Sugar and Spice Read online

  Sugar & Spice

  and all things nice. . .

  Shandi Boyes

  Edited by

  Mountains Wanted Publishing

  Illustrated by

  SSB Designs

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2018 by Shandi Boyes

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Editing: Mountains Wanted Publishing

  Cover Design: SSB Designs

  Also by Shandi Boyes

  Enigma Series - Steamy Contemporary Romance

  Enigma of Life - (Isaac)

  Unraveling an Enigma - (Isaac)

  Enigma: The Mystery Unmasked - (Isaac)

  Enigma: The Final Chapter - (Isaac)

  Beneath the Secrets - (Hugo - Part 1)

  Beneath the Sheets - (Hugo Conclusion)

  Spy Thy Neighbor (Hunter - standalone)

  The Opposite Effect - (Brax & Clara)

  I Married a Mob Boss - (Rico - Nikolai’s Brother)

  Second Shot (Hawke’s Story)

  The Way We Are (Ryan Pt 1)

  The Way We Were (Ryan Pt 2)

  Sugar and Spice (Cormack)

  Perception Series - New Adult Romance

  Perception of Life - (Noah & Emily)

  Reality of Life - (Conclusion of Noah & Emily)

  Fight of Life - (Jacob - standalone)

  Player of Life - (Nick - standalone)

  Beats of Life - (Slater - standalone)

  Wrapped Up With Rise Up (Novella)

  Bound Series - Steamy Romance & slight BDSM

  Chains (Marcus and Cleo)

  Links (Marcus and Cleo)

  Bound (Marcus and Cleo)

  Restrained (Marcus and Cleo)

  Russian Mob Chronicles

  Nikolai: A Mafia Prince Romance

  Nikolai: Taking Back What’s Mine

  Nikolai: What’s Left of Me

  COMING SOON:

  Lady In Waiting (Regan)

  Psycho (Dexter)

  Contents

  1. Harlow

  2. Cormack

  3. Harlow

  4. Harlow

  5. Cormack

  6. Harlow

  7. Cormack

  8. Cormack

  9. Harlow

  10. Cormack

  11. Harlow

  12. Cormack

  13. Cormack

  14. Harlow

  15. Harlow

  16. Cormack

  17. Harlow

  18. Cormack

  19. Harlow

  20. Cormack

  21. Harlow

  22. Cormack

  23. Harlow

  24. Harlow

  25. Harlow

  26. Cormack

  27. Harlow

  28. Cormack

  29. Harlow

  30. Harlow

  31. Harlow

  32. Harlow

  33. Harlow

  34. Cormack

  35. Harlow

  36. Cormack

  37. Harlow

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Also by Shandi Boyes

  Dedication

  To Bobby,

  This is all your fault.

  Shandi xx

  Chapter One

  Harlow

  “No, it’s fine, really. I understand.”

  I don’t, but what more can I say? My fourth employee of the month just up and quit. At least her excuse was more plausible than her predecessors’.

  “My sister had a baby this morning.”

  I don’t know about you, but I thought you had at least a few months’ notice for that sort of event. I guess times have changed? My ovaries did shrivel up and die months ago—right alongside my libido—so who am I to judge?

  “Can you still make your shift tomorrow morning? Renee called in sick earlier today, so I don’t have other bakers available.” My voice is a cross between hopeful and angry.

  I’m not mad at the loss of staff—Fallon was a shit employee—I’m just frustrated by her lack of respect. My bakery may not be the mecca it once was, but without staff to serve customers, I’ll descend even deeper into the sinkhole I’ve tried to ignore the past six months. I’m not asking for the two weeks’ notice I’m entitled to, but I need more than two measly minutes.

  “Umm. . .”

  A huff spills from my lips. “I’ll have your final pay wired into your account later this week.”

  “You’re the best, Harlow! Thank you so much.” Fallon’s high tone divulges she missed my anger.

  Not giving me the chance to respond, not that I was going to, Fallon disconnects our call. I place the phone receiver onto its console before slouching in my creaky office chair. I try to ignore the obvious, but I can’t disregard them for a second longer. Not only is my heart rate spiked, so is the number of overdue bills on my desk. I’m literally weeks from financial decapitation.

  Before venture capitalists made Ravenshoe’s land value skyrocket, my bakery was thriving. It was never going to be a multi-million dollar empire, but it had a regular, steady income, capable employees, and a slew of customers. The customers still come, but they, just like me, don’t have the means to purchase non-essential items. Thank god true-blooded Americans haven’t given up their love of caffeine, or I would have closed my doors months ago.

  With my determination wilting, my eyes drift to the thick white envelope a slick-grinned man handed me this morning. An easy way out of my predicament is hidden in that envelope. The amount cited on the transfer of assets isn’t just triple what my property is worth; it’s more money than I’ve ever seen. But no matter how generous the offer is, I can’t accept it. This bakery has been in my family for decades. Before I took over the reins, it belonged to my great aunt. Treasured family memories are embedded deep in its core. That makes it invaluable. I’ll never sell it. Not in a trillion years.

  Recognizing that unwelcomed disappointment won’t get me anywhere fast, I pull up my sleeves and get to work—literally. I have an order for six dozen cupcakes due first thing tomorrow morning. At four dollars a pop, I can’t afford to leave the order unfilled. That is more than we cleared in sales today alone. And with Fallon calling it quits, that bequeaths the task to me. I’m the only baker left with the skills capable of getting the job done.

  After pushing back from my desk, I flick on the coffee regulator I only just switched off, then head into the kitchen. Harlow’s Scrumptious Haven doesn’t look very scrumptious from this angle. The compact space is spotlessly clean, but the oven, countertops, and electronic appliances are well overdue for an upgrade. Only a few short months ago, I was gathering quotes to have them replaced. Now, all my savings have been depleted paying my staff’s salaries. Without employees, I won’t have any products to sell, but without the right equipment, I can’t produce quality products. It truly is a lose-lose situation.

  “But at least it’s homey,” I murmur to myself.

  A few minutes later, I stop balancing packets of flour on my chest when a distinct bell chimes through my ears. I glare at the main entrance door of the bakery, certain I locked up hours ago. Sprinkles of flour dust my fitted Polly-knitted skirt when I dump the commercial-sized sachets onto the counter before making my way to the hub of my store.

  “I’m sorry, we’re closed,” I advise my unexpected caller, my tone shocked.

  Although the streetlights illuminate the bakery floor, the empty cabinets should alert patrons that the shop is closed, not to mention the late hour.

  “If you come back in the morning, I’ll
have a fresh range of scrumptious products for you to sample. . .”

  My words trail off when my guest spins on his heels to face me. If my tongue weren’t laden with the excessive amount of sugar I consumed for dinner, it’d be hanging out of my mouth. This man. . . this man. . . I don’t have a word to describe this man. I have many.

  A chiseled chin hidden by the stubble of a hard day, glistening blue irises unconcealed by thick lashes, and blond hair that is well-groomed but free of products, that is what reflects back at me. Add those yummy elements to a fit body presented in glorious detail by a well-fitted suit and pristine shoes, and you’ve got an overall package that has my mouth drying up and my eyes going crazy.

  Spotting my uncontrolled gawk, the man’s lips tug high, making them even more enviable. If he weren’t studying me just as closely, I’d be embarrassed he busted me for ogling him. Mercifully, I’ve never been referred to as shy.

  When the stranger spans the distance between us, I eyeball him without shame. Even the way he walks is sexy. His strides are long and effortless, revealing the cut of his suit isn’t the only thing enhancing his god-crafted body. Ravenshoe is known for its quality of men, but this man deserves his own unique category. One for him and him only. He’s not just handsome; he’s downright sexy.

  When he stops to stand in front of me, a spicy scent lingers into my nostrils, mixing the sugary taste on my lips with an equally enticing palate.

  “Cormack.”

  A platinum cufflink on a crisp white sleeve becomes exposed when he holds out his hand in greeting. I accept his gesture, forgetting my hands are gritty from the bags of flour I was wrangling before being graced with his presence. The contrast between my skin and his is evident, but I maintain my cool cat composure. I interact with hunky builders and tradesmen on a regular basis, so you can be assured I’m quite familiar with handling eye-catching men. Although none have ever been as stunning as this one.

  “Harlow. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cormack.” I withdraw from his grasp, albeit reluctantly.

  A grin furls on my lips when I notice he’s accidentally dusted his thigh with a bit of flour. If he weren’t wearing a midnight black suit, the powder could be overlooked, but since I am as pretentious about messes as I am about wanting my bakery’s glory days to return, I point to the offending product.

  “You’ve got a little flour on you,” I choke out. I’m not stammering because my mouth feels like the Sahara Desert on the hottest day of the year. It is from his hand brushing away the powder with a quick sweep.

  I’m notorious for stalking Instagram in my spare time. I’m not looking for a date, merely inspiration for the numerous romance books I gobble up every week. I’ve found many suitable book-boyfriend candidates in my daily—sometimes multiple times a day—searches. Handsome men with straight teeth, blemish-free faces, and tight, fit bodies, aren’t hard to come by, but rarely do I discover one who ticks all my boxes. I’m not fussy; I am an everyday standard American mid-twenties romance lover extraordinaire. There is just one difference: I don’t just want junk in the trunk, I want it in the hood as well.

  This man has both. Not only are the creases in his trousers ineffective at hiding the swell of his crotch, but they showcase every perfect asset of his backside as well. My aunt thought a mirrored wall would give the bakery an illusion of space. She had no idea.

  Is it possible to fall in love at first sight? If so, I’ve fallen head over heels in love.

  Not with this man—with his tailor!

  “Sorry,” I mumble when a deep, penetrating voice breaks through the padded-cell silence surrounding me. “Did you say something?”

  Cormack’s smile exposes the pegs of his perfectly straight teeth. I didn’t need an in-depth cavity search of his mouth to confirm he ticks every box in my ultimate book boyfriend list, though. His impeccably tailored suit, exceedingly shiny shoes, and zesty scent filled the gaps my lust-fired brain forgot to inspect. He’s not a ten out of a ten. He’s an eleven.

  “My order? I was wondering if I could pick it up it this evening instead of tomorrow morning?” Chocolate dribbled on strawberries, honey smothering oats, or a dash of vanilla in a skinny chai latte—that is how heavenly smooth his voice is.

  “Your order?” I repeat, somewhat lost between a lust-crazed idiot and a half-capable business woman.

  My daft response can be easily excused. Excluding the one-off birthday or wedding cake requests, my customers are generally in and out in under ten minutes. And with sugary treats at the bottom of the totem pole when it comes to necessities, even those visits are becoming few and far between.

  Just as Cormack nods his head, the business side of my brain finally kicks into gear. “Oh. . . you’re Marshmallow Man?”

  I try to iron out the immaturity in my tone, but I’m not fast enough. “When Fallon jotted down your order, she forgot to ask for contact details. Since you requested marshmallow fondue, we named you ‘Marshmallow Man.’ It was all in fun. You don’t look like a marshmallow—not at all. I’d be surprised to find an ounce of fat on you. Not with a body like that—all lean and muscular. Not a single lump to be found. Well, except in critically acclaimed areas . . .”

  I’m rambling. Not an I’m such a cutie-pie ramble, but an I am as idiotic as I feel ramble.

  Pretending I haven’t noticed an amused smile cracking onto Cormack’s lips, I straighten my spine and assert a professional façade. “Anyhoo, your cakes aren’t ready.”

  My laidback tone doesn’t match my business-like stance. Once again, my response can’t be helped. Any hope I have of sounding professional is destroyed by Cormack’s ravishing grin. He has the I’m going to cause you a whole heap of trouble, but in a way you’ll never see it coming smile down pat. It makes me both wary and excited. I love a challenge, and he appears as challenging as I could get. He makes me want to exercise the non-business side of my brain, which is so unfit from lack of use the past two years, our little tussle has already left me breathless.

  If I weren’t already suspicious of Cormack’s wealth, his quick check of the time leaves no doubt. Either Scott upped the ante on the fake Rolexes he sells at the corner of my bakery for twenty dollars a pop, or this man is loaded.

  “It’s past nine,” Cormack advises, as if I am unaware of the time.

  “Uh-huh, it sure is.” My eyes stray to the massive clock filling the silence with its loud clangs. “We here at Harlow’s Scrumptious Haven pride ourselves on ensuring our customers receive the highest quality products. If that means I need to stay on site until 3 AM to produce the freshest and most scrumptious cupcakes you’ve ever eaten, that is what I’ll do.”

  The first half of my statement is full of pride and certainty. The last half sounds like my voice when I have to book a pap smear. I arrived at work at 3 AM this morning. I don’t want to be here anymore than I wish I hadn’t kicked off my shoes nearly two hours ago. I’m not short, but my lack of heels has left me a good four to five inches shorter than the man smiling at me like I just told him his order is free. It isn’t. I have until 8 AM tomorrow to fulfill his order because “it’s on time or it’s free” is our motto.

  “You’ll have your cupcakes, but not until the time Fallon promised. . .” I stop talking as my worry makes itself known. “She did give you a time for pick up, didn’t she?”

  A strand of platinum blond hair falls in front of Cormack’s bright blue eyes when he briefly nods. “Yes, she did.”

  Although his reply seems hesitant, I murmur, “Oh, thank god. I was beginning to wonder if I had hired a dimwit with half a brain.”

  Cormack unleashes his deadliest weapon when a wicked smirk crosses his face. He either finds me amusing or thinks I’m a twit. I really hope it isn’t the latter.

  “Teething issues?” The sass in his tone puts my worry to rest.

  “Ah. . . if the issues stem from a ninety-year-old geriatric with a faulty pacemaker and glass eye, then yeah, we could go with teething issues.” My reply reflec
ts more on my outdated kitchen than crappy employees, but since it is the main source of my frustration, I work it into our discussion.

  When Cormack throws his head back and laughs, the lack of libido I informed you of earlier packs up and leaves town. I let out a yearning sigh, mesmerized by the raw sexuality of his mannish chuckle. It is gruff yet smooth, two usually contradicting features perfectly blended like sugar and butter.

  Cormack uses his laughter to study me more closely. He watches me through hooded lids, his lengthy perusal more attentive than carefree. His attention causes my stomach to somersault, but not in a bad way. It is flighty and free, as disentangled as the rope circling my heart.

  When his eyes return to my face, I splay my hands across my hips and arch a brow, acting annoyed by his impish study of my body. I’m not annoyed, though—I’m far from it. I’m just praying he won’t see the lust in my eyes caused by his prolonged stare. I am a single woman living in the twenty-first century. I’ve been ogled in more ways than you can imagine. But this is the first stare to award me with excited butterflies rather than itchy hives.

  Cormack doesn’t buy my attempt to act coy. His sexy grin triples as his eyes glimmer with as much desire as mine. For every second he silently goads me, the curvier his lips become. His suit should come with a warning label: only here to distract you from the defiant man beneath the expensive threads.