Page 6 of The Law of Attraction

‘Since the pastry chef looks like her.’

I hold up a hand to the barman at the far side of the room. He knows my usual.

As I’m enjoying my cognac, Blondie returns with four plates, two on each arm. She grips a plate of cheesecake in her right hand, with another plate stacked behind it, balanced on her forearm. She holds out her arm in front of Marty. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m a chef, not a waitress. I’ve worked out how to carry this many plates but not how to put them down. Would you mind?’ Marty’s eyes run all over her as he takes the plate with cheesecake. His interest makes me want to tear his eyes from their sockets.

Blondie doesn’t seem to notice it. She turns to me and inclines her head to the plates she’s holding. ‘Your turn.’ The remaining three plates contain exquisite-looking desserts. Not cupcakes at all but fine cakes, decorated in what can only be described as art. Intricate sugar and chocolate art.

‘Opera with a Twist. Violet Passion. Red Silk. That’s my take on red velvet cake.’

I stare at the plates, honestly, a little wowed.

‘Well, help me out here.’

I feel my brows furrow as I take the Opera cake from her right arm. Gold dust decorates the plate and what looks like gold leaf has been crumbled into flakes and scattered around the top, making the thing look like a million dollars. Blondie puts the other two plates down on the table in front of me, shuffling my cognac aside to make room.

Nope, these are definitely not Granny’s homemade cupcakes.

‘They’re on the house. You can thank me by enjoying them. Enjoy the rest of your evening, gents.’ I notice now that her white uniform has been replaced by jeans and a blouse.

‘Where are you going?’ I ask, without knowing why.

‘To bed.’ The thought of Blondie in bed has me swallowing so hard, my Adam’s apple is practically grating my neck. ‘It’s been a long day, and yours is the last table for desserts, so I’m off duty. Plus, I have to be up at 4 a.m.’

I watch her leave. I’m still looking as the door to the restaurant closes behind her. And I’m still looking when she walks by the window and glances back at me.

3

DREW

Towel drying my hair, I move around my apartment, blissfully naked. Dropping the towel around my neck, I pour myself a black coffee and look at the three takeout boxes lined along the granite top of my kitchen counter. The woman made me take a doggy bag, for Christ’s sake. The thought makes me snicker. Drew Harrington took a doggy bag from a restaurant and actually headed home, alone, after dinner. It’s not like the coming-home-alone thing never happens. But it never happens the night after a big win in court.

Ignoring the white cartons, I take my caffeine hit to the wall of windows and watch the rising sun. But they’re leering at me. I can feel the calories goading me from the counter. The sugar and fat staring at the muscles of my back that I work damn hard to keep in good shape. I had tried the Opera cake in the restaurant. I’d eaten a quarter, and though I didn’t think I reacted to the most delectable thing I have ever tasted, something made Marty lean over the table and cut off a forkful. The remaining half of the Opera cake, along with the Violet Passion and Red Silk, were placed into cartons and bagged up for me to take away.

It left me no choice but to come home alone. It’s not like I could have taken my doggy bag to another bar.

I turn my back to the window and stare at the three boxes. I can almost taste the sweetness of Opera with a Twist. The bitter aftertaste of something, dark chocolate, perhaps, left in my mouth. My tongue slips along my lip as I remember the way the ganache dissolved: light, slick, delicious.

Screw it.

I grab a fork, pull up a stool at my breakfast bar, and open the lid of each carton. I start with Opera with a Twist. I need just one more mouthful. And whoa, Opera plus coffee. Now there’s a match made in obesity heaven.

I take every last piece from my fork, licking the sides; then I open my eyes to Red Silk.

White chocolate flakes – not flakes, something fancier than flakes – decorate the top of red waves of smooth, glossy icing. It really does look like silk. Suddenly, my mind is no longer on cake but the thought of Blondie in a red, silk lingerie set. Maybe something trimmed in black lace.

Jesus, Drew. It’s only a cake.

Cracking my neck and clearing my throat in an extremely masculine way, I slide my fork through the lingerie topping and into layers of red velvet cake and cream. The cream oozes as the steel cuts through the dessert. I’m fighting to keep my filthy mind on cake as I bring the fork to my mouth.

Damn. I was wrong. This isn’t just cream. It’s… more. White chocolate. Vanilla. I have no idea beyond how good it tastes on my tongue.

I wonder how Blondie would taste on my tongue? I wash away the thought immediately and turn my attention to the third and final cake. Violet Passion. But just whispering the name to myself has my member stirring. This. This is exactly why I need to get laid after a big win. Now I have excess testosterone that I’m going to have to take care of before I go to the office.

Violet Passion is cylindrical. A purple, shiny finish, as shiny as Red Silk, covers the entire cake. A simple yellow and purple flower sits in the middle. I hope that’s edible.

My fork glides through the cake like a hot knife through butter. As the round bursts, syrup spills through the layers of purple and yellow, the exotic scent of passion fruit striking my nose. Taking a piece of everything and pushing syrup onto my fork with my finger, I taste Violet Passion.

Sweetness. A sour kick. If a cake can be quirky, this is quirky. This is… this is Blondie. Those sweet dimples. That perfect smile. Her Britishisms.

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