Logan

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The aroma of excellent coffee, bacon, and fresh bread permeate the air around me. The deli is already starting to get busy. Bruno is hustling behind the counter, and it’s not even seven in the morning.

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I grumble in irritation as the guy in front of me presses his cell to his ear and starts talking obnoxiously loud. His wrinkled shirt makes me smooth my crisp one down and tuck it a little tighter into my belted jeans.

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I hate lines. I hate the haphazardly dressed people staring at their phones or pompously bragging about their latest conquests on calls no one else wants to hear. And I especially hate that the sandwiches here are so damn good they make all other food options unworthy of consumption.

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I glance at my watch to double check the time even though I’m never late for anything—ever. And sure enough, it’s only six-twenty. I open my place at eight but I like to be there by seven each morning. It’s my routine and I like routine.

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There are four people in line in front of me, and a woman at the counter with six big bakery boxes stacked in her arms. She hands them over the counter and Bruno, smiling widely, accepts them. A moment later he hands over some cash. Now it’s the woman’s turn to smile. And it’s quite the smile, dazzling actually, especially with those two dimples.

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Dressed in a red, double-button peacoat, black skirt, knit tights, and red Mary Janes, she almost looks like a doll. She’s on the plump side, but it suits her. 

 

I watch her curiously as she counts the money while walking toward me. She’s not paying attention to where she’s going. I shake my head. At least it’s not a phone screen she’s glued to.

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I move to the side so we don’t collide, but then she’s headed straight for a twirling rack of chips, so I reach out and block her.

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“Watch where you’re going,” I grouse. She blinks up at me. Twin pink spots form on her dimpled cheeks as she notices the chips on the spinning rack. Her round face has a dewy glow and her mouth, which is made for fantasies, bows in surprise.

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“Oops!” She shoves the cash into her coat pocket. “Thank you.” Her voice is soft and sweet, filled with a hint of excitement and dammit if she doesn’t smell as sweet as she looks. “I’m a bit distracted today,” she says. “I made my first sale to an actual establishment.”

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Ignoring the dip in my gut as her hazel eyes lock onto mine, I grunt in response.

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“Just be more careful,” I add so I’m not just staring into her eyes.

She holds up two fingers like a Girl Scout. “Promise.”

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“Good girl.” I don’t know where the words come from but the flare of heat in her eyes is undeniable. And when she bites that sexy lip, a zing shoots through me.

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It’s just hunger, I tell myself and move up in the line. I don’t look behind me even though the urge is strong. I swore off women after the last one tried to hijack my business, claiming it was half hers after we split because when I was playing with the names Scrub Man and Clean Daddy, she’d said, “You’re way more of a dirty daddy if you ask me.” And Scrubbing Daddy was born.

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“Excuse me?”

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The soft voice of the woman rips me from my Evil Ex reverie and I turn. She touches my arm and warmth rushes to the spot. I look down at her delicate hand, with nails painted in shell pink, and grunt like a bloody monosyllabic caveman. As I breathe in the scent of vanilla and something else buttery and sweet, my eyes find her face.

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“I always bring an extra in case any get damaged during delivery. And none did.”

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I blink at her, my eyes dropping to her lips as if watching them will clear up what the hell she’s talking about. But damn, now that I’m staring at them, I’m only thinking about how they’d feel against mine.

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“Normally I’d give it to the kid playing guitar outside but he’s not here today.” She shoves a small square box into my hands. “So I’d like you to have it. Consider it a reward for rescuing me from an embarrassing display of clumsiness.”

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I unglue my eyes from her plump bottom lip to look down at the box. “What’s this?” I ask, sounding grumpier than I should, having just been handed a gift.

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“It’s a wild strawberry cupcake, silly.”

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“Silly?” I question with an arched brow. When she says nothing, just blushes again, I look past the sticker that says Make Every Day a Holly Day, and through the little plastic window on the top of the box.

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Nestled inside is the fanciest cupcake I’ve ever seen. It’s got pink frosting dotted with tiny wild strawberries. Each of the tiny strawberries has been dipped in chocolate ganache.

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“I don’t eat sugar,” I say, trying to shove it back at her, annoyed at the temptation of both the cupcake and her kissable lips.

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She cocks her head to the side, looking at me as if I’d told her I have a terminal illness. “That’s a shame.”

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“Why are you looking at me like that?” I question and she pats my arm, her smile as warm as her eyes.

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“Life’s too short not to enjoy the good stuff.”

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I frown and look back down at the box. It does look good. Damn good. But the good stuff has another meaning and it’s rapidly forming in my head as I look up and focus on her pretty eyes.

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“Take it. And if you want to avoid joy, give it to someone else. I’m sure you know someone else who needs some.”

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“Some?” My mind instantly heads further down its dirty path. I apparently need some and bad, because for the first time in a long time I can’t control the trajectory of my thoughts.

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I’m standing there more than a little off kilter and she pats my arm again.

“Thanks again for the rescue.”

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I watch her as she walks off, her round ass swaying in perfect rhythm to the beat of my heart. Glug, glug, glug.

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The man behind me clears his throat, prompting me to move forward for my turn and I have to tear my eyes from the door she’s just walked out of to move up to the counter.

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I think I may have just been put under a spell by a cupcake sorceress.