Sugared (Misfit Brides #4) Page 8

  Too generous. With the clothes, with the private school they enrolled him in, with the discreet tutors to catch him up after he’d missed the end of the last school year, with the spending cash they gave him. Mom had immediately corralled half her Club friends to organize fundraisers for soup kitchens and homeless shelters and centers for disadvantaged youth, to help children like Josh, since we can’t save them all.

  He hadn’t known how to act around rich people, hadn’t known the right or wrong things to do or say, hadn’t known if Mom and Dad would get tired of their crusade to save the homeless and disadvantaged youth of Chicago and decide they didn’t want him anymore, but he was comfortable being himself with Birdie. He could tell her things he couldn’t tell them—his fears, how he was adjusting to living with the Kincaids, his own vivid dreams and nightmares. She’d listened without judgment, hugged and squeezed him, taught him to boil potatoes, to make scrambled eggs and macaroni and cheese, even to roast a turkey. You want to help? she’d asked him one afternoon. I love to cook. Good for the soul.

  And while they cooked, she’d talked to him like a person. Not like a dirty ragamuffin her nutty employer had plucked off the street, not like he was missing half a brain, not like he was temporary. Like a person.

  She’d pretended not to notice when he stole dinner rolls, packs of cheese, whole cases of Sweet Dreams Sugar Clouds and Honey Puff Cakes to squirrel away in his room in case he was ever sent to bed without dinner or in case his new parents decided they didn’t want him anymore.

  They’re good folk, and they’ll love you for you, no matter what you do, no matter where you came from, no matter how you find who you’re supposed to be, she’d told him, but I know you’ll be a good boy and make them proud one day. You just be you.

  He hadn’t wanted to be a bother. Hadn’t wanted to give the Kincaids reason to give up on him. So he’d been the best boy he’d known how to be. He’d seen their faces light up when he called them Mom and Dad. He’d seen their pride when he brought home his first report card with an A on it, and when he stood onstage with them at fundraisers. He’d seen them glow when they told their friends and family that his teachers adored him, that he had made friends with all the right children, that he never caused any trouble and was always such a good boy.

  He’d been scared to be anything else.

  Because he couldn’t go back to the life he’d lived before they’d taken him in.

  Kimmie pulled him back to the present by turning the car into a lot across the street from a park with a gazebo overlooking the lake dotted with paddle boats. Up the road, a church spire rose into the blue sky. Across the lake, the golf course rolled in gentle green slopes.

  Birdie probably would’ve been charmed by the little town. It was quaint. On the nutty side with all the weddings, but Birdie would’ve appreciated it. “Birdie would’ve thought this place was insane,” he said to Kimmie.

  Kimmie smiled. “Better insane than boring,” she said brightly. She drove around an elegant, one-story ivory building with fancy adornments around the windows and eaves, and stopped carefully near the side door.

  A woman stepped out. “Hey, Kimmie. Need a hand?”

  Kimmie unstrapped herself and slid out of the car. “Yes, please.” Josh did a double take.

  The butt cheeks of her neon green cargo pants were sporting flour handprints.

  He unfolded himself out of the car too. “I can help, sugar.”

  “That’s super sweet, pookie, but Angie and I have a routine.” Kimmie flicked her hands at him. “You stay. And, erm… enjoy the show.”

  Angie, a dark-haired, long-limbed woman that Josh put in her early thirties, eyed him with the same suspicion he’d gotten from the ladies at the bakery.

  “No trouble to help,” Josh said.

  “I saw what you did to Mikey and Dahlia’s cake last weekend, and I’m not having a repeat on my shift,” Angie said. “And by the way, I teach judo in my spare time. Don’t even try insisting. I’ll take you down. Sit. Stay. And remember that judo part if your intentions toward Kimmie are anything less than squeaky clean and one hundred percent honorable.”

  Kimmie flashed him an awkward smile. “People like me,” she said with a cute little shrug.

  “What’s not to like?” Angie looked at Josh, and her lip curled. “By the way, Romeo, that was your line.”

  Kimmie flushed. “Let’s get the cake in before the fondant gets droopy.”

  Angie grabbed a trolley cart while Kimmie opened the Subaru’s hatch. Together, they moved the cake onto the cart, then rolled it carefully into the building. Josh followed along, as much to watch what went into that check he got every month as to keep up appearances of the doting boyfriend.

  They went through a busy industrial kitchen and into the main banquet room. Aproned waitstaff bustled about the room, laying out place settings on white linen tablecloths covering round tables. The textured ivory wallpaper was interrupted only by wall sconces. A giant ice sculpture dominated the center of the room, with the cake table behind it. Kimmie and Angie effortlessly moved the cake from the cart to the table. Kimmie’s lean biceps tightened, but she didn’t grunt or heave. She simply did her job.

  “What’s that cake weigh?” Josh asked.

  “About twenty-five pounds.”

  “We’re not lightweights.” Ninja Angie smirked at him. “Your girl’s got guns. And smarts. Don’t take her for granted.”

  Josh had never given much thought to guns, but he couldn’t deny an appreciation for some girl muscle. Especially with that smooth skin covering it.

  “I don’t know anyone who could take Kimmie for granted,” Josh said.

  Her face went up in jagged flames again.

  “Getting better, Romeo,” Angie said.

  “Oh, my word, look at that cake.” A shrill older woman in a pink dress and some kind of flowered straw hat charged into the room.

  “She didn’t say that about the ice sculpture,” Angie murmured to Kimmie.

  Kimmie smiled shyly at the older lady. “Hi, Mrs. Perrucci.”

  The older woman circled the cake table. She pulled out her phone and snapped a picture, then thumbed the screen. Texting the picture, undoubtedly. “Stacey will love this. This is even prettier than the picture. The flavors? And the filling?”

  Kimmie pointed to each layer in turn. “Chocolate fudge with salted caramel filling, white chocolate with Nutella buttercream filling, almond with vanilla buttercream filling, and lemon cake with raspberry ganache.”

  “We’ll get the top layer in the fridge as soon as we cut the cake,” Angie said.

  Mrs. Perrucci’s phone dinged. She looked down at it, grinned big, then grabbed Kimmie in a hug. “Honey, I think she likes this cake more than she likes her groom right now.”

  “Enjoy Stacey’s day, Mrs. Perrucci,” Kimmie said.

  And the frizzy-haired, green-pantsed, goofy girl from the bakery had completely charmed the mother of the bride by simply delivering a cake and smiling.

  Josh swallowed.

  Bringing the fight to Kimmie’s turf might not have been his best move.

  “Big dinner plans?” Angie said to Josh.

  “The best. Nothing’s too good for my girl.”

  “Oh, you lucky man.” Mrs. Perrucci threw herself at Josh and hugged him too, suffocating him in flowery perfume. “That girl deserves some cake baked for her.”

  “Oh, that’s a bad idea,” Kimmie said quickly.

  Too quickly.

  And Josh felt one corner of his mouth going up.

  He wasn’t anywhere near Kimmie’s level—he wouldn’t need her if he was—but scrambling eggs and boiling potatoes wasn’t all Birdie had taught him. “Mrs. Perrucci, you are brilliant.”

  6

  Tweeted @WindyCitySociety: Who Is Kimmie Elias, And What Does Josh Kincaid See In Her? #IsItTheHair? #OrHerCupcakes?

  Kimmie wasn’t the world’s neatest person, nor was she the messiest, but tonight, as she unlocked her door, she w
ished she was the kind who could own her mess and not feel the need to apologize for the cat hair on her orange couches, the magazines tossed in her polka-dotted papasan chair, and the stacks of bath towels on her green shag rug that she hadn’t put away yet.

  Lips clamped shut against the urge to say sorry—for anything—she pushed into her apartment and tried to ignore the ominous presence of the Joshanova behind her.

  Peep skittered into the hallway, a black plastic hanger stuck on her head. She came to a sudden stop and tilted her head at Kimmie. “Rrroo?”

  “Oh, kitty.” Kimmie sighed.

  “Is that Napoleon, or is your cat happy to see you?” Josh said.

  “MmmrrroOW!” Boo exclaimed from the general direction of the kitchen. The lower half of her spotted body came flying down from the top of the kitchen doorway, front claws gripping the frame molding.

  The rest of her swung into the hallway, a wild, wheee! expression on her little kitty face.

  One front paw came free of the frame.

  Then the other.

  And then she went flying, legs akimbo, body twisting.

  Josh squeaked—interesting—and flattened himself against the wall. Boo landed at his feet, tail puffed, giving Josh the mother of all be good to my human eyeballs before she waggled her butt and tore off deeper into the apartment.

  “So, um, welcome.” Kimmie closed the door. “That was Boo. She had a rough kittenhood and almost died before her kitty teen years.”

  Josh tilted his head at her. His Adam’s apple bobbed, but his breathing evened out almost immediately, as though he hadn’t been the least bit ruffled by the cat. “More evidence of that amazing big heart of yours,” he said.

  Kimmie’s face went hot again.

  The Snack Cake Romeo smile appeared. He unbuttoned his suit coat and hung it on one of the hooks behind the door, then tilted his head at the kitchen while he rolled up his white sleeves, revealing corded forearms that backed up his claim that he could handle picking up a wedding cake. “Shall we, sweetheart?”

  There went that snap again. In her brain, in her heart, in her spine. Josh Kincaid couldn’t possibly want her. But the more he insisted he did—in public and now in private—the more she was afraid she might start believing him. “Stop sweethearting me.”

  “Happy to sugar you instead.”

  “Meaning it might work better.”

  “Who says I don’t?”

  “Everything about you says you don’t.” She needed to shut up. To remember the plan to nice him to death. To flirt with him. To—to threaten to tell the press she was pregnant with his alien love child if he didn’t surrender his share of Heaven’s Bakery or let General Mom buy it from him. He’d made everything look good, like she was a dream come true, the unexpected fairy-tale romance for Chicago’s hottest bachelor, a perfect woman wrapped in an unlikely package.

  A great story.

  But it was all lies.

  And if it wasn’t lies, she needed convincing. She might’ve hated being the Girl Least Likely To Ever Marry, but that didn’t mean she had to be easy when a sexy, suave, attractive man showed interest. “You don’t date girls like me. You date supermodels and Olympic figure skaters and women who won’t eat any cake because it has calories. They’re skinny vanilla lattes and I’m a double scoop of fried coconut mango ice cream with real whipped cream and a cherry on top. You don’t want me for anything other than to annoy my mother.”

  Josh’s lips spread into a smile more delectable than a German chocolate cake with double coconut frosting. “Perhaps I’ve realized my mistake with the skinny vanilla lattes.”

  “Or you’re tired of being a cardboard snack cake king and want to take over real cake instead,” she said.

  Josh’s brow pinched and his pupils dilated.

  It was a quick thing that she wouldn’t have noticed without years of being raised by General Mom, but Kimmie saw his momentary panic.

  Bull’s-eye.

  Josh did want Heaven’s Bakery. All of it. He’d realized how profitable the cake business was in Bliss, and he wanted a bigger cut. And he thought through Kimmie was the easiest way of getting it.

  Unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong.

  But General Mom also liked to say that knowledge was power.

  Kimmie had the knowledge. She knew what he wanted. Which meant Kimmie had power.

  A healthy dose of fear, too. Josh could sue their pants off with fabricated tales of being shortchanged in profits. Or he could march into Heaven’s Bakery, claim it outright, and issue conflicting orders to everyone until no one knew what to do to get the work done. General Mom’s contract specifically said Birdie would be a silent partner regarding the running of the bakery, but there hadn’t been provisions for silence in the case of an heir.

  According to General Mom’s lawyer, Josh could sue for more control.

  And he didn’t have to stay silent.

  General Mom ran Cake Readiness Condition drills, but the bakery didn’t have Disgruntled Co-Owner drills.

  Still, the knowledge of what Josh wanted, and the power of that knowledge, sent tingles down Kimmie’s arms and legs. Little spikes of courage. She felt her chin lift, and she heard her mother come out of her mouth. “There are a hundred gazillion cupcake bakers in the world, Josh Kincaid. Go play with someone else.”

  He leaned in closer, bringing that spicy lemon scent with him. “What if you’re the one I want?”

  If her heart were a cupcake, it would’ve bounced off its frosting by now. Was he the type of guy who would marry a girl to get her share of a wedding cake business?

  “I don’t believe you.” She had to force the words. Because wouldn’t it be sweet if a handsome, successful guy who didn’t have any qualms about telling her mother to shove her frosting spreaders where the sun don’t shine could honestly want a girl like Kimmie?

  A plain, simple, small-town girl like Kimmie.

  Kimmie was about done with this game. She didn’t do seduction. She didn’t do lies. She did Kimmie.

  Her Snack Cake Romeo’s gaze was intense while that hooded ocean in his eyes studied her. “I can’t decide if you like me or not,” he finally murmured.

  This was getting stickier than honey, and not nearly as sweet. What would Josh do to get full control of Heaven’s Bakery?

  Kimmie opened her mouth again and tried to channel her mother, but instead—“I had a dream we baked cakes in a wood chipper, but instead of cakes, lumberjacks came out the other side.”

  “Or perhaps you simply don’t want to admit that you do like me.” He angled closer until she could count his light eyelashes. “Your mother’s not here, Kimmie. And she wouldn’t believe me no matter what I told her about your feelings. No harm in admitting what we both know. You want me.”

  Kimmie swallowed a gigantic I dreamed you were the moon. “You’re very handsome,” she said. “On the outside, you’re a perfectly decorated wedding cake.”

  He lifted a cocky brow of you bet your cupcakes, baby.

  She set a shaky hand on the white cotton covering his hard, hot chest. “But the rest of you…”

  His heart beat strong and steady under her palm.

  “The rest of me?” he prompted.

  She wanted to look away. Look down. Go hide in her room. Lock the door. Call her mother and suggest a voodoo Joshanova cake. But she forced herself to look him square in the eye. “You’re unflavored batter. You could be a mocha fudge cake with almond buttercream and sprinkles on top. Or you could fall in the oven and then have your frosting used on the cardboard display cakes instead.”

  His lashes squeezed tighter together. So did his lips.

  Kimmie sucked in a breath. “I guess I’d say you have potential.”

  He barked out a laugh. “Potential.”

  “You could be a nice person. If you wanted to be.”

  “Nice doesn’t win, sugar.”

  “Then all you’ll ever have is potential.” That cupcake in her chest was losing crumbs as r
apidly as it had lost its frosting. She sucked in her belly muscles, drew a quivery breath, and then forced herself to turn away from him. “Go on. Charm me. Seduce me. Cook me dinner. Play your game. I’ll wait.”

  And Kimmie—accommodating, compliant, pacifist-hearted Kimmie—held her head high and marched to the living room and waited for him to show himself out.

  * * *

  Potential?

  Josh barely kept himself from slamming a pan on the stove in Kimmie’s efficient little kitchen while the butterflies on the wallpaper mocked him. He had worked his ass off from the moment the Kincaids adopted him.

  No—he’d worked his ass off to survive. And then he’d gotten a miracle, and he’d spent every day since then working his ass off to make the most of this opportunity he’d been given.

  To have spoiled, pampered, weird Kimmie Elias tell him he had potential.

  He’d show her potential.

  And then he’d walk out, still holding half of the bakery that paid her salary so she could rent this little place she called home, and he’d go email a cupcake blogger—there were hundreds to choose from—who would cream herself at the idea of working with Sweet Dreams.

  Someone who would appreciate the publicity. The money. The credibility.

  Someone who would be easy to work with and who could be trusted to adhere to a confidentiality agreement should said someone discover the financial realities of Sweet Dreams.

  He punched a search into his Google app, found the recipe he wanted, and went digging in Kimmie’s pressed-wood cabinets.

  Like hell would he let Marilyn Elias’s odd daughter think she’d gotten to him.

  This wasn’t about cupcakes anymore.

  This was about winning. About showing Kimmie Elias that she was just as wrong as her mother was.

  Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar On Me” exploded from the living room. It shut off, and he heard Kimmie answer her phone.

  “Hello? Oh. Um, hi, Mrs. Kincaid,” she said.

  Josh dropped the flour container.

  “It was nice to meet you too. I had no idea Josh had such sweet parents.”