Fake It Till You Bake It(2)

“But what about—”

“We can talk about it next week. Love you.” Donovan ended the call and dropped his head into his hands. He needed a stiff drink. But one wasn’t available at the moment. Which left the next best option.

A cupcake.

A Sugar Blitz cupcake could always be counted on to make things better. Nicholas, the best baker in the group and the one who loved tinkering with new recipes, had been experimenting and put his newest flavor—apple crumble—on sale that morning. Donovan had meant to try one, but he’d worked through his lunch hour, staring at numbers that didn’t get any better no matter how many ways he added them up.

He pushed away from his oversized oak desk and headed to the front of the building. The walk down the hall was a quick one. As he did each time he entered the storefront, he stopped for a second to inhale the intoxicating mixture of vanilla, chocolate, and buttercream frosting that filled the air. No other place in San Diego smelled as good, he was positive.

He tried not to notice how not busy the store was. A couple of the tables toward the back were occupied, but he’d always envisioned the bakery full of customers, all stuffing their faces with his cupcakes. Dreams could still come true, he supposed. No, they would come true.

He pushed in a chair at one table, grabbed an errant wrapper off the floor, and tossed it into the trash. He glanced around. No imperfections would thrive on his watch. But nothing else caught his eye. A keen sense of satisfaction swept through him. Everything was perfect again. Well, except for the lack of customers. And just like that, his shoulders tensed up.

He snaked his way around the tables and headed for the counter. He would be his own customer, damn it, and pay, instead of filching the product.

At least there were a couple of customers in line ahead of him eyeing the cupcake selection. Not a long line, but beggars couldn’t be choosers and all that jazz. Except he’d never been good at setting his expectations low. He established goals, put in the work, and met them.

He settled in to wait, his mind turning to possible solutions. Maybe they needed to run a sale, do some more advertising …

“Girl, why do you come here?” the woman in front of him said to her companion.

Donovan’s thoughts came to a screeching halt. Here? As in here? As in Sugar Blitz? As in the place he’d poured blood, sweat, and a hell of a lot of money into?

She’d said it in the bougiest tone he’d ever heard. Or maybe he was being sensitive. Maybe she’d said it in a completely neutral tone, and he needed to chill.

Donovan deliberately relaxed his shoulders and studied his newfound nemesis. Or at least the part of her he could see—namely, her back.

Cupcake Shop Critic was dressed casually in a red jumpsuit, but there were cheap jumpsuits you got off the clearance rack at Ross and expensive-looking jumpsuits like the one she was wearing. The garment was made of the finest raw silk that, if he were the fanciful type, he would say flowed like water across her body. A woman used to the finer things in life. He’d become accustomed to the finer things over the past eight years, but that still left twenty-two years of his life in which he’d shopped off those same clearance racks. The sleeveless outfit showcased toned arms and did amazing things for her ass. Not so much for her mouth, which was still running a mile a minute.

The other woman said something, but her voice didn’t carry like her friend’s. Too bad.

Donovan inched a little closer. He shouldn’t be eavesdropping. It was rude and immature. And he tried to never be rude and immature. Practical and demanding, maybe—okay, always—but rude and immature, no. But she was talking about his pride and joy. And being loud about it.

“What is up with this ambiance?”

Ambiance? What the fuck was wrong with the ambiance? Who the hell used the word “ambiance” in normal, everyday conversation? Donovan took a quick survey of the space, although he knew every inch by heart. Sunlight streamed in through the wall-length windows. They’d gone with a modern, industrial look. Clean lines. Concrete floors, exposed ductwork, original brickwork. Modern splashes of color adorned the white walls. The interior designer he’d spent a fortune on assured him it was the latest and greatest design concept. The colorful frosting on the cupcakes would pop against the white and silver that dominated the area. Everything was neat and clean, just the way he liked it.

“It’s so…”

So what? Bomb? Fire? Lit? Awesome? The only acceptable answers.

“Stale,” she finally said, her dismissive tone making his insides curl in horror the same way it did whenever anyone suggested using carob instead of chocolate.

He should let it go. He was in a bad mood, and nothing good could come from confronting a woman who was entitled to her own opinion. Even when she was wrong.

“Stale, probably like the cupcakes,” she added.

“Excuse me.” Fuck letting it go. Nobody called his cupcakes stale. “Excuse me,” he repeated, maybe a little too loudly given the way the two women jumped in unison and whirled to face him.

Shit. He forgot what he was about to say. The critic was beautiful. Stunning, actually. Skin the color of chestnut. A heart-shaped face. He was pretty sure he’d never noticed eyebrows before, but hers were perfect, arched flawlessly over large eyes that were the color of his favorite dark chocolate chips. Hell, her whole face was perfect. High cheekbones. Full, lush lips. She looked like she’d stepped off a runway. His gaze slipped lower. No, she was too short for that line of work. The black heels added at least four inches to her height. He lifted his head.