The Heavenly Baker

Book 9: Cariad Singles

by J J Monroe

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Cariad means love... discover the new Cariad Singles collection of spicy romances.



Ava Michaels, the proprietor of ¿Little Angels¿ bakery is a born romantic who harbours a torch for celebrity baker, Matt Richards. When she catches her current boyfriend  in flagrante delicto she seeks solace and vodka in the shape of her best friend who decides there and then to enter Ava into the latest Heavenly Baker competition.



Thinking nothing more of it, Ava is shocked to receive a call from the Heavenly Baker¿s assistant asking her to travel up to London for an audition. Unwilling to get her hopes up, Ava nonetheless wows all who meet her including the Heavenly Baker himself. When their eyes meet across a crowded television studio there is no turning back and the blue touch paper is well and truly lit.



Sugar and spice and all things very naughty; is it lust or love that propels Ava into the arms of Matt Richards? She doesn¿t care as she is having so much fun until the arrival of Roxy McQueen, an old flame, and then the stakes are upped.



Can Ava compete with the minxy Roxy McQueen or is she destined to be unlucky in love?

Release date: January 30, 2014

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 110

Sample

Chapter One – The Raincoat Girl

I feel dirty. I feel lowdown, tramp-like dirty standing outside my lover’s apartment dressed only in my fresh-out-of-the-box navy blue demi-bra, matching lace panties, and heels beneath my favourite red greatcoat. Is this how hookers feel? No, they dress far more cheaply than I am. I’m a high-class working girl in this outfit, the kind you book through an agency. You can’t just pick me up on any street corner. No, that would be cheap and really filthy. I’m not there yet. I’m just dirty.

This is delicious. I’m not a bad girl, but we all have our moments and I’ve been planning this little outing for weeks in my head now. My boy is going to be so blown away that he’s really not going to know what’s hit him and then he’s going to be so turned on that I’m not going to be able to sit down properly for a week. At least! If I’m really lucky!

I blow the air out of my cheeks and try to calm my racing heart as I reach for the buzzer. Then it occurs to me. Why not ramp up the surprise to the next level? Why give him the satisfaction of regaining some element of control before we’ve even reached his apartment? Surely it would be more devastating to surprise him right outside his door. Say hello, drop the coat, and watch him blow his load as he surveys my cookies. What better way to claim an all-out victory then a blitzkrieg attack right on his doorstep? Yes, the more I think about it, the more I can’t fault the perfect logic.

Fishing his keys out of my coat pocket, I let myself into the apartment building and walk to the elevator. I feel horny. I don’t normally do this kind of thing, and it’s blowing my mind. Calm yourself, girlie! Don’t blow it yet! Though thinking about my lover’s cock is getting me ridiculously wet. This lingerie is beautiful to the touch but I fear for its safety when he gets a look at me. Call the president. We’re about to go to Defcon One!

I have a pretty face, I think, and a good figure. My breasts are a handful but not pneumatic, but my legs are long and slim which always helps the cause. I used to have my hazel hair in a bob and even went through a phase of dyeing it black, but now I’ve let it grow out and it falls down my neck and onto my shoulders and I kind of like it as it is presently, but who knows how long that will last? I get bored and then I make decisions, and not all of them have been sound, but this is new for me. Creeping around the city at night dressed only in my underwear, I feel like some kind of sexual vigilante – or maybe not.

My palms feel sweaty now I’m outside the door of my lover’s apartment. I’m ultra-nervous and consider walking away, a moment of doubt. Then I rationalise; I’ve come this far and this lingerie really isn’t to be missed so come on, where’s your backbone? Slotting the key into the lock I take a deep breath and then another for good luck and press on.

It’s like bullet time in The Matrix when I open the door and step inside. Everything slows down. My lover pushes the girl away, the one who is kneeling before him as he sits sprawled on the couch with his jeans undone and his cock in her mouth. She staggers backwards in complete surprise and winds up lying on her back like a flailing turtle. He yells something as he tries to push his erect cock back into his jeans and I stand open-mouthed while all of this unfolds before me and all I can think is at least my coat is still buttoned. I’m so shocked that I’m not actually angry but that emotion, seemingly still lagging behind in the elevator, arrives soon enough and then it is just how I imagine World War Three will be; screaming, yelling and bombs going off left, right, and centre.

It’s too much for the senses to deal with. I turn around, close the door quietly behind me and walk away. The elevator is a welcome sanctuary. Leaving his apartment building helps, but the passing cab is a gift from the gods. I duck inside, thus avoiding any further confrontation, and let the familiar sights and sounds of this little coastal town wash over me. I block out the anger, I refuse to consider the awful awkwardness of everything and in my mind I think I deny the existence of this night. It never happened.

Retreating to the safety of my little house I strip off the lingerie, no longer gorgeous, and shower for no apparent reason than to wash off the memory of a nightmare evening. I hide out in sweats and turn off my phone. I try to watch the television but I’m too distracted. I try to read but it’s impossible so I accept the inevitable. I turn my phone back on and make the call to the one person I know who will not judge me and who’ll feed me ice-cream and other completely inappropriate chocolate-based food products.

Carly is my romance guru. Carly is the font of all knowledge. Carly is my best friend. I trust her implicitly. She greets me at the door to her apartment with a shot glass.

‘Drink this.’

‘What is it?’ I ask.

‘Don’t ask questions!’ she insists. ‘You come to me for solace. You come to me for advice and I will heal you, but the healing process begins with a shot.’

I eye the shot glass suspiciously. Carly coughs, so I concede and drink and it burns all the way down.

‘Lightweight,’ she mutters, retrieving the glass. She walks over to the coffee table and pours me a fresh shot from the Tequila bottle.

‘I really hate Tequila,’ I tell her, with the taste of Mexico’s finest memory-loss potion very much alive in my mouth.

‘Good for you.’ Carly hands me the glass refilled. ‘Drink!’

‘I don’t want to get loaded.’

‘Drink,’ she insists, so I do and it burns just as badly the second time around. I blink away the tears.

‘When was the last time you got loaded?’ she asks.

‘I can’t remember,’ I say.

‘That’s shocking!’ Carly retrieves the glass, intent on refilling it for a second time.

‘No more,’ I plead.

‘Drink,’ she orders.

‘I’ll yack if I keep going at this rate.’

‘Last one,’ promises Carly.

‘I think you’re lying.’

‘That’s a terrible thing for you to say.’

‘It is,’ I agree. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’re forgiven,’ says Carly. ‘Now drink.’

I sink it. This isn’t getting any easier. I’m pleased to see Carly remove the bottle to safety.

‘You want to talk about it?’ she asks from the kitchen.

‘I feel really stupid,’ I admit.

Carly returns from the kitchen with a monster tub of Chunky Monkey and two spoons.

‘It’s for emergencies,’ she explains, noticing my raised eyebrows. Placing the tub on the coffee table, she hands me a spoon. ‘Dig in.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re not stupid,’ she reminds me, levering the lid off the ice cream tub. ‘What happened?’

‘I got dressed up.’

‘Expensive lingerie?’

‘Check. I went to surprise him.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ says Carly, a step ahead of me. ‘It wasn’t him who was surprised?’

‘Yes. I should have called.’

‘. . .