A Pinch of Sugar Read online

  A Pinch of Sugar

  Jessa Kane

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon…

  Also by Jessa Kane

  1

  Alice

  This is a nightmare, right?

  I’m trapped inside of the worst dream of my life. That has to be it.

  A man lowers a boom microphone over my head and I lift a hand to keep myself from being blinded by a huge, rolling light. Someone runs by and slaps a chef hat on my head, drawing raucous laughter from the audience behind me.

  Audience.

  I can feel their amusement as they watch me and two other, unsuspecting members of the public get ambushed on a reality television baking show. At least, I think that’s what this is? When I woke up this morning, my boyfriend told me we were going on a tour of a movie studio.

  None of it was true. He set me up.

  I turn around and spy Clyde in the front row, laughing with two of his friends.

  His grin says gotcha, and turning back around, I feel sick to my stomach.

  A man in a flashy gold suit comes into view holding a skinny microphone, his smile bleached white. “Hello contestants! Or should I say victims?” The audience cackles behind me. “You’re probably wondering what you’re doing here dressed in an apron and chef’s hat. Well, I’m about to tell you!” He glides across the soundstage in front of an elevated platform with three empty chairs behind it. “You’re on a brand new reality show called…” He cups his hand around an ear and the whole crowd chants the next three words. “You’ve Been Ambushed! It’s the only live baking competition show where the contestants are nominated by their friends and family to compete in one challenging round of utter humiliation.”

  Oh my God.

  I slowly realize there are cameras facing me from every angle. Not just me, though. To my left, there are two other victims at their own stations. A huge, bearded dude with tattoos snaking down his thick, muscular arms. He appears to be taking the whole situation in stride, his booming laugh echoing around the studio. On the other side of him is a beautiful redhead. Her lips are turned up in a flirtatious smile, but her cheeks are stained with pink.

  “As I mentioned, we are live right now. Wave to the studio audience at home!” croons the host. My hands remain limp at my sides and the host clucks disapprovingly. “For today’s competition, you will bake us a three-tier red velvet cake! So much room for error, am I right?”

  I zone out at that point, the host’s voice drowned out by the ringing in my ears. I can’t believe this is happening. It’s a running joke that I’m a terrible baker and normally I avoid it at all costs, but Clyde witnessed my ineptitude first hand. I’ve only been seeing Clyde for a couple of weeks and our first date was a bake sale fundraiser for his church, to which I contributed an absolute disaster of a pumpkin pie. Even the person who won the free pie didn’t want it.

  I’m going to walk out.

  There’s no way I can go through with this.

  It’s one thing to have a church lady turn her nose up at my pie, but I draw the line at being humiliated on television.

  The host has been busy interviewing the other two contestants, but he stops in front of my workstation now, beaming like the Ryan Seacrest from hell. “And here we have Alice, who has been nominated by her boyfriend, Clyde! Alice is a restaurant manager from Manhattan, New York and it’s a good thing her boss keeps her out of the kitchen, because she burns everything she touches.” I give him my signature dead-eyed stare perfected throughout years of riding the subway. “Is there anything you would like to say to the man who nominated you?”

  “Yes, actually. There is.” I turn slightly to face my boyfriend in the audience where he is just basking in the attention. “Clyde? We’re over. Done. Caput.”

  Clyde’s smug smile deflates and I turn to face the frozen host.

  “Also, I’m so not doing this.”

  Panic cracks like lightning across his features when I start to remove my apron. “Uhhh. B-but…don’t you want to meet our celebrity judges first?”

  “Nope.”

  “Um. First up!” Ignoring me, he keeps going. “All the way from jolly old England, this judge is the owner of three Michelin star restaurants and is known throughout the industry for his icy blue glare. Oooh. Please welcome baking master, Sebastian Cove!”

  I stop cold, my hands stilling behind my back in the act of untying the strings of my apron. Did he really just say Sebastian Cove was a judge on this show?

  Oh my God.

  My pounding heart shoots up into my mouth and I turn lightheaded.

  No, it can’t really be him. No way.

  For all my incompetence in the kitchen, I’ve lost countless hours of my life watching the experts bake on television. And I’ve always, always had an infatuation with Sebastian Cove. He has starred in my fantasies for years.

  My very, very naughty fantasies.

  Fantasies that I’ve never told anyone about.

  The frilly pink underwear I’m wearing beneath my skirt feels so tight all of a sudden. So much more meaningful than when I put it on this morning. I definitely didn’t put it on for Clyde. He’s never seen my underwear, let alone touched me in a sexual way. No man has. I might be a serial dater, but I’m a virgin to the bone.

  Sebastian Cove’s name is still lingering in the studio when he walks out from behind a black curtain and I almost drop to my knees. My pulse spins out of control. It’s him. It really is him. He’s here.

  His silver hair is lit by the television lights, his handsome features arranged in their signature bored expression. He’s the surly head angel, come down from the heavens to check on the mortal proceedings. And oh, the way his back and shoulders flex as he prowls to his chair, rolls up his dress sleeves in very precise motions and sits down and—

  He looks directly at me.

  The breath evacuates my lungs.

  I have the most insane urge to play with a lock of my hair and peek at him through my eyelashes, like a shy girl. The way I would in my multitude of fantasies.

  Briefly, his attention strays to Clyde and a muscle pops in his jaw.

  Sebastian goes back to watching me as the host moves on and introduces the next two judges. I’m barely listening, but apparently one is a professional hockey player and the other is a restaurant critic. She’s a petite woman with huge eyes, which she can’t seem to tear off the tattooed contestant to my left. Similarly, the hockey player seems quite interested in the redhead contestant—and his interest is surprising and pissing him off in equal measure.

  Wasn’t I leaving a second ago?

  Yeah, I was, but now I can’t seem to move my fingers. Sebastian Cove almost looks like he’s daring me to walk off the set. His dark eyebrow arches at me and then he does something that makes the ground tremble under my feet.

  He shakes his head at me. Just a quick tweak of his head. Just one. He’s telling me no. That I can’t leave.

  That he isn’t allowing it.

  I feel the certainty of our communication down to my toes and automatically, my fingers leave the strings of my apron. I press my thighs together as tightly as possible so the resulting wetness doesn’t run down my inner thighs. Thank God my lower half is hidden by the worktable. Based on the way Sebastian’s blue eyes darken, however, he knows very well the effect his silent command is having on me.

  My hands fold together on the table in front of me and I do what comes naturally, so naturally. I bow my head contritely and look up at Sebastian Cove through my eyelashes. As if
to say, “Yes, sir. I’ll stay.” And my heart races faster when satisfaction settles him back in his chair.

  Ten minutes ago, I thought I was having a nightmare.

  Now, it feels like I’m trapped in one of my secret dreams—and I have no interest in escaping.

  2

  Sebastian

  Why can’t I take my eyes off this girl?

  She’s an abysmal baker. As a master of the craft, her lack of skill should be a deal breaker for me. But I’m barely aware of the other two contestants. Or judges. Or even the cameras and lights. I can only see her. Every bite of her lip or tremble of her finger has a butterfly effect on my entire being. Each action from her ripples through me and seems to go on forever.

  What is it about her that has my hands gripped together on the table, zero blood left in my fingers? I hear the rasp of my breath. I hear the quick intakes of hers.

  I hide my wince as she cracks an egg into a bowl, losing half of the shell in her mixture. There is flour in her blonde hair, on her pink-stained cheeks. It’s on her backside, as well—a fact of which I’m extremely aware. Every thirty seconds, she wipes her hands on the back of her skirt, leaving white handprints and by God, I think I’m jealous over the fact that she gets to touch herself.

  The host called her Alice.

  I drop one of my hands beneath the judges table and fist my erection through my trousers, saying her name one more time in my head.

  Alice.

  As if I’d called to her, she looks up at me through loose strands of blonde hair, red lips and one green eye peeking up at me. Fuck. I squeeze my cock until it hurts.

  To say this reaction to Alice is unusual would be a laughable understatement.

  As a young man, I had a series of unsatisfying relationships that ended much the way they started, with little fanfare. As a man in his forties, I’ve long given up on the notion of settling down. I’ve never been sure what to look for in a relationship. I only know there’s always something…missing. There has certainly never been this wild energy, this hunger inside of me at the very sight of a female. As a well known bastard, I’m usually already wondering what the hell a woman wants from me.

  This girl? Alice?

  I’d like her to need things from me. I’d like to provide them.

  And I’d like to get on with it now.

  There’s a mixture of shame and excitement in the way she’s peeking up at me through her eyelashes. As if we’re in on a secret. She’s wet beneath that short, little skirt and she needs me to decide what’s to be done about it.

  Decide for me, please?

  Show me.

  Her unspoken pleas tighten my muscles until I think I’ll snap.

  My cock throbs in my palm and I force my hands back onto the table, grasping the edge tightly. I need to get through the next hour of filming so I can get her alone. It’s all I can think about.

  The insufferable host has been interviewing the other two judges. Now it’s my turn, though I’d like to shove the blasted microphone up his ass. “Ooooh. Is there a chill in the air? Sebastian Cove must be in the building.” He laughs along with the audience and I stare back at him blandly. “Oh. Erm.” The host coughs uncomfortably. “Mr. Cove. You’ve built three Michelin star restaurants from the ground up in your home city of London. Critics call your desserts some of the most successful in history, some even ranking you above Julia Child. My question is: Do you plan to rip our contestants to shreds today and can I bring popcorn?”

  Suddenly, I regret agreeing to shoot this pilot. Very much.

  If they didn’t offer my charity a disgusting amount of money, I never would have subjected myself to less than stellar baking. After all, I can do that at just about any restaurant that doesn’t have my name on the doors. More than anything, I’d like to scoop Alice up in my arms and make an escape somewhere private. But the British Humane Society will receive half a million Pounds in exchange for one more hour of my time. It would be selfish to quit now. I don’t give a shite about letting people down. Animals are a different story.

  The host’s question is still hanging in the air and I realize I’ve been glaring at him in silence for long moments. Do you plan to rip our contestants to shreds today and can I bring popcorn?

  “I never plan on ripping anyone to shreds. It’s something that happens in the moment,” I say quietly, giving him a disgusted once-over. “A moment like this one. Would you like a demonstration?”

  “N-no, I’m good for now,” he stammers. “Um. After watching the contestants for the last hour, do you think there is a front-runner?”

  Hell. I’ve paid almost no attention to the other two people, but I’m forced to examine them now. One is a fireman with a laugh that sounds like cannon fire. The other is a redhead from Vegas. A showgirl, I believe they said.

  I’ve only had my eyes off Alice for a matter of seconds and already I’m anxious to get her in my sights again. My gaze roams over her and thirst closes my throat, like I haven’t seen her in months instead of seconds.

  As I noticed early on, she’s nervous. Embarrassed by all the eyes on her.

  I don’t…like that she feels anything negative.

  I don’t fucking like it at all.

  Not for the first time, my attention strays to her ex-boyfriend where he sits looking crestfallen now in the front row. This mangy little pipsqueak put Alice in this situation without her knowledge and I’d like to bury my fist right between his eyes.

  Some of the blame is mine, too, however. Alice was going to leave until I arrived and ordered her without words to stay, simply because I couldn’t bear her leaving. And now, for the first time in my life, I have the urge to reassure someone.

  Soothe her. Apologize. Take away the tremor in her fingertips.

  I clear my throat. “Front-runner? No. It’s impossible to tell until the final product is presented.” I make eye contact with Alice and hold it. “However, there is potential here.”

  The host dissolves into skeptical laughter, but quiets immediately when I drum a single finger on the judge’s table. “Why don’t you bring me a coffee?” I say, flashing him my teeth. “Milk. No sugar.”

  “Oh, I’m the…host…” He backs up a pace. “Never mind. I’ll get it now.”

  I wave him away. “Piss off, then.”

  Predictably, the audience goes wild, laughing the host off the soundstage. I’ll never understand why the public is so amused by behavior that simply comes naturally to me, but in this one case, I don’t mind the host becoming the butt of a joke. Not after his treatment of Alice.

  When I look back at her now, there’s a soft, grateful smile on her lush mouth and I forget my own name. Baked goods are the only things I’ve ever deemed a work of art, but her? She’s the ultimate masterpiece. I think I’d permanently give up my taste buds, as long as I could commit her flavor to memory first. For a man who has never placed much value on anything but dessert recipes, that’s quite a statement.

  But I damn well mean it.

  I damn well need her.

  An hour later, when the red velvet cake is presented and the winner is announced, the director yells cut and I finally get my chance.

  I never expected I’d have to chase her.

  3

  Alice

  Heat stings the back of my eyes as I run backstage.

  Spoiler alert: I didn’t win.

  My cake didn’t couldn’t even remain standing long enough for all three judges to sample my three-tiered catastrophe. It slumped and kind of oozed onto the counter while the crowd cackled like hyenas. And honestly, I shouldn’t care so much. So what? I can’t bake. There are plenty of other things to be good at in this world. I’m a pretty smooth dancer and I can apply a smoky eye in like, three minutes flat.

  I’m organized. I have to be. As the manager of a successful New York City restaurant, I have to juggle employee schedules, mollify customers, soothe tempers in the kitchen and keep a cool head even on the most chaotic Saturday night.
r />   My red velvet cake slumping like it was drunk is probably already a viral GIF right now—and I really should laugh the whole thing off. When you laugh at yourself, the whole world laughs with you and all that jazz, right? I could have left! I chose to stay. So I should be taking the consequences in stride, right?

  I might be, if it wasn’t for Sebastian Cove witnessing my humiliation.

  In the fantasies I’ve been entertaining of the master baker for years, I’ve always been an infallible pixie of a girl that makes him laugh like no one else can. In my dreams, I enchant him, dammit. I don’t set down a leaking pile of batter in front of him while looking like I’ve been swimming in butter.

  And all this, after he said I had potential.

  God, he’d made my heart dance with that single word. I’d felt hopeful and…cared about…for the first time. From a man, anyway. He’d put his sterling reputation on the line with that single word—potential—and I blew it. Not only have I humiliated myself on national television, but I’ve embarrassed him, too, haven’t I?

  Finally, I find a deserted corner of the backstage area and plop down on a wooden crate, burying my face in my hands. They smell like sugar and normally I wouldn’t mind that, but I want nothing to do with the stuff right now. I’m in the process of wiping tears and sugar off my hands and onto my skirt, when Sebastian Cove flies around the corner, intensity rippling from his every solid inch.

  I can’t explain why I start to cry harder.

  My brain is telling me to suck it up, buttercup. I’m made of sterner stuff than is currently on display. I can only compare the sudden onslaught of tears to one thing. Trying to hold emotions in check and succeeding until that one person who understands you the most shows up—and the cap twists off, spewing feelings every which way. How can this be, though? Sebastian couldn’t possibly be that person who understands me most when we’ve never spoken, can he?