“Thank you. It's his brainchild,” Aline says, pointing to the guy wearing the polo shirts.
“I see. Smart.”
I guess he's the owner.
“Would you like a sample?”
“Thank you,” I smile. I reach out, but freeze. “These are donuts?”
“Not just any donuts,” she corrects me.
“But donuts nonetheless?”
“But of course. This is Sugar Glaze Shack. One of the best donut shops in LA. Food TV celebrity chefs Shane Dennison and Riley Carrington have us on their list of favorite bakeries,” she says, lowering her eyes to the tray.
Those precious twenty minutes with Jagger were a gift. It’s often challenging for me to find uninterrupted time when everything isn’t being thrown at me. In my mad texting session with my cousin, I didn’t think of Googling this place. My bad.
“You should try, you’ll be seduced,” she tempts.
She doesn't understand. This father is on a mission.
“No cupcakes?”
She looks at me as if I have two heads. “Non!” she says. “This is Sugar Glaze Shack. The best—”
“I got that part,” I stop her with a raised hand.
It's my turn to frown.
Shit. I'm so fucked.
Seems like I'm going back home after all.
“Today is Flashback Friday,” she continues undeterred by my sudden sour mood. “We go back in time and we get all dressed up. Oh, it's also the only day of the week where we exclusively feature our bestselling stuffed donuts. We go beyond the mere glazed donut today.”
“I was commissioned to track down cupcakes,” I tell her.
“Try!”
She's a bossy little one.
My curiosity gets the better of me. I reach out and grab a morsel.
“Wow.” Holy shit. “I've tasted donuts in my life, but these are amazing.”
“You see? You listen to Aline and everything is okay.”
I can't help but laugh.
“The one you selected is our very popular chocolate donut stuffed with our signature Oreo cookie cream filling.”
“As delicious as that was, that's not what I'm looking for.”
I stick to my guns.
“Well, a leopard can’t change his spots, but he can climb up a different tree once in a while.”
She does this weird thing with her eyes and I'm not certain if she's trying to get me to agree with her or if she's eye-fucking me.
“Yeah, I'm not sure it's going to fly with my audience.”
“But, today we have dark chocolate custard, white Oreo cookie cream, raspberry coated in dark chocolate and tossed in coconut, Nutella cream along with the Oreo cookie cream,” she blurts out without taking a breath.
She's pimping hard.
“This all sounds very delicious—”
“If you don't like chocolate—who doesn't like chocolate?” She doesn't give me a chance to answer. “Just in case, we have crème brûlée custard, lemon cream and our wake-me-up espresso cream.”
She won't take no for an answer.
“I don't think stuffed—”
A door swings open, pulling my attention away from Aline. A brunette—well, I’m not sure how to call that hair color—waltzes in.
No, that’s not it.
It’s more like she does this little dance move to the new song that fills the shop.
The sexy brunette is decked out in a long black t-shirt that reads, ‘Everything Was Better In The 80s’, huge white hoop earrings, a long pearl-like necklace, hot pink cutoff lace stockings that hit her below her calf muscles, matching cutoff gloves, a white pouch around her waist and white high heels. Her hair is an impressive poofy cloud. The color is mesmerizing.
With each step, she swings her hips left and right as she mouths the lyrics to “Pour Some Sugar on Me” to the room, pointing her fingers at several customers.
The crowd goes wild.
I don’t blame them.
Def Leppard has never sounded better.
Never.
Then our eyes meet.
She stumbles, but she’s quick to find her composure.
Now, with an almost timid step, she makes her way to the third iPad cash register. Her eyes are downcast, but it’s hard to miss her rosy cheeks.
Well, well, well. Who do we have here?
I return my attention to the French girl.
“Maybe you’re right. Change is good. Let’s see what the buzz is all about. If it’s good enough for Food TV celebrity chefs, it’s good enough for me,” I say. More than good enough.
“Mais bien, sûr,” she giggles. Aline translates before I get a chance to ask. “But of course.” This time she gives me a knowing wink.
CHAPTER 4
Everly
Friday is the only day where I'm not covered in pastry flour and glaze. I put my baking duties on hold and adorn my hostess hat because you never know when I might have to open the third cash register. When I receive Callum's, ‘Get your ass up front’ text message, I'm ready to leap into action. As I make my way to the front, my eighties anthem comes on. I mean, come on. I bake donuts for a living. I don’t care how old this song is, “Pour Some Sugar on Me” was clearly written with me in mind. Channeling the badass video, I push open the door and make my dramatic entrance.
Everything is going well until I see him.
Hot Guy is standing in my shop.
MY SHOP!
Oh, God.
Can you believe I actually stumble a bit at his closeness?
He’s emanating some kind of voodoo power. I'm sure of it.
I find my footing, but all of a sudden, I feel very self-conscious. My face must be as bright as my stockings. Thank God, I find it in me to will my shaky legs to stride to the other side of the long stainless-steel counter.
“I'm open on three!” I shout, careful to keep my gaze on the iPad.
I feel a wave of people move in front of me.
When I muster up the courage to lift my eyes up, I notice Hot Guy takes a huge step to the right. He's now standing behind the line of people facing me.
Oh, boy.
My eyes shift to Aline’s and she flashes me the biggest smile I've ever seen.
What's that about?
I frown a question.
She answers by mouthing something I can’t comprehend.
What the hell?
No, that’s not embarrassing at all. Thank God, Hot Guy has his back to her.
Those French are crazy.
I avoid looking in Hot Guy’s direction, reminding myself he’s someone's father and there's a woman out there who has claims on him. With that in mind, I focus on offering my customers the best possible experience.
I've totally immersed myself in professional mode when it suddenly hits me. With each customer I serve, Hot Guy’s turn is coming up.
Oh, gosh.
When Jacob Newhall—a diehard fan of our dark chocolate custard-filled donuts—approaches the counter, I know the countdown has started. The very tall customer—oozing with masculinity like it's going out of style—standing behind Jacob is none other than Hot Guy.
Great.
I do my best to keep my eyes on Jacob, not wanting to drift to the man whose eyes I know are on me. His gaze is so intense, I can feel it burning a hole in my forehead. Against my will—and better judgment—I glance up.