Page 17 of Savage in the Sweets
Michael exhales nervously. “When I said I wanted to get laid with April, I didn’t mean I was going to kill her. I meant I wanted to sleep with her.”
Lacy, Stephanie, and at least three mothers are looking at Michael in shock. This is gonna be one hell of a situation to walk back.
“He means sleepover,” I finally blurt out, unable to come up with anything better. “Michael has been interested in a sleepover with some of his classmates.”
Michael looks at me like I’m an idiot. “That’s what I said, Dad!”
The mothers are all amused. Thankfully, they do nothing to make Michael feel embarrassed.
But they have no qualms making me feel awkward.
“So, when your father has his own sleepovers, is that what he calls it?” the salacious redheaded mom says, waggling her brow at me. “Getting laid?”
“No, my father never gets laid, but the guys at the gym do all the time. They have so many sleepovers, at least—”
“Okay, son, time to get in the water!” I pick Michael up. “Say goodbye to the nice ladies.”
Michael waves his hand at them as I dash him to the lake.
How the hell am I ever going to explain my way out of this?
Lacy
You know that saying: turn lemons into lemonade? Well, I took lemons and turned them into lemon drops.
Actually, I didn’t even do any of the work. It was Mr. Tracksuit and his adorable son that dug me out of the hole I was in.
The moment Michael talked about ‘getting laid’ in front of a handful of mothers whose children attend Wilson’s Grove Elementary, he lost the moral high ground, giving me just the ammunition I need to approach Mr. Tracksuit and force him to lay off the heavy campaign against Savage Sweets.
Not only am I going to insist he back off, but I’m also going to strong-arm him into retracting his previous statement. And if he doesn’t… well, he’s going to have a lot of explaining to do in front of the next school board meeting.
I gaze over at the smug asshole in the lake who thinks he can ostracize me from my town, donning my most menacing gaze in case he so happens to glance in my direction.
Which has definitely happened more times than he’d like. To escalate his obvious fascination with me, I’ve thrown a few salacious comments into our interactions, topping it off with a frosting lick that could melt a man.
I have no idea how Michael overheard that bit about getting laid at his father’s gym, but I’m pretty sure Mr. Tracksuit would never say anything so vulgar, so it must have been one of his muscle-headed patrons.
Stacy sure is drinking him in from afar, overdoing it if you ask me. I never did like how some girls twirl their hair and giggle around grown men. I’m a frosting licker because when I have something to say, I get the message across.
“Aunt Lacy, come in the water with us!” April enthuses.
I take off my shorts, kick my sandals off, and head toward the lake to the freezing cold water with April and a handful of her friends. I stick close to shore because the moms are gossiping and enjoying time without their children. Which is fine with me. Children are sometimes better than adults.
Actually, let me correct myself: children are always better than adults.
As soon as Michael sees us, he comes doggy paddling over, to Mr. Tracksuit’s obvious consternation.
And as much as I’d rather not have to deal with his condescending glares and brazen sneers, I have to admit, I don’t mind the view.
Not one bit.
Without a layer of clothes between my eyes and his torso, his insults seem to fall away, and the intense loathing I feel at the very sight of him melts, replaced by wide-eyed fascination.
This man doesn’t just own a gym—he lives in one if his pristine physique gives any indication.
Perfectly proportioned, Mr. Tracksuit is a six-foot-whatever wall of lean, chiseled muscle that could only come from a strict regimen of all work and no play.
This man wasn’t kidding when he said he hated sugar.
