeed. “That’s it. No second chances,” I hiss. “This man is my nemesis. I will despise him for all eternity. Even if I’m not very good at it at first.”
Surely, there must be a guidebook somewhere. A do-it-yourself handbook on how to detest a man who gave you a quartet of Os.
Once I leave Gram’s place, waving goodbye to Joan, who thoroughly ignores me, as cats do, I text Rosie, my writer friend, on my way to the subway.
Gigi: Idea for a new short story. Man gives a woman four Os. Next day, she learns he’s her nemesis. What happens next?
* * *
Rosie: Ooh, great question. In this choose-your-own-adventure tale, I say she bangs him again because hate-sex is hot.
Ugh. Rosie’s no help.
There will be no banging. No hate-sex.
But then, how hot would hate-sex with West be? Probably super-duper hot, with lots of spanking and—
Nope. Stop it. Bad, Gigi.
But as I march down the steps to the subway, I can’t help lingering on hot hate-sex for a second.
I swear, only for a second.
Fine, maybe a minute. Or twelve.
8
West
Seeing as Gigi made it clear she isn’t in the mood for further conversation—at least with me—I decide against chasing her across the park to kiss her until she realizes I’m not a tea-peddling monster out to steal her business.
At least, I suppose that’s what she’s upset about.
There’s room in the world for more than one sweet shoppe per block, and I highly doubt a customer can get a decent cup of tea at her place. And many of us enjoy a fine, smoky, sweet tea with dessert.
So, I’m not competing with her so much as complementing her.
Once she cools off, I’ll be able to make her realize that. Until the text explosion, she seemed like a sensible woman. She’s certainly the sexiest woman in New York—potentially in the entire Northern Hemisphere—and I refuse to let a silly misunderstanding keep me from making her come on my cock at least a dozen more times.
This week, in fact.
Deciding to pave the way to fucking and making up, I assemble an “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I’m opening a store across the street from yours” present from the items on my shelves. Because, she did have a point. Perhaps I was a bit cagey when I learned about her shop. I should have told her about mine then, if not earlier in the night. She has me there.
Hence, the apology gift—a cedar box filled with premium tea samples, a blue and yellow ceramic teapot that will fit right in with her colorful décor, and some lavender and honey candies that pair perfectly with my signature blend of Earl Grey. Who doesn’t love Earl Grey?
I type out a quick note asking for a chance to explain myself properly, tuck it into the box, and start for the door, only to think twice and pop into the back room for more supplies.
Over at her apartment, I arrange my offering on her kitchen counter, leave the key on the hook, and pull the locked door closed behind me.
I’m about to head home when a familiar voice calls my name. “West! Over here!”
My little sister, Abby, is standing in front of the shop across the street. Actually, she’s waving her arm over her head and jumping up and down in front of the shop, grinning so wide I can spot her twin dimples from here.
I’ve seen Abby nearly every day for the last six months, but I haven’t seen her dimples in all that time. Not since her evil ex, Hawley, broke off their engagement via text message and then refused to return her phone calls begging him to explain what happened.
He just tossed the “it’s over” bomb through the window and then dropped off the face of the earth.
Miserable wanker.
I fully intend to punch him in the spleen if our paths ever cross again. No one destroys my sister’s heart and her self-esteem and gets away with it. I’d begun to think he’d stolen her smile too, but there it is, bright and shiny as ever.
I can’t help but smile too, even though my cock is still busy fretting that we might never see Gigi again. He’s confident in his abilities, but he’s also a greedy bastard who can’t get enough of a good thing.
And Gigi is definitely a good thing.
“Good morning, cheery face,” I say, opening an arm to Abby as I step up on the sidewalk beside her.
My very little little sis—she’s barely five feet tall in sneakers—bounds in for a hug even more enthusiastic than I’m expecting, squeezing me so tight I grunt, proving she’s small but fierce. “Oh my God, it’s the best morning, West. The very best! Look!” She pulls back and shoves her cell into my face.
I rear back, blinking, and laugh. “Too close. Jesus, my eyes. What am I even looking at?”
“You made it!” she says, bouncing up and down, making it even more difficult to read her screen. “You’re in the running to become this year’s Mr. Sweet Stuff!”
The phrase sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t resist teasing her. “Is that a sex thing? If so, I’m definitely more salty than sweet.”
“No.” She slaps my arm affectionately and rolls her brown eyes. “It’s the Brooklyn Mr. or Mrs. Sweet Stuff competition.” She sighs when my expression remains blank. “Big time baking competition? Winner gets bragging rights and tons of free promo for their business for an entire year? Been going on for fifty years? Super prestigious? Any of this ringing a bell?”
“Um…” I wrinkle my nose.
She slaps me again, with less affection this time. “I told you about it months ago, when we first started working on the shop, but you said you didn’t want to enter because we wouldn’t be open in time. But I knew we would, so I entered you anyway.” She lifts her phone again, beaming. “And you’re in! Look!”
I take the phone, skimming the email, a prickle of foreboding lifting the hairs at the back of my neck.
Five names down on the list of contestants, I realize why, and curse. “I can’t, Abby,” I say, nodding toward the phone. “I slept with contestant number five last night.”
Her jaw drops. “What? You didn’t.”
“I did,” I confirm. “And I want to keep sleeping with her more than I want to be the candy king of New York, so…” I try to hand the phone back to her, but she holds up both hands, fingers spread wide.
“It’s Mr. Sweet Stuff, and you don’t get it, West,” she says, shoving her dark curls off her forehead. “This is a huge deal. They only pick ten bakers from thousands who apply. Just competing is all we need to ensure an amazing launch for the shop. And if you win, we’re virtually guaranteed to be in the black by Christmas.”
I hesitate. Being in the black isn’t my primary goal—I know food service isn’t a high-return endeavor, and I have enough money to operate at a loss for the rest of my life if I want to—but a successful launch would be a good thing.
And not just for our pocketbooks. The shop is much more than that.
Abby and I have planned to open a tea shop featuring our mother’s recipes since I was eighteen and she was fifteen. We grew up cooking with our mum. While our older brothers were killing each other at rugby, Abby and I spent our afternoons in the kitchen, whipping up treats and playing board games while we waited for them to
cook. After Mum lost her fight with breast cancer, we helped each other heal by imagining how, one day, we’d share her cooking with the world. Brooklyn seemed a perfect place to start.
It doesn’t matter that Abby’s a horrid chef. This has been her dream as much as mine, but unlike me, she only has a small nest egg. She didn’t follow the Byron family rules. She dropped out of her banking program at university to get a degree in early childhood education and taught primary school before moving to the states. She won’t have money to burn until my father passes and she receives her inheritance—which will hopefully be far in the future, seeing as we both enjoy our father quite a bit, even if he is a numbers guy and actively dislikes anything with sugar in it.
This competition could ensure Abby’s financial success and bringing attention to Mum’s amazing food.
I’m already wavering when Abby stabs a finger at the phone screen. “And you haven’t seen the best part yet. Winning comes with a side of vengeance.”
Frowning, I glance down to see the name of the tenth and final contestant—Frederick James Ebenezer Hawley.
Or “Hawley” for short.
Did I mention my sis’s fucking wanker of a former fiancé is also a world-famous pastry chef with his own line of gourmet frozen treats? And that, after he cheated on her and dumped her, he bragged that his eclairs were better than our scones?
Any man who would treat my sweet Abby with so little care and disparage our family recipes deserves to be defeated on the field of battle.
Humiliatingly defeated.
And I’m just the man to deliver that trouncing, with a side of fist in the spleen.
That also means my apology to Gigi might require a bit more finesse. I need to make sure she understands that I wasn’t tricking her with my perfect cock.
Though, I like that she’s put it on a cock pedestal.
Perhaps, a swim in the gym pool will clear my head. I’ll swim, work on recipes with Abby, and then spend the evening planning exactly what to say to my pie shop beauty.
Tomorrow, I’ll be ready.
9
Gigi
So sorry. Please let me explain.
The words are spelled out in Scrabble letters on my kitchen counter in front of a lovely—and disgustingly tea-centric—present. But the tea pot is so adorable and so me that it almost makes me wish I liked tea.
“But I don’t,” I say, tucking the gift and the tiles behind the toaster oven so I don’t have to deal with them right now. And so that Ruby—who just buzzed downstairs—can’t see them.
I meet my cousin at the door, cooing with excitement when I see what she’s carrying, “Oh my goodness, what is this? For me?”
“Of course!” Ruby hands over the most adorable bouquet of brightly colored lollipops, tied up with a big red bow. “It’s a congratulations on winning Mrs. Sweets present!”
“Stop,” I say, laughing as she hugs me tight. “Don’t jinx me. The competition’s stiff this year.”
“So I heard,” she says, bobbing her brows up and down. “So, you slept with the enemy, huh? You really do have the worst luck with men, babes.”
“Ugh, I know. Nelson, Theodore, Shelby…” I rattle off my trio of horrible exes as I roll my eyes. “I assume Harrison called you?”
“He’s concerned. Thought you might need help destressing about Sexy Yet Traitorous Tea Guy before things get started tomorrow.”
I shake my head, forcing an easy smile. “Nope. Everything’s fine. I’m totally focused and ready to bring my A game. You know me, I don’t get distracted by boys.”
She narrows her brown eyes, studying me closely, but apparently my poker face is strong this evening. “Okay. This means we’re free to focus on picking out the most amazing outfit ever, right?”
I clap my hands and squeal, “Yes! I’m so glad you’re here. You can order Chinese, while I put on a fashion show. I’m going to try on everything in my closet. Twice.”
Ruby grins. “Perfect. Though, I will have to head back to my place by seven to meet Jesse. And I will want to hear all about this awful, yet incredible-in-bed, Englishman at some point. After you beat him and talking about him doesn’t stress you out anymore, of course.”
“I’m not stressed,” I repeat in a breezy voice. “But that sounds perfect. I’ll be turning in early tonight, anyway. Beauty sleep, you know.”
But many hours later—after Ruby and I have laughed and eaten Chinese and picked out the world’s most perfect dress for tomorrow—I lie in bed with my thoughts spinning and Scrabble tiles dancing in my head.
Tiles that keep rearranging themselves to spell Weston Byron’s name.
The next day, Sweetie Pies is a madhouse.
Summers are usually a little slower for us than the rest of the year, when thoughts naturally turn to pies, sweet indulgences, and family celebrations. But for some reason this morning everyone and their bossy grandmother who’s allergic to cinnamon and hates raisins is lined up at my counter, loudly demanding to know the daily specials even though there’s a giant chalkboard detailing them in ten-inch letters right behind my head.
I adore my customers, but by eleven, my customer service face has gotten quite the work out, and I’m secretly relieved for an excuse to cut out early to get showered and spiffed up for the first round of the competition.
It doesn’t start until three and I’m only a ten-minute walk from the location—the first round is always held in a big, beautiful tent in Prospect Park with a view of the lake—but I’m hoping to grab a power nap too. I slept poorly, plagued by dreams of a handsome, yet dastardly Brit.
Mr. Weston Byron was swaggering through my head all night, so I’m not surprised when he swaggers through the front door of my shop right as I’m ducking under the counter to head home.
Still, the sight of him stops me dead in my tracks.
Dead. Like I’ve been zapped by a freeze ray.
For a second I think it’s his eyes, those penetrate-me-five-different-ways eyes that instantly make my panties damp.
But then I realize what’s shocked me and blurt out, “Your beard.”
His hand drifts to his newly bare face with a cautious smile. “Yeah. I thought I should clean up a bit. For the um…cameras and all.”
The cameras. Right. Must not forget he’s a traitor. A dirty, lying, sex-tricking traitor.
I stand up straight and lift my chin, shaking off the stunning effects of his man beauty. “Of course. You look very nice without a beard.”
“Thank you,” he says, shifting to one side as two familiar little girls with a takeout bag dash out the door, racing each other to their push scooters. “I was hoping—”
“Just a second.” I hurry past him, sticking my head out the open door to shout, “Be careful, Emily! Jane! If you bring home broken pie crust again, your moms won’t let you do the pick-up. And you know I need girl talk. How else am I going to keep up with the gossip?”
Emily instantly slows, reaching out to snag Jane by the elbow. They both turn back to me with big grins.
“We’ll be careful!” Jane calls. “We promise.”
“And we’ll hook you up next week,” Emily says, propping a dramatic hand on her hip “So much is happening right now you can’t miss an update or you will be so lost, girl.”
“Good. Scoot safe.” I wave goodbye with a grin that fades as I turn back to West and sniff. “Yes?”
He glances out the window at the girls then back at me. “You’re good with kids, I see?”
I frown. “No, I’m good with people. Kids are people. Less annoying, smaller people who need grown-ups to listen to them more often. Especially when they’re twelve. Twelve is hard.”
“I agree,” he says. “My sister had a rough time around that age. She was so much smaller than the other girls that they treated her like an annoying infant. Wouldn’t let her join in all the pre-teen girl reindeer games, tortured her with awful nicknames, put dirty nappies in her purse, etcetera.”
I wince. �
�I’m sorry. That’s awful. My brother was one of the first people in his class to come out in high school. Some of the tough guys made his life a living hell.”
West’s brow furrows as he nods. “My oldest brother, Pierce, is gay. Got into a few fights at uni, when the footballers didn’t care to see him and his boyfriend holding hands.”
“Yeah. Harrison used to get jumped too.” I’m glad my brother’s grown up and no one puts hate notes in his locker anymore—and silently intrigued that West does have a brother who might like a handsome book editor. “But he turned out all the more fabulous for the hard times. He’s both one of the strongest and kindest people I know.”
“Same with Pierce, though he’s a heartless investment banker from nine to five. But Abby…she’s all sweetness.” He pulls in a breath, seeming to brace himself as he adds, “The kind of sweet that believes in her brother enough to enter him into a prestigious dessert competition without his knowledge.”
I arch a dubious brow. “Is that so?”
“It is. If I’d told you sooner that I was opening up across the street it would probably be easier to believe, but…”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, wishing we’d taken this outside for privacy. I don’t have to turn around to know my staff is hanging on every word. With only a few customers in the shop, my crew would normally be chatting and swapping fashion tips while they tidy up. Instead, the counter area is dead silent.
I lift a hand before West can reply. “Actually, let’s take this to the sidewalk, shall we?”
“So you can rough me up if you don’t like my answer?”
“Yes.” I hate the flirty note in my voice, but I can’t seem to help it. I’m so irritated with this man, but still his sparkly eyes and easy way with words captivate me.
And his forearms are really pretty in that cranberry button-up with the sleeves rolled back. Yum, yum, yum.
