Page 5 of Savage in the Sweets
“It’s actually really good,” I say. “And not as messy.”
“I’ll take it!” her friend says.
“Holy hell, Darlene—wait your damn turn!” the pineapple enthusiast snaps back. Then, with a wry grin, she says, “I’ll take them both.”
“What the hell, Fiona!” Darlene snaps.
The PTA squad is always good for sales and a laugh as there’s no shortage of witty banter between them.
“What goes good with a dry cabernet?” A lady named Beatrice winks as she holds up her travel coffee mug.
“I’d say this chocolate cupcake.”
“I’ll take it!”
More people trickle in, most notably Stacy Livingston, who’s taken to wearing belly shirts and hardly-there skirts after her divorce last year.
She refuses to even look at me because that’s just the kind of woman she is.
Countless cups of coffee and hot chocolate, eight cupcakes, fourteen chocolate-covered pretzels, twenty cake pops, and nine coffee cakes later, the board meeting is about to begin. I don’t bother to pack my things up because I know this meeting is likely to last long, and they’ll be coming back to the table during break.
Just as Irene steps to the podium to test the mic, the door flies open, and in comes a man in expensive-looking athletic wear that clings to his well—defined muscles.
Has a tracksuit ever looked so dapper on a man?
Gulp…
I do a double-take to make sure I’m not seeing things, because by the sugar of my shop—I’m not the only one packing treats tonight.
Mr. Tracksuit pushes his sunglasses up to rest on his tousled dark hair, revealing a pair of captivating steel-blue eyes.
A woman could get lost in those…
I inadvertently begin fanning myself, and when I realize how crazy I must look, I act like I’m trying to corral unruly strands of hair behind my ear.
Smooth move…
There are several things that are rather shocking about this development, the first being that there’s a sexy new man in Wilson’s Grove. The second is that his clothes are so stylish, despite being athletic wear. In fact, he could attend a board meeting and not look out of place or shoot a cover for GQ magazine.
Even though he looks perfect, it’s obvious he hasn’t put too much effort into his appearance, as Donald Setland surely has. He has a five o’clock shadow that I’d love to feel rub against my thighs, and his face is tinted pink like he’s just finished a workout.
He combs his hair as best he can with his fingers, and I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to have them cupping my rear. Heck, any part of me.
I squint, and when I see that he’s not wearing a wedding ring, I suddenly feel the need to stand up straighter, push my chest out a bit, and bite my lip a little.
Men love that.
He glares daggers back at me.
I look around to see who he might be directing his aggression toward, but everyone else has taken their seat. There’s just little old me behind the concession stand.
I downcast my gaze, rearranging the remaining treats as not to subject myself to the man’s further judgment.
Surely those steel-blue eyes couldn’t have been directed toward me. I’ve never met the guy, and I certainly remember meeting a man like him.
Plus, I know I’m easy on the eyes, or rather, delightful to look at to some.
I’m not arrogant, and I know it’s possible he simply isn’t into my type, but still, those were loathing eyes he cast at me.
