Sugar Rush

Book 0: Cupcake Club

by Donna Kauffman

Genres: Small Town & Rural; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Devil's Food...Angel Cake...Red Velvet...Praline Crunch...Lemon Chiffon... How's a woman to choose?Luckily, the members of the Cupcake Club are about to taste it all.... When baker extraordinaire Leilani Trusdale left the bustle of New York City for Georgia's sleepy Sugarberry Island, she didn't expect her past to follow. Yet suddenly, her former boss, Baxter Dunne, aka Chef Hot Cakes, the man who taught her everything pastry, wants to film his hit cooking show in her tiny cupcakery. The same Chef Hot Cakes whose molten chocolate-brown eyes and sexy British accent made Lani's mouth water and her cheeks blush the color of raspberry filling - stirring all kinds of kitchen gossip, much of which Lani wished was true.... Lani's friends are convinced that this time around, Baxter is the missing ingredient in her recipe for happiness. But convincing Lani will be a job for Baxter himself. And he'll need more than black velvet frosting to sweeten the deal....

Release date: January 25, 2013

Publisher: Audible Studios

Print pages: 336

Sample

It was the cupcakes that saved her.

Leilani Trusdale thought about that as she carefully extracted the center from the final black forest cupcake, then set the corer aside and picked up the pastry bag of raspberry truffle filling. She breathed in the mingled scents of dark chocolate and sweet berries. It was inspiring, really, how much power a single, sweet cup of baked deliciousness could wield. Cupcake salvation.

Lani shifted the tip into position. “So, it’s all on you, my tasty little friends. Work your magic. Heal me now.” She focused intently—fiercely, even—on her way to piping the precise amount of filling into each and every one of the one hundred and fifty-six cupcakes that lined the racks on the stainless steel worktable in front of her—which was totally unnecessary. The fierce focusing, not the filling. She could fill a table of cupcakes blindfolded. In her sleep. With one hand tied behind her back. Possibly on one foot. She’d never done it, but she’d take the bet.

Of course, there were other things she’d never done before—big things, important things—that she’d also taken the bet on. And those bets had all paid off. Every last one. So, she should feel confident, right? About this most recent bet. This huge, ridiculous gamble that kept her awake every night, wondering what in the hell she’d been thinking.

Had she been completely insane, walking away from the career she’d slaved actual blood, sweat, and many, many tears to construct in New York City, to start over on little Sugarberry Island and open her own shop?

Who did that?

“I did,” she said out loud, rather defiantly, hoping the statement alone would inspire confidence. It wasn’t like she couldn’t go back to New York if all else failed. She hadn’t hated her life there. Exactly. So, she had a backup plan . . . if absolutely necessary.

Her cell phone buzzed in her chef’s jacket pocket. Frowning, she set the pastry bag down and wiped her hands before digging it out. Only one person would be calling her at the crack of dawn. She hit the mute button on the stereo remote, silencing the cantina band from the Star Wars soundtrack—everyone had their own mix tape, hers just happened to be made up of her favorite movie theme song hits—then touched SPEAKERPHONE before propping it on the worktable. “Hey, Charlotte,” Lani said in greeting. “What’s up, besides us pastry chefs?” She picked up the bag again and went back to work, too antsy to stand still and chat.

Antsy, and angry.

“You sound awake,” Charlotte said, “which means you’re in the kitchen.”

“Where else would I be?”

“You live in Georgia now—where even pastry chefs probably sleep past five AM.”

“Not if they want to get their product baked and frosted before opening, they don’t.”

“You’re not in Atlanta. How many cupcakes could the entire island of Sugarberry consume in a day?”

“Char—”

“Answer me this. How many racks of cupcakes are in front of you right now?”

Lani didn’t answer. On the grounds that the truth would totally incriminate her. Friends could, occasionally, be a pain in the butt. Especially best friends. They knew too much.

“Chocolate?” Charlotte prodded.

Lani sighed. “One hundred fifty-six. Black forest.” At Charlotte’s continued silence, she sighed again. “Okay, okay. With raspberry truffle filling. And Dutched chocolate ganache frosting.”

“Oh no, I’m too late! You already heard.”

“I have to make these.” Lani tried not to sound defensive, knowing she failed even as she said the words. “They’re for the Kiwanis Club.”

“What on earth is a Kiwanis?” Charlotte asked. “Never mind. I don’t think I want to know. Much less why they’re congregating in clubs.”

“It’s all part of the annual fall festival here,” Lani explained. “It starts with a huge community dinner tonight. The Kiwanis raises money for local civic improvements, so I’m contributing cupcakes to help the cause.”

“Good heavens, Lan, you’re working . . . what, bake sales now? Is it going so badly as all that?” The lilt of Charlotte’s Indian accent came through a little stronger than usual. It always did whenever she was upset.

“Your confidence is inspiring. It’s not like I’m helping the high school glee club earn money at a table in front of the local grocery store. I’m doing signature cupcakes in boxed sets as part of a huge auction they’ll hold as a kickoff event after the dinner. The people here support me. I’m happy to do it. Plus, it’s good marketing. And the Kiwanis Club I’m sponsoring is going to donate all the money they earn from their auction entries to expand and improve the youth and senior centers.”

“See, the fact that you need to keep your youths and seniors in centers is a big part of what concerns me about this sudden life shift,” Charlotte replied. “But we’ve had that little talk. As long as you think you need to be on your little island in the middle of nowhere, you know I am your biggest cupcake cheerleader.”

Lani did know that. Charlotte might not understand, but she did her best to support. “You really need to come down here, Char. You’ll see. This town is like living inside a sustained, continual group hug. You can’t believe what it’s like to have such loyal support. I mean, I know it’s mostly because I’m a Harper, and my great-grandmother was revered here, but they’re very sincere about it. And it just feels . . . well, great, actually. Come down. Feel the Sugarberry love. You’ll understand then, I know you will. You never know, you might even stay.” Lani smiled. If you could hear a person shudder, she was pretty sure she’d heard Charlotte do just that. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too. At the moment, however, we have more important things to discuss. I didn’t think you’d already know. That’s why I called so early. I wanted to get to you first. Are you okay?”

Lani squeezed a bit harder on the pastry bag than necessary, but managed to keep from making a raspberry truffle volcano out of the next cupcake. She didn’t pretend to not know what Char was talking about. “I’m fine.” Total lie, and one Charlotte wouldn’t buy for a second. Especially given the black forest and Dutched ganache. Dead giveaway, really. “How in the world do you know? I just read about it in our little local daily less than an hour ago.” Which was why, less than an hour later, she was filling cupcakes as if her life depended on it.

“I’m still in New York, remember? We know everything first. Franco told me this morning when he came in. He’s here helping me with setups. We’re catering a champagne gala at the Lincoln tonight. It’s crazed.”

“Bon matin, ma chère!” came Franco’s shout from somewhere in the distance, via the speakerphone.

The accent affectation never ceased to amuse Lani. Franco was definitely tall, dark, and swarthy. He was the youngest from a family of seven with six older sisters, and just about the best gay boyfriend a girl could hope to have. But he’d been born Franklin Ricci and raised in the Bronx. He was about as French as baseball and Mom’s apple pie. Still, he somehow made it work.

“Bonjour, mon ami,” Lani said, warmed by his always cheerful voice, feeling anything but, herself.

“Before you ask,” Char said, “Franco got the news last night from a production assistant on Baxter’s show he’s been hot after for a month now. I had to tell you the second I heard. It’s not out for public consumption—yet—so it’s not national news.”

“It will be international news when we finally get together, ma chère,” Franco crooned. “And we will. Like the finest Belgian chocolate with French vanilla filling. Mmm mmm. For private consumption only.” His rich laughter echoed into Lani’s kitchen.

“Seriously, Franco,” Char scolded him. “No one cares about your latest conquest. We’re in a state of emergency here.”

“Almost conquest. And it’s true love, this time, chérie,” Franco said with a wistful, dramatic sigh. “Or could be.”

“What else do you know about this?” Lani asked, feeling a bit sick, along with antsy and angry. “What exactly did you find out, Franco?”

“Not much,” he said, dropping the accent momentarily. “Just that production is gearing up to start filming the next season on location in Sugarberry. I made the connection immediately, of course, but no one else is saying anything about it. Or you. At least not that I’ve heard. At the moment, Baxter’s website and the show website are touting the third season, which launches this week. Baxter is going around doing all the standard promo for the season premiere, but it’s only a matter of time before he mentions the next season, since it’s going into production this week, too. His ratings are so high there’s a lot of buzz about the major networks trying to steal him away for his own daytime show. Apparently, his network execs are pushing like mad to get him going, filming this next season. They want to get all the sponsors inked early on, before the rumors get out of hand.” Franco came closer to Charlotte’s phone. “Brenton told me they’re going to make a big splash about the season premiere on the morning talks all this week. Someone will get him to spill.”

“Brenton?” Lani asked. “Really, Franco?”

“It’s adorable on him, trust me,” he said, all Bronx now. “Listen, Baxter is supposedly doing a surprise spot on Today tomorrow. And honey, you know Hoda and Kathy Lee will be all over him, because—straight or gay—who wouldn’t be? They’ll bring up the network rumors, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he mentions that he’s already begun the next season of filming, just to squash the buzz. Word is going to get out, ma chère. Of course they’ll make the connection as it’s the only one to make. It’s only a matter of time.”

Charlotte came back on the line. “We just wanted to give you a heads-up, Lan. I didn’t want you hearing about it from anyone else. How did it make your little local paper before making the entertainment news here?”

“Ask Baxter.” Lani was certain he was behind the personal little news bulletin. He was nothing if not a master at controlling the whims of his own fate. The question she still had no answer for was why? Why was he doing this? Any of it? She said as much out loud.

“I don’t know,” Charlotte responded. “But, like Franco said, your name hasn’t come up in conversation amongst the crew or production, so I don’t think anyone else has made the connection yet.”

“Well, I’m not news, entertainment or otherwise, so why would anyone on the set care? The only one who will be bothered by this whole thing is me. I just don’t understand what possible explanation he used for wanting to set his show here on Sugarberry, of all places.”

“Lani,” Franco said, butting back in, “you know it’s not coincidence. I don’t know what he told his bosses, but they obviously went for it. There has to be a hook, don’t you think? And the hook has to be you.”

“But, why? Just because I worked for him?”

“You know better than that. The world might not care now, but you know it’s only a matter of time before it’s all out there. Any news that includes Chef Hot Cakes being interested in a woman—particularly one he worked with, mentored, and handed over the running of his beloved shop to . . . and about whom there was some pretty juicy gossip back in the day—is not just going to be any news. It’s going to be the news.”

The very suggestion made Lani’s stomach sink further. Just like it had, regularly, “back in the day.” Those days had mercifully ended ten months ago. She wanted to keep it that way. “There’s nothing to get out. Come on, you and Char know that better than anyone. There was never any substance to those rumors. Most definitely not from Baxter’s perspective. You two are the only ones who ever knew how I felt, and you both know I’d kill you in your sleep if you ever breathed a word.”

Charlotte gasped. “You don’t think we—”

“No, of course I don’t.” Charlotte and Franco were the two people Lani trusted most in the world. They were “her people,” and she was theirs. “It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, even if you had,” she went on. “I mean, the world won’t care what I might have felt for him, because Baxter doesn’t care. It’s certainly not newsworthy now. Yes, he made my professional life utter hell for the better part of three years—which I signed on for—and yes, he never once stepped up to defend me when the personal gossip started. Not once. But, though I hated it, and it hurt, it wasn’t exactly a surprise that he didn’t. Baxter is notoriously, completely oblivious to anything not in his own personal line of interest. So, I’m equally sure he had no idea what kind of hell my life was then, and I’d certainly like to believe he doesn’t have a single clue about the hornet’s nest he’s stirring up coming down here now. I can’t imagine he’d intentionally do something so—”

“Heartless?” Franco said.

“Sadistic?” Charlotte added.

“Thoughtless,” Lani finished.

Charlotte sighed. “Like I said, he had to sell this idea somehow.”

“You think he purposely used me as, what, some kind of bait? Even if he had, why would they go for it? There’s nothing to mine here. We never were anything but business associates.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t seem like something he’d do. Yet, he’s heading your way, with a production crew in tow. Clearly he had to tell the network something, and I don’t know how else he’d have sold Sugarberry as a location if not for you.”

“Maybe he does realize how hard he made it for you to be taken seriously,” Franco offered. “Maybe, from his perspective, he’s bringing his show to Sugarberry Island as away to help make amends. That sounds more like something he’d try to do.”

Lani almost choked on her own tongue. “Help? How? By invading my sanctuary? My home? And turning it into some kind of media circus? How on earth would that do anything other than turn my new life into the same crazed hell I just left behind? Even he’s not that obtuse.” Was he?

“Maybe the gossip and behind-the-scenes kitchen controversy wasn’t the hook he pitched. Maybe he just simply pitched you, going from fast climbing, award-winning pastry chef to running your own little island cupcakery. How you’re blending the two worlds? I don’t know, but that is unique, and something of a hook,” Charlotte said, though she didn’t sound completely sold on the idea.

“Besides,” Franco added, “by the time you took off, what you actually left behind was a whole bunch of people who were in awe of your talent.”

When Lani snorted, Charlotte added, “All right, so maybe they were in awe while their mouths hung open in stunned disbelief, after you proved they were all narrow-minded, gossip-mongering, donkey’s asses. But, the point is, no one doubts you or your talent now.” Charlotte’s lovely, proper accent was always an odd contrast when she was angry. It was like being bitched out by royalty. “Baxter’s favoring you and singling you out because your talent warranted that kind of support and mentoring. He left you in charge of his shop because you were accomplished enough to handle it. He treats Gateau like his firstborn child. He’d have never trusted it to just anyone. When you left, everyone knew you’d earned your place the right way.”

“Those were still the same people who had nothing better to do than dish vicious, snide dirt about exactly how they thought I’d ‘earned’ my position, and just how many positions I had to get into, and how often, to do it,” Lani said. “I know what they were saying, Char. We all know what they were saying. It was ugly and gross, and I won’t pretend it didn’t hurt. A lot. I’d never come up against anything like that in my entire life.”

“Because you’re the good girl,” Franco said. “The nice one, the kind-hearted BFF everyone wants on their side. Of course they chewed you up and spit you out. But you showed them what you were made of.”

“Franco, I didn’t stay and run Gateau when Baxter left to do his television show to prove to them, or even Baxter, that I was worthy. I stayed because I thought it was what I wanted, what I’d worked so hard for. It was the pinnacle, the dream. I knew I’d earned my way to that success, because I’m the one who busted my backside to achieve it. And that was all that mattered.”

Back then, anyway. Now she knew what was truly important. And the icing on that cake was the fulfillment she’d found here. Yes, she was scared to death, because Cakes By The Cup mattered so much to her. More than anything ever had. But she knew her path had ultimately led her to this place. So, she was thankful for what she’d been through because of what she’d ultimately learned about her craft . . . and what life would always be like in five-star kitchens. If there was a way to apply that knowledge and make her bakery a sustainable success, she’d find it. In Sugarberry, she’d found happiness and contentment. With no outside pressure or unwanted ugliness, her goals were her own to achieve, and the rewards her own to reap.

Only now, all the stuff she’d left behind—specifically the not-so-great parts—were about to stroll right back into her life again. It wasn’t even the potential return of the gossipmongers and haters that she dreaded most. She’d expect nothing different from them. What did it matter now, anyway? She was safe and sound and living happily in Sugarberry, far away from that world. And from Baxter.

How could he?

Lani shot raspberry truffle filling in rapid-fire succession as her own steam built. “I’m all settled in here now, Charlotte, doing my own thing. Baxter—who I’ve never heard from, by the way—is happy in television land. And Gateau is doing just fine without either of us on-site. So why can’t he leave well enough alone? What does he possibly hope to gain by coming down here? It’s not a coincidence, right? I mean, sure, if Baxter or his producers or whoever just wanted an unusual, quirky remote location, I get that. Most people don’t even know there are islands off the coast of Georgia. We have a whole string of them south of here loaded with fancy resorts and posh country clubs that sport the kind of four-star establishments that would be the perfect venue for Baxter’s crazy elaborate desserts. We’re this little rural burg of an island in the midst of wilderness sanctuaries and fishing boats. Close in miles, maybe, but a world apart from the Golden Isles. If St. Simon is the Palm Beach of barrier islands, then we’re . . . we’re Mayberry. Who comes to Mayberry to put on a television show when you can go to Palm Beach? I’ll tell you who, nobody.”

“Unless Mayberry has a pastry chef who happened to work for the hot host, the same chef everyone assumed was sleeping her way to the top with said hot host, who went on to prove them all wrong, rose to the top, got a James Beard nomination for her work, then took off and opened a tiny bakery off the coast of Georgia.”

Lani was silent for a moment, while her stomach went full lead balloon. “I was executive chef for Gateau for just over a year, and sure, maybe I’m known in culinary circles. Or I was. I was a blip on the screen, at best, and now I’m gone. Even if that’s true, why would he drag me back into all of it? Why? He’s quite successful enough and will continue to be, without using me, I’m sure.”

Charlotte sighed. “I don’t know. All I can figure is that he thinks he’s helping you in some way.”

“Which is kind of condescending and insulting, don’t you think? I didn’t ask for help, definitely not his help. I don’t even need help. I’m doing okay.”

So far.

The truth was, she knew nothing about running her own place.

When she’d made the decision to stay, she’d signed the lease, ordered the equipment, and forged a rudimentary business plan, all with only her father’s health and well-being in mind. Well, that and trying not to feel guilty for abruptly abandoning Gateau or worrying about walking away from the success she’d worked so hard for in New York. It only got more confusing when she realized the main thing she felt about leaving her hard-won career behind . . . was relief.

Even so . . . no one had been more surprised than Lani when she discovered that, at some point during the crazy intense time it took her to choose the name of the shop, install the kitchen equipment, line the shelves and cabinets with the tools of her trade, and set up her pastry displays . . . she’d fallen in love. Head over heels, hopelessly, completely, stupidly in love. With her own little shop.

She felt as possessive, as proprietary, and as downright proud of it as a new parent. She wanted to show it off, see it grow, and thrive . . . and she wanted to keep it all to herself. Like her own personal, adult-sized Barbie Bakery, where she could play and indulge her every creative whim . . . without any risk of failure. Or commentary.

Only six and a half months from initial conception to opening day. It was a minor miracle to pull off anything like that so quickly. Even in a place as rural as Sugarberry, and leaning heavily on her dad’s influence to get all the permits, it had taken every second of every day to pull it off before the fall festival, which was when she’d determined she’d have the best opportunity to make the biggest splash. But pull it off she had. Cakes By The Cup had officially opened for business four weeks ago.

And she’d been having mini heart attacks ever since.

She would happily do whatever it took to keep it up and running. Everything except turn to Baxter for help. He’d done his part. And she was grateful. More than. If all it took to run a successful cupcake shop was being a good baker, then it was a slam dunk. Even blindfolded and on one foot. Baxter had seen to that. But he hadn’t mentored her in the business end of things. That hadn’t been the point of their collaboration. As his assistant, her focus had been on learning the craft and gaining confidence in her natural talent. Later, as executive chef of Gateau, she’d been responsible for the menu, the output, the quality and creativity. Baxter and his financial partners had been the ones responsible for the business end, for signing the paychecks.

“You know, there is one way to find out what’s going on,” Charlotte said, snapping Lani from her reverie. “Call him.”

“What? No. I am not going to give him the satisfa—”

“Think about it, Lani. This way you control the meeting, you take charge of the situation.”

“Take charge,” she said flatly. “With Baxter. How often has anyone been successful doing that? Oh, right. Never.”

“I’m simply saying—”

“Charlotte has a point,” Franco chimed in. “At least you can let him know that you know what’s going on, and set the tone for how you’re going to handle it with him. You don’t work for him anymore, you don’t run his place anymore, you aren’t beholden to him for anything, Leilani. Think about it. He has no hold on you.”

Oh, if only that were true, Lani thought, then paused, hands ready at the squeeze. Franco did have a point, though. She really hadn’t thought about the situation like that. Not in a purely professional sense. She’d been confronting the news like the woman she’d been before leaving New York, the one still pathetically half in love with a clueless man who’d have never even noticed her if it weren’t for her crazy mad baking skills.

But she wasn’t that woman any longer. Not entirely, anyway. It hadn’t been all that long since she’d left New York for good, but so much had happened since she’d come to Sugarberry. Her entire life had changed. She had changed. “You know, maybe you’re right.”

A short cheer went up on the other end of the line.

“I want to hear every detail,” Charlotte said.

“You go, ma chérie amour!” Franco sang out.

A series of buzzers going off came through the speaker. “I’ve got to go, the cakes are coming out,” Charlotte said hurriedly.

“We’ve been making solidarity cakes this morning in support of you, ma chère,” Franco said. “We’re featuring your to-die-for black walnut spice cakes with cream cheese and cardamom frosting as today’s special.”

“Thanks, you guys,” Lani said sincerely.

“Every detail! Call me!” Charlotte ordered before clicking off.

Lani stood there, pastry bag still at the ready, and looked at the racks in front of her. And thought about her friends in New York. Solidarity cakes. Salvation cakes. “Healing the disgruntled, displaced, and just plain dissed,” she said, smiling briefly. “One cake at a time.”

She and Charlotte knew a lot about that. They’d been friends since culinary school. Charlotte had more actual business experience than Lani, as she’d gone straight to work post-graduation as a pastry chef for a small boutique hotel in midtown, while Lani had gone overseas to continue her studies in Belgium and France. Lani’s mom and dad had moved from D.C. to Sugarberry shortly after that.

It had been a time full of transition and change, but also one of promise and excitement. Lani’s best friend had been launching her career in earnest while Lani was grabbing the chance to learn at the hands of Europe’s best. For her dad, it had been retirement from the D.C. police force and taking on a very different challenge in Georgia . . . and for her mom, who’d grown up in Savannah, it had been a chance to go back home again, to a place she’d always missed dearly.

Lani and Char had kept in touch throughout that time, their friendship only deepening as their separate experiences widened their respective paths and boosted their dreams. When Lani had come back, Char was still in New York, having already worked her way up to executive pastry chef at the same hotel. Franco was on board by then as her right hand and had quickly become Lani’s other best friend. Lani had gotten an offer in the city, as a staff baker for a well-known restaurant in a five-star, Upper East Side hotel. The same hotel that had just brought on board the hottest import from the U.K. America was the new playground for the young and impetuous, and ridiculously charismatic Baxter Dunne.

He’d risen quickly, and had taken Lani with him, plucking her from the ranks to make her his personal assistant and protégé when he’d opened Gateau a miraculous eighteen months later. His had been a rare, meteoric rise in a very challenging and competitive industry. By the time he’d made his move to the television cooking world three years later, his immediate dominance hadn’t surprised anyone.

Lani blinked away mental images of him, how he’d been then, how totally infatuated she’d been with his charisma and his talent almost from the moment she’d first set foot in that Upper East Side kitchen. Okay, the lust had started before then. She’d known a lot about him, more than most, having heard quite a bit during her time in Europe. He was three years younger than her, and light years ahead in every way measurable in their field. The baker in her wanted to be him when she grew up. And, the woman in her wanted to be with him as a grown-up. It had been harmless idolatry and fantasy.

Then she’d gotten the opportunity of a lifetime.

She’d been convinced the heavens and fates were sending her a direct message when she’d tried for, and gotten the job working under him.

Under him.

Lani made a face at that unfortunate double entendre and moved to a fresh rack of cupcakes, f. . .