Chapter Three

 

* JULIA *

 

The sound of the bell jingling above the door caught my attention, and I glanced up, half-expecting it to be Logan coming back once more. In my fantasy, he would rush in, demand that I join him in his limo, and then take me down to the beach where he would find a secluded spot to make love to me in the sand. It was, admittedly, a ridiculous fantasy, and one I would never allow to happen. I couldn’t imagine what everyone in town would say if they saw me with an Evans boy. But somehow I couldn’t keep the fantasy from playing over and over in my head. My panties were soaking wet, and I could feel my nipples, hard and erect, as they pressed against my bra underneath my “Conch Shell Café” t-shirt.

I looked up guiltily as the door opened, ready to tell whomever it was that I was closed for the day. I’d already closed down my cash register and cleaned everything up, and I wasn’t interested in redoing all of that work just to sell one more measly pastry. But when I looked up, I saw that it was my best friend Megan who had just walked in. She was excitedly waving a piece of paper above her head, but she froze and stared at the jukebox when she realized that it was playing Christmas music.

“What in the world, Jules,” she said, looking back at me like I’d lost my mind. “You realize it’s June, right?”

I sighed. “Yeah. The jukebox wasn’t me. I had a, um, very interesting customer today.”

She arched an eyebrow at me. “Do tell. And can I have one of the leftover cupcakes?”

I nodded. “Come pick out whatever you’d like. But first do me a favor and lock the front door.”

She grinned and latched the deadbolt on my front door before coming around the front counter and peering into the pastry case. She had just picked out a strawberry cupcake with champagne frosting when the soft padding of doggy footsteps could be heard coming from the back room.

I looked over to see my chocolate Lab shuffling his way through the door. He moved slowly and was obviously in pain, but he’d heard Megan out here, and nothing was going to keep him from coming out to say hello to her.

“Decaf!” Megan squealed.

My heart broke as Decaf began wagging his tail exuberantly, just like he was a young, healthy puppy once again. His name had originally been a joke. He’d had so much energy a few years ago that calling him Decaf was funny. As a puppy, he’d been more like a triple shot of espresso than a cup of decaf. I’d teasingly called him Decaf one day and the name had stuck. Now, sadly, the name fit. He was still fairly young, but due to horrible hip dysplasia, he could hardly walk. He needed surgery badly, but the cost was so far out of reach for me that some days it felt like it might as well have been a million dollars. How was I supposed to pay for Decaf’s surgery when I could barely pay to keep the lights on in the café? With a pang of jealousy, I thought of Logan and his black American Express. I imagined what it would feel like to be able to just swipe that card whenever you needed anything. Must be nice.

Thinking of Logan reminded me of the tip jar, and I reached over to pull it toward me, dumping its contents on the counter. There were a handful of ones crumpled at the bottom, but I set them aside and reached for the wad of cash that Logan had thrown in. With hands that were trembling for no good reason, I started unrolling the wad.

To my left, Megan was crooning at Decaf. “How’s my favorite wittle puppy? Hmm? Your hips hurt, I know baby. Here, this will help you feel better.” She broke off a chunk of her cupcake and handed it to him, which only made his tail wag even faster.

“Megan!” I yelped, exasperated. “You can’t feed him cupcakes. He’s going to be sick on top of having hip pain!”

Megan shrugged, not looking like she felt even the least big guilty. “He has to eat, poor thing.”

I rolled my eyes and turned back to see what Logan had left me in tips. To my shock, there were several twenties and even a fifty. It all amounted up to one hundred and ten dollars. I stared dumbly down at the bills, feeling another pang of jealousy, and a vague sensation of anger. How come he got to prance around town throwing around a hundred dollars like it was nothing? Part of me wanted to march the money down to the resort, demand to see him, and throw it in his face—yelling at him that I didn’t need his money that he’d earned by exploiting our island’s local economy.

But a bigger part of me knew that I was, sadly, way too desperate for cash to throw away a hundred and ten dollars. With a weary sigh, I started gathering up the bills as I turned back toward Megan.

“What was with the paper you were waving around when you walked in?” I asked. “It looked like you were excited to tell me something.”

“Oh!” she yelped, as though just remembering. She reached to the top of the display case to grab the paper from where she’d set it down while she was getting a cupcake. But before she could show me the paper, her gaze fell on the tip money spread across the counter and her eyes bugged out.

“Damn, girl. That’s not your tip money, is it?”

I blushed. “Uh, yeah. This was also thanks to my interesting visitor.” I took a deep breath, and then told her the story of Logan’s visit from start to finish—conveniently leaving out the parts about how his good looks drove me wild despite myself. I shared almost everything with Megan, but I wasn’t quite ready to tell her that I had a crush on Driftwood Island’s public enemy number one. Or maybe public enemy number two. After all, Zach was the better known Evans boy around here. He probably took the number one spot. Somehow, though, I didn’t think that would matter if I was spotted with Logan. Everyone would still hate me, even if Logan wasn’t technically Zach.

“Wow,” Megan said, hopping up to sit on the counter behind me as she considered everything I’d just told her. Her brow furrowed into a worried crease. “I hope he wasn’t here to try to scope out your café and figure out a way to put it out of business.”

My heart sank. I’d been so caught up in the rush of talking to a billionaire and selling him a dozen overpriced cupcakes that I hadn’t thought much about why a man like him would randomly show up at my café. But Megan was right. Zach was known for sneaky tactics like trying to convince local businesses to fold and let him buy them out. Rumor had it that Zach would double the price he was willing to pay for a business if the business owner agreed to put in a favorable word with Driftwood Island’s city council, recommending that the Evans resort be allowed to expand. So far no one had taken Zach up on the offer, but that didn’t mean Zach had stopped trying. Why would Logan be any different?

My chest burned with anger, and I shoved the tip money back into the jar. “I don’t know why he was here, but he certainly knows how to be obnoxious. I mean, who puts three hours worth of Christmas music on a jukebox in the middle of June?”

Megan shook her head. “The Evans’ boys are weird. I’d heard that Zach had a twin, but I don’t think Logan has ever bothered to come out here before. Maybe Zach thought that sending someone different to do the resort’s dirty work might move things along faster.

“Maybe.” I scowled at the tip jar, wishing more than ever that I didn’t need that hundred-plus dollars so I could go throw it in Logan’s face. Not that it would matter, anyway. Logan would probably just laugh at me and tell me his resort was going to expand whether or not I wanted to keep his hundred dollars. The only satisfaction I could feel when I thought about the Evans brothers was the knowledge that thus far, at least, they had not been allowed to grow their resort. The city council had been adamant about protecting most of Driftwood Island’s beaches from being developed, and even a couple of billionaires hadn’t been able to change their minds.

“Here, this will cheer you up,” Megan said, handing me the paper she’d been carrying when she walked into the café. “It might be a way for you to get the money you need for Decaf’s surgery.”

Decaf’s ears perked up at the sound of his name, and I reached down to scratch his head. I wanted to reassure him that I’d find a way to pay for his surgery and help him feel better, no matter what, but the truth was I was beginning to lose hope. I glanced down at the paper, not daring to believe that it would actually be anything useful.

It was a flyer for the Driftwood Island Summer Fair that was held at the end of June every year. The event had grown in popularity over the years, and had become one of the few local events that actually drew a small tourist crowd. Every year, dozens of booths offering games, food, drinks, and artwork enticed hundreds of tourists to come spend their money on something other than the resort’s overpriced cocktails. Old-fashioned fun like potato sack races and a dunking booth seemed to entertain even the most skeptical of island visitors, and things tended to get pretty rowdy on the dance floor, where local bands played live music. The Summer Fair offered a huge boost to the local economy every year, and I had already been hoping that I might make enough there to somehow scrape up the funds for Decaf’s surgery. I knew it was a long shot, but I couldn’t keep myself from daydreaming about the possibility of making thousands of dollars in revenue if I sold enough cupcakes and coffee from my Conch Shell Café Booth.

“I already know about the fair,” I said, frowning as I scanned the flyer advertising “fun, sun, and food.” Jeez, could our city council have come up with a blander marketing slogan?

“I know you know about the fair itself, Silly,” Megan said. “But did you see the new contest event they’re advertising this year?”

I glanced to the bottom right corner of the page, where the city council had listed the contests that were held every year. First place prizes were one thousand dollars, second place prizes were five hundred dollars, and third place prizes were two-hundred and fifty dollars. I knew about the contests, but none of them had ever been anything I had any hope of winning in the past. There was typically a dance-off, an island costume contest, a hot dog eating contest, and a pig racing contest, which was sort of bizarre since not many people on Driftwood Island actually owned pigs. The same guy won the pig races every year, which made me think the city council held the event as some sort of inside favor for him, just so he could collect the prize money.

I was about to hand the flyer back to Megan in confusion, when my eyes landed on the last contest listed on the sheet. A “Cake Sculpting Contest.”

“What in the world? That’s so random,” I said aloud. Megan instantly knew that I’d spotted the contest she’d been referring to.

“You’d be perfect for this,” she said. “Your cupcakes are so good!”

I frowned. “My cupcakes are good, but a cake sculpting contest isn’t about making delicious cupcakes. It’s about making a cake look like some sort of fancy sculpture. You know, like when someone shapes a cake like a famous castle or a celebrity’s face or something ridiculous like that. I have no idea how to do that.”

“Oh, come on. How hard can it be?”

I nearly choked. “How hard can it be? Pretty damn hard! And there’s only a week until the entry deadline. I’d have a week to figure out what I wanted to sculpt and then to learn how the hell to actually sculpt a cake into that object.”

Megan shrugged. “It’s worth a shot. How many other people on this island are going to enter a cake sculpting contest? Only a handful of the locals. Perhaps a few tourists will, but I doubt there’s going to be a rush of them. Even if your cake ends up looking totally amateur, you might at least win third prize. And two hundred and fifty dollars is nothing to sneeze at.”

“No, it’s not,” I agreed, still staring doubtfully down at the paper. “Why in the world did the city council decide to add this contest, though? It’s kind of a random addition.”

“I heard they’re trying to expand the fair and add things that will attract more rich tourists. I guess rich tourists are into cake sculpting contests? Or at least the city council thinks they are? The council is trying to add more contests that appeal to wealthy city folks, and pig races aren’t quite cutting it.”

“Hmm.” I was starting to get excited about this. I had no skills at actual cake sculpting, but I probably wouldn’t have very much competition. Megan was right. Even if I only won third place, I could use any spare cash I could grab. I had been saving for forever for Decaf’s surgery, but I was still about a thousand dollars short. And that thousand dollars felt so out of reach some days that it might as well have been one million.

“Do it!” Megan insisted. “You’ll be great. Who knows, maybe your cake will even attract some sexy boy from the mainland, and you can finally lose your virginity while licking frosting off each other.”

I wadded up the flyer and threw it at her. “You’re one to talk! I don’t see you making any progress on losing your V-card.”

Megan shrugged. “True. But I’m younger than you so, it’s not as sad that I’m still a virgin.”

“You’re younger than me by six months. That hardly counts.”

Megan only laughed harder, which seemed to delight Decaf, who perked up and barked a few times. I rolled my eyes, and was about to tell her that I wanted to go down to Joe’s Sandbar and have a beer if I was going to have to put up with her, when the café’s phone rang. I shushed her and picked up the receiver. Sometimes, one of the locals would order a box of breakfast pastries for a meeting the next day. I loved it when that happened, because it meant my day started off with a sale. Dare I hope for tomorrow to be a good sales day like today had ended up being?

“Conch Shell Café,” I said in a cheery voice.

“Good afternoon,” a stiff, formal sounding woman’s voice greeted me. “I’m calling to inquire about placing an order for delivery to Evans’ resort this afternoon.”

“Um…” I was caught totally off guard. I had never been asked to do a delivery to the resort, and it was already nearly five p.m. This was going to be one heck of a last minute delivery, assuming I even had what this woman wanted in stock. “What were you wanting delivered?”

There was a pause and rustling of papers before the woman answered. “We’d like an assortment of pastries and cupcakes to feed approximately twenty-four people. Can you also do coffee to go? We’d like a box of both regular and decaf coffee. Delivered by five-thirty p.m., if possible.”

I glanced at the clock. I could get the coffee made and the pastries packaged up and delivered within the next half-hour if I hustled. And the order the woman was requesting would clean out my pastry case for the day, which virtually never happened. But the order struck me as quite an odd request. It almost seemed like a practical joke of sorts. I had this strange feeling that I was going to show up at the resort with a load of food and only be laughed at when I tried to deliver it. Feeling suspicious, I decided to make sure that this order was serious.

“I’d be happy to fulfill that order for you, ma’am, as long as you understand two things. First of all, the assortment of pastries and cupcakes will be my choice. Hopefully you can understand that an order on this short of notice cannot contain any special flavor requests.”

“Of course. I understand.”

“Second of all, we do require prepayment on an order of this size. I’d need to take credit card information over the phone before I begin packaging up the pastries and coffee.”

I saw Megan’s eyes shoot up from her perch on the counter. She knew I never required prepayment on orders, and I could see the curiosity burning in her eyes. I ignored her as best I could for the moment, and focused on the woman on the phone.

“That’s no problem,” the woman said. “Tell me when you’re ready and I’ll read the card numbers off to you.”

I’d expected a bit of protest, but this woman seemed more in a hurry to get everything paid and ordered than she was worried about the cost or the time of payment. She almost seemed relieved when I ended the call, promising that her order would be delivered within the next half-hour.

“Well, that was weird,” I said as I hopped up and began to brew a fresh pot of both regular and decaf coffee. I quickly explained to Megan what the phone call had been about, expecting Megan to be thrilled for me that I’d just sold out my entire stock for once. But the more I explained, the bigger the frown on Megan’s face became.

“This is really weird,” Megan finally said. “You know who’s behind this, right?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care. All I know is that I’ve actually made a decent amount of money in a day for once.”

Megan shook her head. “There’s something fishy about this. Why would anyone at the resort order so much from you, so suddenly? I’ll bet you anything Logan Evans is behind this. And I’ll also bet you anything that he’s up to no good.”

I shivered as I realized that Megan was probably right. But I had already taken the order and accepted payment for it. I had no choice but to continue, regardless of what the motives behind the order had been. Besides, what did I care what Logan was doing? If his way of trying to intimidate me or butter me up to sell my café was to buy all my stock, I wasn’t going to complain.

And I’m definitely not going to complain if I have an excuse to look at that chiseled face and those gorgeous blue eyes again.

That thought caught me off guard, and I pushed it away quickly. Whatever Logan’s end game happened to be, I was one hundred percent sure that it involved something to do with the resort expanding, and nothing to do with his actually liking my coffee or genuinely wanting to help me out. I shuddered, and started to quickly box up the pastries just as “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch,” started playing from the jukebox.