Page 20 of Savage in the Sweets
Jacob’s mother scoops him up in a towel, mouthing the words “thank you” to the boy’s savior as tears glisten in her eyes. Then she leads her son away.
Now, the mothers are eyeing him with reverence, the wariness they had from his son’s ill comment forgotten.
In fact, they’ve all turned into Stacy clones, twirling their hair and sucking in their guts, looking at him with full-on lust.
I can’t say I blame them. It’s a dangerous thing when a man’s looks match his extreme arrogance. It makes a woman lose her good sense.
“Thank God you were there!” a mother says, and another adds, “You’re a hero!”
Even Carolyn is fawning over him, and she’s the Savage Sisters’ ride or die, as they call it.
Mr. Tracksuit’s sudden popularity comes with the quick and sudden realization that these women are far less likely to support me with any complaint I make against him or his business to the school board. They’ll chuckle, brush it off, and just say that it was just a funny misunderstanding.
I’ve lost the only edge I had, and he knows this. His eyes tell me as much with their cold, piercing stare.
If I’m gonna get Mr. Tracksuit to retract his statements made toward me, I’m gonna have to try a different approach.
Lacy
Monday has a bad reputation.It’s often considered the worst day of the week. Legions of memes are dedicated to its disparagement.
And today, it’s living up to its reputation.
I opened the shop early, brewing gallons of coffee and baking fresh biscotti for the regulars.
The donuts don’t even make it into the display cases, and at one point, the line is well out the door.
It’s exhausting, but I’m thankful I still have customers.
Once the rush dies down, I initiate: Operation Sweet Seduction.
The plan first manifested Saturday evening as I was crying into a bowl of chocolate ice cream.
If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em is basically the philosophy behind it.
My yoga pants and tee-shirt fall to the floor, replaced with barely-there running shorts and a sporty pushup bra. Then I apply a fresh coat of makeup, switching to a pink lip gloss that makes my lips pop and lash-lengthening mascara.
Time to join the gym.
There’s no denying that Mr. Tracksuit was checking me out at the party, so why not lean into it?
I’m not going to sleep with him, though I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it. In great detail. My fantasies alternate between strangling him and riding his face cowgirl style.
Come to think of it, that’d be a great way to smother him.
I shake the thought from my head and try to refocus on the mission at hand.
The plan basically consists of:
-look hot
-get him to notice me
-offer to send business his way in exchange for him going softer on my shop
Wilson’s Grove is small, and although the school might be salivating on its knees for him, my roots run deep in the community. If he’s a smart man, he’ll see the benefits of working with me and not against me.
But I’m not stopping there. I fully intend on giving this man a sweet tooth. He can barely keep from ogling me as it is, and I’ve barely turned on the heat.
