Too bad it turns out she’s the last woman I should be dancing—or anything else—with.
Timing is everything. And this timing is about to go tits up.
1
Gigi
The new cases were installed today, and they look amazing.
The pie specials are prepped for tomorrow and Calliope is coming in early to start the ovens so I can sleep in.
The money is counted, the shop is spotless, and all is right with the world.
I pat the counter and blow a kiss to Sweetie Pies as I go. “Love you, darling," I say, dragging down the metal gate in front of the door and locking up for the night.
As I head down the sidewalk, I remind myself of all the good things in life. It’s a nightly ritual I’ve done since I was a little girl.
I have my friends. My brother, Harrison. My gram. And the most fantastic business and customers in the entire world.
And it’s party time!
I can’t remember the last time I went to a party. Or the last time I stayed out past ten o’clock. Much like a real offspring, my bakery baby requires certain sacrifices. I’m out of bed at five most mornings and up to my elbows in dough by five fifteen. I moved to an apartment a two-minute walk from Sweetie Pies in order to be closer to my darling girl. I love being able to stick my head out my kitchen window and see her sitting safely there on the corner, looking adorable and delicious.
Ruby teases me about being a helicopter pie shop parent, but I just feel better when the things and people I love are close.
If I had my way, Harrison and Gram would move into the apartment above mine and Ruby and her true love, Jesse, would move into the empty building across the street from Sweetie Pies.
Or they could have moved in a month ago if some wretched tea-peddling human hadn’t snatched it up.
Ugh. Tea. It’s like drinking grass juice with lemon on top.
I hate it. And I really hate people who intend to sell tea and sweet treats right across the street from my pie shop.
I fold my arms, shivering as I pass the building in question, looking menacing and ominous with its “Tea and Empathy Opening Soon” sign taped in the front window.
Why? Why must competition move in right across the street at the exact moment I’m primed to achieve total dessert domination of Greenpoint and greater Brooklyn at large?
Deep breath. Everything will be fine.
The tea peddler will probably be a horrible baker who does a piddling little business that won’t interfere with mine. But as I start up the steps to my apartment, I do wish things were different.
If Ruby and Jesse had bought the place, we could have had coffee and slices together at two twenty-five each afternoon—two twenty-five being the perfect time for an afternoon treat. It’s not too close to lunch and still leaves time to work up an appetite for a healthy dinner.
Or a handful of spinach eaten straight from the bag and an only slightly expired cheese wheel you dig out from behind the butter sticks in the fridge, if, say, you haven’t had time to go shopping for yourself in ages.
As I bustle around my apartment, munching soggy spinach while running a bath and laying out my party dress, I promise I’ll do that on my day off tomorrow. Grocery shopping isn’t nearly as much fun as getting one’s nails done or popping into a favorite consignment shop to try on crinolines, but it’s a necessity.
And I do like to eat things other than pie.
Occasionally.
As a reward for consuming rabbit food, I pour myself a glass of pink bubbly to enjoy during my bath and settle in for a soak with a happy sigh.
The hot water feels heavenly on my aching, dough-rolling-taxed shoulders, and the champagne is sweet and fizzy on my tongue.
Yes, the world is still full of sensual delights that have nothing to do with breath-stealing kisses, ripping a man’s shirt off in the heat of passion, or having him turn you over his knee for a spanking.
Mmm. Spankings. Swats. Hair pulling.
I hum under my breath to the tune of the Sound of Music since these are, indeed, a few of my favorite things.
Then I do my best not to linger on spankings because I really do love a fun, flirty spanking and it’s been so very long since I enjoyed one.
Months, I think.
Many months.
Maybe close to a year?
“No. Stop. Don’t,” I mutter aloud.
I will not think of Theodore or how much fun it was to play sex games with him or how often I’ve run into him since we broke up without him even noticing that I’m in his general vicinity. I wear brightly colored dresses with huge fluffy skirts and, more often than not, a considerable amount of cleavage on display. Nice cleavage too, if I do say so myself.
But I am apparently invisible to the last man who gave me orgasms.
“Which is fine, because you can give yourself orgasms,” I say, as my red toes peek out of my bubble bath. “Better, faster ones.”
But the words don’t tempt me to slide my fingers under the bubbles and between my legs the way I would have earlier in my adventure in celibacy. These days, my best bet is to not think about sex too much, even when I’m alone. It’s just too frustrating. The last prospect broke up with me via parrot before we could get to orgasm territory, and I don’t see an end to that frustration anywhere in sight.
Yes…a parrot.
The bird squawked, “It’s me not you. Me not you. Let’s break up,” on cue. Did he train it to say that or did the parrot learn it since he said it so much?
Either way, dodged a bullet with that one. Besides, I’m looking forward to flying solo to this party tonight. It’s so much easier to dominate at Rubik’s Cube, giant Jenga, and other assorted classic games without a guy around judging my nerdish tendencies.
Maybe someday I’ll meet a man who enjoys being nerdy together.
Ha. Maybe I’ll ride a unicorn to the party too.
Forty minutes later, I’m breezing out of the subway into the cool night air in front of The Library, one of Brooklyn’s hottest live music venues. It features a stage and dance floor surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, including a historical romance section with a take-a-book-leave-a-book policy—be still my bookish heart.
But tonight, the floor isn’t filled with thrashing punks or swaying hipsters in jeans too tight for real dancing. Instead, gamers surround tables spread with Scrabble, Clue, or Monopoly, a giant Jenga game dominates the stage, and—most tantalizing of all—the Rubik’s Cube twist off tournament begins at nine. It looks like most people are competing in teams of two or three, but I’d rather go solo than risk being paired with a novice who will bring down my time.
I’m not just nerdy, I’m competitive about it.
I sign up for the second heat, wiggle my fingers for good luck at the line of cubes on the edge of the stage, and head for the bar to grab a coffee.
With one glass of champagne under my belt, I can’t afford to further dull my senses, not if I’m going to win bragging rights—and the Master of The Cubeiverse T-shirt I’ve had my eye on since word of the party popped into my social media feed.
I’m leaning into the bar, shamelessly offering a glimpse of cleavage in hope of luring the busy bartender my way, when I hear it.
The voice.
A rich, deep, sexy-as-hell British voice asking for a Scotch on the rocks.