“I can’t believe you're doing this again.” I hop one-footed toward the front door trying to put on my right shoe. It isn’t an easy task when Mom is primping my hair, and Dad is looking at his watch and tapping his foot on the marble floor.

“Oh, sweetheart. Give your parents a break. We’re not fixing you up with Malcolm.” Mom winks at Dad. “We thought it would be nice for you to have a dinner partner.” She licks her finger and wipes at something under my eye.

What is it that compels moms to do that? It isn’t like their spit contains miracle properties. If there is something under my eye, it will take a cotton ball and extra strength makeup remover to get rid of it. To my mother’s horror, I’m a low maintenance girl. I apply industrial strength mascara first thing in the morning and that’s it. I’m good to go all day.

I swat at her hand. “Let’s go.” I pick up the little black clutch from the entry table and walk out the door. The faster I get this over with, the better. It used to be a monthly thing. Mom and Dad would find some reason for me to attend one of their many social events, and each time they conveniently set me up with one of their friends’ single sons.

At twenty-five, I don’t consider myself on the shelf. Lots of women wait to settle down and have children. The issue is, my parents are late bloomers themselves, and at fifty-seven, their grandparent clock is ticking so loud. It doesn’t matter that my biological clock hasn’t been wound yet. They are ready to bounce babies on their knees, and as their only child I have the only eligible womb.

There was a false start two years ago when Anthony Bale the fourth proposed. That relationship crashed and burned the first time we got intimate. That was the day his other girlfriend barged in before he could take my virginity.

“You’ll love Malcolm.” Mom slides into the limousine and I follow. It doesn’t take Dad more than a second to open the decanter and pour himself a scotch. He hates these social events almost as much as I do, but this one pulls in a fortune for his non-profit. The proceeds will go to keep the arts in underprivileged schools.

We come from old money and the family motto is, with big money comes big responsibility. Give more than you take, and be humble. As a Leclerc, working is optional. Philanthropy is not.

“Tell me about Malcolm.” It is always easier to cave in to Mom’s interference then fight it. Tonight will unfold like all others. She will parade me around the event like a prize heifer at the fair, and if Malcolm is like the other men my parents introduce me to, he’ll want a gazelle not a fattened calf.

I’ll spend a couple of hours with Malcolm at dinner. I’ll smile and do my best to charm him, but by the end of the evening we’ll go our separate ways.

“So you see, he’s perfect for you.” The entire conversation passes without my participation. How did I get so lucky?

Inside I roll my eyes. Outside I smile. “He sounds great.” I pull at my skirt. Maybe that extra pastry this afternoon wasn’t such a good idea, but I have a thing for fresh croissants, and when they’re filled with chocolate, I can’t resist.

The car pulls up to the curb, and the driver lets us out. For a winter day, it’s warm, but that’s the norm in Los Angeles. While people across the United States are shivering in sub-zero temperatures, half of the state of California is in shorts and T-shirts. I wipe at the bead of sweat that forms on my brow and think about hot chocolate and snow.

“Stand up tall, Madison. You look like you’re marching to your death. I’m not putting a noose around your neck. I’m trying to put a ring on your finger. Now smile.” So much for her statement about not trying to fix me up.

I walk into the ballroom behind my parents with a smile as bright as the high beams on Dad’s Porsche.

At the first opportunity, I leave my parents to socialize, and go in a different direction. The only thing fun about fundraisers is buying the goods. I make it a point to purchase something at each event. Last year I purchased a cruise and anonymously gave it to a less fortunate family.

Tables full of prizes line the walls of the room. This will keep me busy all evening. I am rounding the second table when Mom finds me. Next to her is Malcolm. In all honesty, he is surprisingly handsome. I don’t generally go for the gingers, but his hair is more blond than red, and his smile is electrifying.

Everyone has a type and mine is definitely tall, dark and delicious, but Malcolm is easy on the eyes.

“You must be Malcolm.” I offer him my hand and a smile. My parents spent a fortune on orthodontics and this is as good a time as any to show off their investment.

“It’s nice to meet you, Madison.”

Mom pushes us together and squeals with delight. “You two kids have fun.” She turns and leaves as if her job is complete, and I’m grateful that she doesn’t helicopter around us.

Malcolm and I stare at my mom’s retreating figure. “You can call me Maddy. All my friends do.” I have a feeling Malcolm and I are going to be good friends.

“Well, Maddy, how many of these fix ups do you need to attend each month?” He lifts my hand and places it on his arm. “This is my fifth.” He sounds more entertained than irritated.

“Five? You’re certainly holding up well. Let’s just keep smiling. We’d hate to crush their dreams in the first five minutes. Besides, how do you know I’m not the one?” I brush my fingers over a beautiful blown glass vase that is up for auction. The color starts black at the bottom and fades to clear at the top.

“I’m sure you’re a great girl, and you’re quite beautiful, but you’re not my type.” He picks up a pen and hovers his hand over the bid sheet.

“You’ve only just met me, how do you know?” Lord, I’ve been with this guy for less than a minute and he is already retreating.

He leans in and whispers in my ear. “You have a vagina.” He writes five hundred dollars on the sheet.

“It’s worth far more than that.” I take the pen and cross out his bid and replace it with a bid of fifteen hundred.

“So are you. I’ve just told you I’m gay, and you didn’t run in the other direction.” He pulls my arm and guides me down the table.

I burst out in laughter. Out of the corner of my eye I see my mom smile. Sadly, she’ll be heartbroken again.

“Mom always taught me to keep my friends close and my enemies closer.”

He raises his baby blues at me. “Now we’re enemies?”

“A few minutes ago you were a love interest. Now you’re competition.”

His laughter reverberates through the room. It’s a genuine heart felt laugh.

“You’re safe with me. I’ve got someone.”

I swipe my forehead with an exaggerated movement. “Thank God. I didn’t want to have to take you out back and fight you for someone’s affections.”

“I like you, Maddy. I think we could be friends.”

I hug his arm. “We already are.” We move to the next table where a gift certificate for a private chef, masseuse, and chateau are being offered. “Do your parents know?”

He pens in a five thousand dollar bid. “No, it would kill my parents. They have dreams of grandbabies and a daughter-in-law.” I take the pen and scribble out his bid and write in ten thousand. Something tells me Malcolm and his lover could use this retreat.

“There’s always surrogacy.”

“Are you volunteering?” We walk down the row of offerings, stopping occasionally to bid.

“No. I mean, I want children, but I want to have them for myself. Tell you what. As soon as I pop one out, you can be an honorary uncle.”

“I get to babysit.”

“As an uncle, it’s a requirement.” Talking to Malcolm is easy. Too bad it isn’t that way usually. I’m not shy, but there’s so much pressure to marry and have kids, it makes me cautious. I don’t want to enter into a relationship out of desperation. I want attraction. I want connection. I want love.

“Your kid is going to be the luckiest little one out there. Me and Luke will be amazing uncles." He says the name in that dreamy way that people in love do.

“You and Luke shouldn’t hide your love. We can all learn something from love so passionate and pure.”

“How do you know our love is passionate and pure?” He picks up a signed tennis racket and mimics an overhand swing.

“Please… you nearly puddle on the floor at the mention of his name. You look like I do when I’m ready to devour a chocolate-filled croissant.”

He slides down three displays. “You like pastries?”

I run my hands down my body and over my flared hips. “Can’t you tell?”

“Your body is perfect.”

“Says the man who likes men.”

“That’s irrelevant. You need to see this.” He reaches out and picks up a brochure for a cooking school. “Do you know Ripley Stark?” He shoves the brochure into my hand.

“Never heard of him.” I open the trifold page and see the most gorgeous man on earth. He’s obviously a cover model because men that look as good as him don’t need to cook. People cook for them.

“He’s the owner of Sinfully Delicious and he donated this cooking class. You need to do this.” He points to the description that says, Five Days to Sin: A French pastry course.

“I never buy anything for myself at these things, but if I did, and this is actually the man, I’d make sure I was the highest bidder.” I run my finger over the picture of the dark-haired hottie in the chef’s jacket. “He’s so yummy.”

“Makes your mouth water, huh?”

That and other things get wet too, but I don’t say that out loud. I put the brochure down and move down the table.

“Speaking of mouths and water, can I get you a drink?” I needed a reason to break away from Malcolm to make sure I am the highest bidder on the getaway package.

“Yes, a Manhattan would be great. Catch up with me down the row. I’ll make note of anything worth seeing.” He moves down the table while I backtrack to the bid sheet and put twenty-thousand dollars down. It’s a crazy bid, but I want it for him and Luke. Something tells me that a romantic getaway would be important to them.

When I return with his drink, he is rounding the last corner. Fifteen minutes later the bids are closed and dinner begins.

Malcolm and I sit under the watchful eye of my parents who ask lots of questions about his career and his family. Turns out that Malcolm’s father is a lawyer, and Malcolm is a partner in the firm.

Near the end of dinner, Mom asks, “Will you two be seeing each other again?” Hope gushes from her like a geyser.

Malcolm lays his hand on my shoulder and gives me a silent I’ve-got-this. “Yes, I’m going to be an uncle to Maddy’s children.”

Mom’s geyser stalls mid-air then sputters to a stop until her hope and happiness are capped off. It’s heartbreaking to watch, but she deserves no less for meddling in my love life one too many times.

The man announcing the high bid winners silences my parents. I sit on the edge of my seat and wait for my name to be called. When it is, I smile because I know even though love isn’t in my future, it’s in Malcolm’s and Luke’s.

When the evening ends, Malcolm and I exchange numbers and hugs. Mom and Dad didn’t find me a husband. They found me a friend.

Three days after the auction a package arrives with my name on it. It’s special delivery and comes wrapped in a pink bakery box. I know it’s from Malcolm. No doubt he’s sent me chocolate filled croissants to thank me for my gift. We text constantly and he’s always teasing me about my sweet tooth. He’s quickly become the light to my boring days with his wit and wisdom.

I untie the white string and open the box to find a handwritten card that says,

Enjoy,

Future Uncle Malcolm

Beneath the card is one perfect chocolate croissant. I lift it to my nose and inhale. There’s nothing more comforting than the smell of fresh-baked bread, mixed with sweet chocolate.

I hold the box under my chin to catch the crumbs as I take the first bite. I nearly melt into a pond of pleasure right there. I’ve never had sex, but I can’t imagine it being better than this. I eat the whole thing while standing in the hallway, and when I lick my finger to press it against the crumbs in the bottom of the box, I notice it’s not empty. The recognizable red envelope from the auction is there.

At first my heart thuds at the thought that Malcolm is sending my gift back, but I know that’s not the case. He sent me a French pastry, and that means something else is in the envelope, and I know exactly what it is.

I grab the envelope and let the box fall to the floor, crumbs and all. With the swipe of my wet finger, I open the envelope and look at the gift. It’s a five-day course by world-renowned chef Ripley Stark.

Like a child, I dance around the marble entry of my parents house and chant, I’m going to Vail, over and over again.

“What’s all the ruckus?” Mom peeks her head around the corner and frowns. Her eyes go directly to where the flaky crumbs sit on her black, marble floor. I told her black was a bad idea, but she never listens to me.

“Malcolm bought me a gift.”

Mom joins me in the hallway and jumps up and down beside me, no longer caring about the crumbs. It isn’t because of the gift, but simply because her hope is renewed. Surely there must be an attraction if gifts are arriving.

“See sweetheart? He likes you.”

I nod like a bobble doll. “Yes, he does.” I rush upstairs to my room and grab my phone to text Malcolm.

“You crazy man, I want to hug you and throttle you, but first I want to thank you.” When you’re rich, no one thinks to buy you gifts. The thought is always, what can I get them that they can’t get themselves. The answer is, a gift. No one wants to buy their own gift.

He doesn’t respond right away, but the three dots that keep flashing on my screen tell me he’s writing.

“Thanks for the getaway for Luke and I. We’re excited to have time dedicated to us.” Under his message is a link. “Check out Ripley Stark, I hope you love his class. I did some checking up on him. No cover model. That’s him. If you’re lucky, maybe he can fill your croissant.”

I press on the link and gasp, there are hundreds of photos of Mr. Dark and Delicious. My whole body shudders at the idea of being close to a man who looks like sex dipped in chocolate.

“Behave yourself.”

He pastes in a devil emoji. “Never. Get used to it. Now that you adopted me as your brother from another mother, my dirty mind is part of the package. Class starts next week, so get ready. I think it’s a perfect idea for that hunk of a man to put a bun in your oven.”

I bust out laughing and cover the phone with my hand before I realize no one is going to see it. Mom would never come into my room unannounced. It’s too long a walk to the west wing of the house.

“And you want to babysit my bun? I’m going to have to think long and hard about that.”

Malcolm texts immediately, “You keep thinking long and hard. I want all the details when you get back.”

I send him an emoji of a face with a tongue sticking out.

He texts right back. “Men like tongues.”

I raise my hand to my hot face. I know if I look into the mirror right now, my cheeks will be Hot Tamale red.

“Go back to work. Someone has to.” Over the last few days I’ve fallen in love with Malcolm. Not in a romantic way, but in a comfortable he-can-be-my-best-buddy way. He lives an affluent life, so he understands how lonely it can be. Money brings out the ugly in people. They are ugly if you have more and ugly if you have less. Even the rich have a pecking order.

I flop on my bed and scroll through the pictures of Ripley. There is Ripley at the beach, and oh my God, his abs are delectable. There is Ripley at a conference, and his suit is impeccable. Ripley skiing. Ripley surfing. Ripley cooking. That is the sexiest of them all because he is in his element, and power and confidence radiates from every pore.

I squeeze my thighs together trying to quench the achy feeling that throbs between them. If I’m this worked up looking at his pictures, what am I going to do with him face to face?

I pace the baggage claim area holding up a sign that says Madison Leclerc. I say a silent prayer that the woman has some cooking skills, preferably pastry skills. With a name like Leclerc, it’s possible she’s French-trained.

People come down the escalator in waves, and with each group that ropes down the moving staircase, I raise the sign high above my head. At six-foot-three, it’s not hard to be seen. I scan the crowd, not sure who I’m looking for. All I know is she’s on the five o’clock flight from Los Angeles.

By the time the third group comes and goes, I am ready to give up. I don’t have time for this shit, but my sister is the philanthropist in the family and conned me into giving one of my coveted classes away for a fundraiser. ‘Full package’ is what she said, which meant flight, room, board, class and airport pick up.

Another group rounds the corner and I raise my arms again. I search the faces for some recognition. A brunette turns the corner and stumbles onto the escalator. She grabs the handrail to right herself. I can’t take my eyes off her, not because she’s clumsy, but because she’s perfect. Her hair hangs over her shoulders and falls on top of the nicest set of tits I’ve seen in years. I know this because she’s wearing a low-cut blouse, and after her near-fall, her breasts spill out like an offering from the gods.

A small child behind her pushes forward and sends her off balance again. She rocks to and fro then lurches forward. All I can see is her falling in slow motion. I drop the sign and run forward determined to save her from imminent doom.

I push back several people as I run up the down escalator. I’m two steps below her and nearly to the bottom of the escalator when she falls forward into me. My hands wrap around her ass as she plants her face in the center of my chest, and with an oomph, I land on the floor beneath the most stunning woman on earth. Her hair curtains my face while her body blankets mine. Nothing has felt this amazing. The woman smells like cinnamon and sugar. What could be more perfect?

“Oh. My. God. I’m so sorry.” She squirms on top of me, but I hold tight to that delicious ass. If we weren’t in the middle of a major thoroughfare and people didn’t have to step over us, I would have laid there for days with her in my hands.

Reluctantly, I sit up, rolling her with me. When I help her upright, she takes one look at me and her knees buckle again. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, holy hotdogs.” She rises unsteadily. “You’re him.”

It wasn’t a question, but more of a statement.

“I’m who?”

“You’re… you’re…” Her balance wavers again, and I put my hands on her shoulders to steady her.

“I’m Ripley, and you’re clumsy.”

Her beautiful mouth opens, and it is all I can do to not bend over and kiss her. I stare at her tongue, which is a beautiful slick pink and imagine it wrapped around my thick cock.