What dessert screams “Fuck me now”? Any baker worth her salt knows there’s only one worthy answer: Double chocolate lava cakes. Just as hot and melt-in-your-mouth as the mischief I hope to get up to tonight. Add a little Kahlua and you can practically skip foreplay—but then, why would you want to?

Especially when you’ve got a man like Drew putting his moves on you.

It’s a good thing I can drive to the supermarket on autopilot, because my mind is spinning with anticipation. But it’s not just his talents with his tongue I’m daydreaming about. It’s the knowing glint in those deep brown eyes, that smile that’s cocky without being outright arrogant, and of course the flirting that gets me almost as hot and bothered as his kisses . . .

Okay, okay, Mags. Focus now. I don’t think any cop is going to accept “I was imagining all the sex I hope to be having tonight” as an excuse for blowing through a red light. Not “I’m about to go all the way with the guy I’ve been crushing on since high school” either.

I’m not even a little nervous the reality won’t live up to all those longtime fantasies. Drew has already proven he earned his sex god reputation.

My skin feels flushed when I get out of the car, and I’m pretty sure it’s not because of the August heat. Not even the blast of air conditioning as I step into the store is enough to cool my jets. I grab a cart and hoof it to the baking aisle. Bittersweet chocolate—yes, thank you. A bag of powdered sugar. I think Mom’s got vanilla at home, but it might not be the real stuff, so I grab that too. I’m not about to skimp when it comes to this dessert of seduction.

I’m so busy imagining the ecstatic look on Drew’s face when he bites into one of my delightful creations that I almost back into a skinny redheaded woman who’s frowning at the cake mix boxes, aka the shelf of tragic mediocrity. Although some of those can be elevated to halfway decent fare if you toss some booze into them. Booze can fix a lot of things.

“Sorry,” I say, catching myself. Something about her seems vaguely familiar, but I can’t place her. The woman glances at me, and her face brightens.

“Oh! You’re from— You’re the one who made that cake for Janice’s engagement party.”

“Um, yeah,” I say, feeling my cheeks turn red. “I’m never going to live that party down, am I?”

She smiles. “It was certainly . . . memorable.” She glances into my cart. “Doing some more baking? I guess that’s a regular gig for you?”

I nod. “But I usually manage to bake the right cake for the occasion. There was a bit of a miscommunication with Janice’s event.”

The woman waves my sort-of apology away. “A totally amazing miscommunication. You made the night. That cake was hilarious. It’s not your fault Janice and half the others have sticks up their asses in place of a sense of humor. Believe me, I’d rather have hung out with you and gotten a taste of it than stayed with that crowd.”

Okay then. This is my kind of person after all. I grin and offer my hand. “Any time you happen to need one of your own, then. I’m Maggie Hayes.”

“Ava Stevenson.” She accepts the handshake, but her gaze has gone thoughtful. “You know, I was just— This is so last minute, and you’re probably busy, but the person I had lined up bailed and I was about to resort to this.” She motions to the shelves of mixes. “It’s my sister’s bachelorette tomorrow night. She would die if you brought something like that cake. And I mean in a good way. I don’t suppose there’s any way you could jump in with the catering? I’ll pay extra for the rush.”

Score! Maggie gets the rebound. “Sure,” I say eagerly. “I can squeeze that in. And I’ve got a ton more tricks where that cake came from. Want me to take you through the possibilities?”

Ava claps her hands together. “Hit me! All the good dirty stuff—I don’t want to see a single cucumber sandwich.”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

A half hour later, I’m heading home with everything I need to whip up the sexiest dessert known to humankind, plus ingredients for a whole spread of tasty, dirty goodies for tomorrow. And a hastily scrawled contract for the gig, with rush job bonus. Take that, Becky Haverton! No one here needs your condescending charity.

When I pull into my parents’ driveway, there’s a figure sitting on the front step. She stands up as I get out of the car. My heart squeezes for a second.

It’s McKenna. I haven’t seen her, except maybe a glimpse in passing, since we both left for college. I haven’t really talked to her since she froze me out in our junior year of high school. She ducks her head, tucking her straight, dark brown hair behind her ears the way she has since I first met her at twelve years old, and then looks up at me through her glasses with a cautious smile.

“Hey,” she says. “Your dad said you’d be back soon. I just stopped by to visit my folks, and thought maybe we could catch up, too?”

I’m not sure what to say. Any other time, I’d have jumped straight to bygones be bygones after all this time, but . . . the reason McKenna froze me out was that she caught on that I was crushing on Drew back then. And I’m hopefully a few hours away from sealing that deal. Talk about awkward timing.

But it has still been a lot of time. We’ve both grown up. And she was the best friend I ever had before it all blew up.

“Sure,” I say cautiously. “I guess—you want to come in and get something to drink?”

She nods, and her gaze slides to the grocery bags in the backseat. “Need some help bringing that in?”

So we schlep the results of my shopping inside, and I toss the cold butter and eggs into the fridge and grab the pitcher of iced tea my mom made up this morning.

“Clean or spiked?” I ask, brandishing it.

“I’m thinking spiked is the way to go,” McKenna says, her smile turning sly in a way that reminds me of Drew. “Especially after everything I’ve heard about your skills with alcohol.”

“Well, I’m usually mixing it into batter, not drinks, but I’m sure I can pull off a decent combo.”

I consider Mom and Dad’s somewhat limited selection and the bottles I just picked up, and settle on a basic Long Island iced tea. I hand one glass to McKenna and glance around. Sitting down for whatever chat we’re going to have in here suddenly feels claustrophobic.

“Let’s go out back,” I say.

“Oh my God!” McKenna says as we step onto the back deck. “They still have the trampoline.”

“Yep. I’m not sure who uses it other than the kids next door when they beg a visit.” I amble over to the ten-foot trampoline that’s filled half the yard most of my life and hop up onto the edge. McKenna follows suit. We sit there for a moment, legs dangling, sipping our iced tea. The vodka was a good choice.

The first time I ever invited McKenna over, a couple days after they moved in across the street, I led with the trampoline. We must have spent the better part of an hour bouncing on it and doing our best impressions of professional gymnasts.

“I heard you set up shop in Brooklyn,” McKenna says. “I’m working out of Manhattan these days—I kept meaning to come by and check out the place.”

“Yeah, that . . .” I grimace. “Long story. The short version: Dream bakery went kaput. I’m back here figuring out my next steps.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll be back on your feet before too long. The last thing you ever were is a quitter.”

“True. So what are you up to in Manhattan? Still all about computers?”

“Of course.” McKenna sits back on her elbows. “I freelance consult with a few tech companies, but I’m trying to set up on my own. I have something new in the works that might give me a break—that’s where I’d really like to focus my energy. Making things instead of fixing what other people did badly.”

“Good luck,” I offer. “I’m not exactly the poster child for making a successful business, but you always had an instinct for that kind of thing.”

“Here’s hoping.” McKenna pauses. “At least I’ll have something to show for myself at the reunion next month.”

I groan. “Don’t remind me!” It’s looming on the horizon like a black cloud of insecurity and doom. The ten-year Rosemead reunion. I was all set to waltz back with my bakery success story, but instead, I’m in line for the “biggest failure” award.

“Shit. Sorry.” McKenna winces.

“No, it’s OK,” I sigh. “About as OK as being unemployed and homeless at our age can be.”

“Fuck that. You should just tell everyone you have like, a cooking TV show in Europe, and you’re engaged to an Italian prince,” McKenna declares.

I laugh. “Facebook kind of screwed that one up for me.”

“Hmm, true. But seriously, to hell with those bitches. I’m tempted to skip the whole thing altogether. Except . . . I really want to see how everyone turned out.”

“Me too,” I sigh. “Isn’t it fucked up? I haven’t seen these people in a decade, but I still want to prove myself to them.”

“Tell it to my therapist,” McKenna snorts.

We drink in silence for a moment, then she turns to me. “Speaking of making good emotional choices . . . I realize it’s probably too late for this to matter, but I want you to know I’m sorry about how things went down in high school.” She gives me a rueful look. “It was just really hard for a while there, being stuck way back on the sidelines while everyone fawned over Drew. All the girls were sucking up to me to get close to him. I just wanted something of my own, and so when I found out you were crazy over him too . . .”

I gulp. “I know,” I say. “That’s why I tried to hide it. But you and me were friends first. I never would have used you for anything.”

“I know,” McKenna sighs. “It just hurt, that’s all. It was bad enough trying to get people to notice me with Mr. Popular as my older brother, but when he turned into an international heartthrob, too . . . ? Anyway, it’s ancient history. I’m just sorry I pushed you away.”

“Apology accepted,” I tell her, feeling relieved. “But, er, you should know, since I’ve been back in town—I bumped into Drew the other day, totally by accident, and . . . I guess we’re kind of seeing each other?”

I brace for her reaction, but all McKenna does is grin. “I figured. Drew’s got a shitty poker face,” she adds.

“Oh, really? What did he say about me?”

Then I realize what a high-school thing that was to say. I groan, and my gaze meets McKenna’s, and before I know it we’re both outright laughing. All the tension that was collecting inside me washes away. I lie back on the trampoline beside her, shaking my head at myself.

“Never mind. Don’t answer that. I’m definitely not asking you to be a go-between.”

“It’s okay,” McKenna says. “Not the go-between thing—I’ll pass on that job, thanks—but you two, together. I’m happy you’ve hit it off. He could use someone to keep him in line.”

“Hey, now,” I say quickly. “I don’t know what exactly we’re doing, but it’s nothing serious. Just . . . having some fun.”

“Hmmm,” McKenna says. “I believe in always being open to the possibilities.”

She tips her head to look at me, and we both start giggling again. Like a couple of high school girls. But there’s something kind of cozy about it, a feeling I’ve missed.

“Friends again?” I ask, offering my glass in an awkward toast.

McKenna grins and clinks hers to mine. “Friends. Now tell me more about these crazy cakes you’ve been baking.”