Page 1 of The Biker and the Baker
Chapter 1
Pia
“Those bikers arenothappy that we’re out of calzones,” Marissa, one of the servers here at Cookie’s Treat says as she enters the kitchen with a loaded tray of dirty cups and dishes, the door swinging back and forth behind her. “They said they rode here from Boulder on word that we sold the best calzones in Denver, only for us to tell them we’re out.”
“We’re outbecausewe sell the best calzones,” I say, sliding a tray of mint bars into the refrigerator. “Did you tell them that?”
“Yep.” Marissa twists her lips and unloads the tray over by the sink. “They’re insisting they won’t leave until we serve the calzones they rode here for. They’re willing to wait.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.”
At that, the entire kitchen staff looks to me, awaiting my verdict. It’s almost quitting hours. We just got done prepping for tomorrow and are about to start cleaning up. But bikers are tricky. Cookie, my boss, is especially partial toward them. This decision is up to me, the Pastry Chef, but I also have to think about what Cookie would have done if she were here.
With a sigh, I tell Marissa, “Get their orders. Find out if they want singles or a large to share.” To the others, “Start prepping.”
No one carps or grumbles. Working overtime is never a preference, of course, but we’re here at Cookie’s Treat because we love what we do. Especially me.
Cookie’s Treat is a pastry and lunch cafe that looks like something straight out of a storybook. It’s probably the most colorful, delightful, cutesy food spot in this region. Lots of pink, purple, yellow, and mint-green, with cupcake chairs and cookie tables. It’s magical, utopic, and smells like heaven. Walk in, and you’ll never want to leave.
Since its grand opening, Iknewthis was where I was meant to be, and after two years of relentless applications, I was finally hired.
“You’ve applied for over two years straight. Are you persistent by nature or do you just really want to work here?” Cookie had asked me in the job interview.
“The latter,” I’d replied without hesitation. “This is where I belong. I’ve been in love with this place since the grand opening. I am what you're looking for. Give me a chance and I’ll prove it.”
She did. And I’ve done my damnedest to make sure she never regrets that decision. Not that I have to try too hard, seeing as I was freakingmade for this job. Pastry Chef at Cookie’s Treat, with my own handpicked kitchen team. What else could I ask for?
So, in moments like these, I do what Cookie would have done. Happy boss, happy work environment, and we all get to keep our fabulous jobs for another day.
With reluctant cheerfulness and enthusiasm, we work overtime to accommodate the bikers with freshly baked calzones. After all, they drove this far to experience the best damn calzones in Denver.
A few hours later, Eloise—my baker—and I are the last to leave. Eloise was the first person I brought in when Cookie extended me the privilege to bring in my own team. We met over seven years ago when I went to France for culinary school. She’s the queen of all things cake.
According to Cookie, cake sales have gone through the roof since bringing Eloise on, and the demand for birthday and wedding cakes are so great that there’s a three-month waiting period.
“Thanks to you, I will have to make it up to Derek for canceling date night,” Eloise chides me through her thick French accent as we exit the kitchen.
“Of course, blameme. Even though I distinctly remember shooing you out because you weren’t needed for the calzones.” I slide my gaze to her and arch a brow. “If you really wanted to go out with Derek tonight, you would’ve gone.”
She groans. “Oh, I love that man, but I hate going out. Why can’t we just ‘Netflix and chill’, as you Americans say it.”
“Thentell himthat.” I laugh and shake my head. “Tell him you’d rather hang out with him on the couch than sit across from each other at a table in a restaurant. Just be open and honest about your feelings.”
“But he is sosensitive,” she whines. “He thinks everything I say is an attack.”
“Well, no communication, no progress,” I say. “Up to you. You can’t hide behind my overtime calls forever.”
Pushing the front door open, I hold it open and let Eloise go out before me.
Onyx, Cookie’s nephew, is propped against a streetlight on the curb, puffing smoke from a blunt, waiting for us.
“Shit’s sake,” he grumbles around a blow of smoke. “Thought you two were never gonna get the hell up outta there.”
Onyx is in charge of a lot around here. Including locking up and securing the premises each evening. We see him far more than we see Cookie. He doesn’t exactly have a title, but if he did it would be COO. The others call him “boss,” but I refuse to. I’m sure he’s miffed he had to wait longer than usual, but screw him. He’s an ass.
Remember when I said I applied to Cookie’s Treat for two years straight? This sonuvabitch is why. He’d interviewed me three times and never hired me. With him, skills and consummate expertise didn’t matter. Looks and sex appeal did. And apparently, I ticked none of his boxes.
The staff at Cookie’s Treat are all female and all bombshells. No joke. I’m talking perfect tits and asses, size six and under, high cheekbones, big bright eyes, and modelesque features. But I’m a size sixteen, Indian—no big blue eyes here—and a bit too real for Onyx. Rather than giggly and easy—the way he prefers them.
