Every generation has its boyband heartthrobs, those stylish-haired hotties who cause riots, sell millions of records, and are responsible for the sexual awakening of approximately 65.7% of the pre-teen generation. The 60s had The Beatles, the 80s got New Kids on the Block, the 90s saw the rise of Backstreet Boys and *NSYNC, and for those of us just starting high school in the early 2000s, it was Category 5.

Drew, the heartthrob. Charlie, the joker. Eli, the rebel, Chris, the baby of the group, and Wade, whose dad knew their manager. One group, five six-packs and a whole lot of hair gel. It was a recipe for world domination.

And I had a front-row seat to the madness.

They came out of nowhere. One second my best friend, McKenna, was talking about some audition her big brother was going to, and the next, Drew Delaney’s face was on posters plastered all over town with the other four members of the hottest new music sensation around. From local mall tours and shitty festivals to Top 40 radio—they blew up so fast, he had to finish high school through tutoring because if he tried to show up at the actual school, he’d be mobbed by the entire female population.

For a while, though, he was still just Drew to me: my best friend’s older brother, the most gorgeous—and annoying—guy I’d ever met in real life. I still saw him, whenever he was back home hanging out with McKenna, and for one glorious night at junior prom, I even got him to myself for a few miraculous hours. But despite my massive crush, I already knew Drew was way out of my league.

Hell, he was out of the high-school league altogether—getting linked to Disney starlets and hot pop stars on the rise. Soon, the band was getting national airplay, and busting a move on TRL. Then came their break-out single, the one that catapulted them to global superstars. “Mr. Right-Now.” You know it, even if you think you’ve forgotten. The cheesy lyrics, the synchronized dance-moves, the “ooh, ooh, oohs” in the chorus?

Yeah, don’t lie. Admit it, that song was crack, and for one hot summer, the whole world went crazy for it. Just like that, Category 5 was the biggest boy band on the planet. Platinum records, sold-out stadium tours, multiple covers of Rolling Stone. But no band’s reign lasts forever. After a few good years and a whole lot of tabloid drama, they crashed and burned like all great boy bands do: fights, rehab, the works. There were rumors that their label ripped them off and those millions disappeared into thin air, and that everyone resented Drew for earning all the royalties as songwriter while they got paid half as much. Either way, they slipped into obscurity, with just a few “where are they now” stories to prove they ever even existed at all. But I swear if you mentioned Drew Delaney’s name to any woman who went to high school back then, you’d get the same flushed cheeks and giddy smile as always.

Even I thought of him sometimes, clicking through social media at night wondering what happened to the most famous Cat-5 member of all. I even imagined running into him one day, at an event around town, back for the holidays. Of course, in those fantasies, I was four inches taller and ten pounds lighter, wearing some stunning outfit, humble-bragging about my chain of successful bakeries.

Not face-down in forty pounds of magnificent splattered cock.

I groan into the frosting, hoping he’ll disappear, and this is all some terrible hallucination. I must have inhaled enough rum frosting to be drunk by now, right?

But Drew is strolling closer, looking concerned. “You OK?” he asks again. “You took quite a fall there.”

He offers me a hand to help me up, and I try to ignore the fact I have glittery cum filling oozing over my breasts.

“Thanks,” I mutter, letting him haul me back to my feet. My face is so hot I’m surprised the frosting hasn’t caught fire. Then I sneak another peek at Drew.

He’s grinning—that charming, slightly cocky grin that’s been getting girls screaming since he joined the band. He hasn’t even lost that fucking dimple. I haven’t seen him outside of tabloid photos in years, but he’s still instantly recognizable. That once boyish jawline is all man now, as is the brawn that fills out the casual tee he’s wearing. I don’t let my eyes dip any lower than that.

“That’s quite the cake,” he says, nodding toward the caved-in cock.

“Yeah,” I say, smearing my sticky bangs back. “But it wasn’t quite what they were looking for. Small mistake on my part.” My gaze creeps back to the cake. “Okay, a very big mistake.”

As soon as my hair is out of my face, Drew does a double take. “Maggie?” he says, blinking. His grin turns gleeful. “Maggie Hayes?”

Fuck. Did he have to recognize me? I’d been hoping the cake facial might be enough of a disguise, considering we haven’t been face to face since I was seventeen. There go my chances of anonymously disappearing as if none of this ever happened.

“Yeah,” I sigh. “Been a while, right?”

“I’m surprised I haven’t seen you around before now. Way back, you and McKenna were practically glued to each other.” His gaze drops to the cake, and he chuckles. “But I guess you’ve been . . . busy. Do you need some help cleaning up?”

“No, really, that’s okay,” I say quickly. “I don’t want to interrupt whatever you were doing.” No need to prolong the humiliation.

I bend down to grab the roasting pan, and do my best to scoop-slash-roll the cake back inside. “It’s no trouble,” he says. “What kind of man would I be if I couldn’t take a moment to save a lovely young woman from a giant dick?”

I snort, which probably disqualifies me from loveliness right there. He takes the pan, and I’m not in the mood for another tug of war over it. “OK,” I sigh. “Thanks.”

Drew follows me to the kitchen, where I make a beeline for the industrial sink. I try dabbing water on my face with a paper towel, but it’s pretty much useless, so I give up and just dunk my head under the faucet. Soon, my bangs are dripping and my face tingles from scrubbing, but I think I’ve managed to remove all traces of frosting from my being.

Drew Delaney.

Motherfuck.

I can’t believe this is happening, after all these years. The last time I saw him comes rushing back to me, and what do you know? It was also one of the most humiliating moments of my teenage life. Junior prom. Even now, I wince to remember it. By then, McKenna and I were on the outs, and I was pretty much a social pariah. I wanted to just skip the whole thing and stay home, but my mom insisted: she arranged one of her friend’s brother’s nephews to take me, and despite my better judgment, I was actually holding out hope it would be fun, like one of those teen movies where I would come waltzing into the gym with some hot guy on my arm and be the belle of the ball. So there I was, all dolled up in my cute blue prom dress with sparkly butterflies on the bodice (don’t judge), waiting on the front porch for Kyle Leibowitz to pick me up.

And waiting. And waiting.

I got to watch a limo pull up across the street, and McKenna climb in with all her friends. I got to watch them drive away, music pounding. And I got to realize that I wasn’t ever going to the party, because I’d been stood up. By a boy I’d never even met.

It was the low point of a spectacularly unremarkable high-school career . . . until Drew strolled across the street in his low-slung jeans and oh-so ironic “boybands suck” T-shirt (seriously, don’t judge). He was already topping the charts by then, just back in town for a break before the next leg of their world tour. “All dressed up with no place to go?” he’d asked, with a sympathetic smile, and somehow, I’d wound up telling him the whole sorry story. The next thing I knew, he was taking me out for fries and a milkshake at the drive-thru, regaling me with funny stories from the road until my humiliation was a distant memory.

It was the best night of my life—to hell with junior prom—and he even gave me my first-ever kiss, dropping me off that night on my front porch.

OK, so it was a peck on the cheek, but I turned my head at the last minute, and his lips almost brushed the corner of my mouth.

It still totally counts.

Now, I wonder if he even remembers it. Probably not. If even half the stories about him are true, he’s spent the past ten years doing a lot more than almosts.

And now he’s here. All grown up, the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen—and with a front-row seat to my latest humiliation.

I guess some things never change.

I make sure all the glittery frosting is gone and brace myself before turning back around. Drew has hopped up on a stool beside the cake, contemplating my handiwork. My cheeks flush again.

“Don’t ask.”

“Wasn’t going to.” He grins. “Seems a shame to waste, though. I’ve got to say I’m curious how it tastes.”

My eyebrows jump up. “I didn’t think dick would really be your thing.”

He laughs. “Not under normal circumstances. But you have to be willing to make exceptions for the right woman. Just the tip?” he asks, smirking.

“I’ve heard that before,” I laugh. “But sure, go ahead.”

I watch as Drew grabs a fork and digs in. I’m still having a little trouble believing this is real, but the professional in me can’t help watching his expression as he takes a bite. Waiting for that first unguarded reaction that’ll tell me exactly how successful I’ve been.

Drew chews, and his expression melts with delight. “Fuck, I think this is the best cake I’ve ever eaten. What the hell do you put in this, Maggie?”

I grin. “Oh, you know, the usual: flour, eggs, sugar, butter—and a heck of a lot of rum.”

He gulps down another forkful.

“You said just the tip,” I remind him, teasing.

“I can’t help myself.” He grins back at me. “It feels too good.”

I snort with laughter as Drew demolishes half the shaft. “This really is great,” he says, mouth full. “Now I’m especially glad I ran into you. My views on cake have been changed forever.”

“Yes, it’s really great that we could reconnect over the most humiliating moment in my life,” I say dryly.

“Oh, please.” He waves his fork at me. “You want to talk humiliation? Did you ever hear about the time I messed up my lines on Japanese national TV and accidentally invited the host to an orgy? If I could survive that, you’re sitting pretty.”

“That’s kind of different. You were hot and famous—of course people cut you more slack.”

His hazel eyes gleam. “All I’m hearing is that you think I’m hot.”

I manage not to swallow my tongue. “I believe I said you were hot. Past tense.”

“Ouch.” He makes an exaggerated wince, but he’s still smiling. “You’re clearly a tough woman to impress.”

“Well, you know, when you’re used to handling dicks this big . . .” I jab my thumb toward the cake, barely restraining a snicker.

Drew starts to laugh so hard he almost chokes on his last mouthful. He manages to swallow, shaking his head. “Okay, that’s a challenge if I ever heard one. What do you say I take you out for a drink and we’ll see what you think of me in an hour or two?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s cheating if you’ve got to get a few drinks in a girl before she calls you hot.”

“You’re welcome to stick to the virgin beverages if that’s more your thing.” He looks at me, and suddenly, his gaze gets . . . smoldering. “You missed a spot.”

Before I figure out what he’s talking about, he’s already reaching out to graze his thumb across the sensitive skin just below my ear. My pulse stutters as he slowly licks frosting off his thumb.

“There,” he says, in the voice that made four platinum records and right now is on the verge of melting my panties off. “Now you’re perfect. So what do you say to that drink?”

Oh, why the hell not? I deserve a drink after everything I’ve been through today.

Make that a double.

“Sure,” I say. “I need it. Just let me get changed into something a little less frosted.”

* * *

An hour later, we’re cozied up at a bar downtown, that double has become a triple, and I’ve just about forgotten the cock cake humiliation. Of course, staring into the seductive eyes of my former crush helps with that.

“And then,” Drew says, “there was the alligator in the swimming pool. But we won’t even get into that.” He sets his Jack & Coke down on the glossy black bar counter and grins at me.

“Oh, no.” I shake my martini at him. “You don’t throw out a line like that and then sweep it under the rug.”

“Believe me, there are some stories better left untold,” he says, with a mock-solemn tone that makes me suspect he might have made the alligator up. Although given the other crazy shenanigans he’s copped to so far, it’s hardly implausible.

“Tease.”

He laughs. “Maybe later. Why don’t you tell me how you became the baker of spectacular cakes you are today? I don’t want you to think all I do is talk about myself.”

“But you’re so good at it,” I say with a jokey flutter of my eyelashes. Drew rewards me with another laugh, but then he gives me a pointed look. Oh, fine.

“I just always liked baking and experimenting with different flavors. Trying to make stuff you can’t get anywhere else. Surprising people. I started doing the more . . . risqué designs as a joke, but it was so much fun seeing the reactions to them—and everyone loved them—I just kept finding ways to top whatever I’d done before.”

“So you’re into topping,” Drew says, raising his glass as if in toast.

I roll my eyes at him. “In the kitchen.”

“Ah, even kinkier.”

“Says the guy who was literally eating dick an hour ago. Anyway, I did some business classes in college, had my own little shop here in Philly for a while, but I always wanted to go bigger, you know.” I point my finger at Drew when he opens his mouth. “Don’t even start.”

“What?” he says, all innocence. “I thought we’d already figured out back at the country club that size absolutely matters to you.”

“Shut up. I saved up enough to get a great space in Brooklyn, moved out there this spring.” I hesitate. This has been a fun conversation so far. I don’t want to take it anywhere painful.

“But things didn’t work out?” Drew fills in.

I shrug. “Bad luck. This celebrity chef—Sunny Street, who was on that baking reality show?—she decided to set up shop down the street from me a month later. No one could compete with that.”

The memory pops into my head of heading to the bakery and seeing the dozens of people lined up outside her place, the sidewalk in front of mine totally empty. My stomach clenches. Yeah, let’s not go there.

“So what are you doing back in town?” I ask Drew. “You said you’re still in the music industry?”

He nods. “Behind the scenes now. I write and produce for other bands, develop new talent. But I’m actually setting up a new home base here. I bought a building just off Market Street, and I’m getting settled in the recording studio now.”

“Wow. I’d have thought you’d want to stay in the thick of things down in LA.”

“Nah.” Drew makes a face. “You have no idea how crazy it gets down there. Well, maybe you do a little after all my stories. Call me a traditionalist, but I felt that call back to my hometown.”

“I’m pretty sure after hearing those stories, no one would call you a traditionalist,” I say.

He grins. “Maybe not. But it is the kind of biz that tends to chew people up and spit them out. The other guys from Cat-5—Chris is managing a car dealership out in Oklahoma of all places. Married with five kids, if you can believe it.”

“Sure, that fits.” Chris was the band’s baby-faced innocent, for the boy-next-door fangirls.

“Eli is living on a monastery in Thailand—he found Buddhism, you see. Charlie is always hopping from one gig to another, I can never keep up. It’s only Wade who’s still focused on the music business—he’s working at a label now. Sends his best acts my way.”

My mouth twitches with amusement. “Isn’t he the one who only made it into the band because his dad was buddies with the guys who got you all together?”

“Yeah.” Drew runs a hand through his tawny hair. “Hard to figure that one. Obviously he picked up a few things along the way.”

I swallow the rest of my drink, watching the light play off Drew’s hair and his biceps flex against the sleeve of his tee. If I were going to make a Drew Delaney cupcake, it’d have to pack a lot of punch. Rich golden batter base with a spicy swirl of cinnamon and a sexy kick of whiskey. And the frosting, hmmm. Melt-in-your-mouth butterscotch hiding a drizzle of dark chocolate. He’s got layers—delicious, delicious layers. Get it?

Er, maybe I’ve been chugging these martinis a little faster than is wise. Is this my third or my fourth?

Fuck it. Who cares? It’s not as if I can embarrass myself more than I already have tonight in front of this godly specimen of manhood. What’s the point in trying to impress him anyway? We’re both having fun, but it’s all talk. Last thing I read online, he was fresh off a divorce to some gorgeous yoga babe, rebounding with one of the Kardashians. He’s hardly going to be jonesing to get in my pants.

I motion to the bartender. “Another of the same.” When he sets the glass down in front of me, Drew arches an eyebrow.

“You’re putting my stamina to shame.”

“Booze is my livelihood,” I point out, and gulp down about a third of that glass. Yep, that’s good. My head is spinning slightly, but that’s totally okay. “Although I’ve got to ask, was your choreographer drunk when he came up with some of those early routines? Because it seriously looked that way. What was that signature move they had you do—pumping your arms all over the place?”

Drew snickers. “Yeah, that, ah, was not the high point of my career. But I had some pretty slick moments too, you’ve got to admit.”

“I don’t know,” I tease. “Which part? The one where you all were dancing through some weird game of Twister with flashing lights? Or—what was that video that had you literally bopping away up in the clouds?”

“Hey,” Drew says, holding up his hands. “I just sang what they told me, and wrote when they let me, and otherwise I figured the guys in charge knew what they were doing. Anyway, I didn’t hear a whole lot of complaints back then.”

“No, I guess not. Although maybe all those fangirls were blinded by that shiny smile of yours.”

He takes that as a cue to turn that smile on me. “Whatever works, right? I’ll take my glory however it comes.”

Even though that smile really is one of the most gorgeous sights I’ve ever seen, my mood abruptly plummets. Brooklyn was supposed to be my chance at glory. But I fucked that up, didn’t I? Who knows if I’ll get an opportunity like that again? I’ve got to work my way back up from catering cakes for the likes of Becky Haverton—and I fucked that job up too.

“You’re right,” I say. “You earned that glory. Don’t listen to my sour grapes.”

His expression softens. “You caught a tough break. It happens to all of us.”

“Oh, yeah?” I snort. “I’ll bet you my tough breaks outrank yours.”

“Really?” Drew grins. “I’m not one to back down from a challenge. Let’s get some shots over here.”

The bartender lines up a row of little glasses, the bottoms ringed with amber liquid. Drew points at me to take the lead. Sure, let’s do this.

“My bank account is so empty I’m living at my parents’ house for the first time in ten years.”

Drew nods and downs a shot. “I once blew a million dollars investing in a hotel development that got shut down halfway through ‘construction’ for operating as a brothel.”

I laugh. My first shot burns down my throat.

“I dated a guy for a year before finding out he only wanted to continue the relationship if we’d start doing it as furries,” I admit.

Drew chuckles and drinks. “I eloped for a Vegas wedding to a pop star I’d only known one day and who was ready to choke me with her extensions by the second day. 36 hours to annulment!”

“I read about that!” I squeal. “Jenna, um, what’s her name?”

“Now? No idea,” Drew winces. “She’s on husband number six, I think.”

“Makes your two look positively chaste,” I tell him, and then immediately regret it. “Sorry.”

“Hey, you’re just telling it like it is.” Drew shrugs. “At least I gave my second marriage a shot. Four years, and she’s the one who called it off.”

“Why?” I ask. I can’t imagine calling anything off with Drew, unless he’s got a secret furry fetish too I don’t know about yet.

Drew sighs. “It was all plenty amicable. She’s really into yoga and new-age spirituality—”

I snort into my martini. “Sorry, I’m just trying to imagine you doing yoga.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know my vinyasa is expert,” Drew laughs. “But, yeah. In the beginning, it’s what brought us together. I was looking to start over, make healthy choices, you know? But she decided we’d reached the ‘ceiling of our growth together.’ Apparently, my aura was holding her back from pursuing enlightenment. With her guru. Bottom’s up.” He nudges my glass.

“Damn, you’re really upping the ante.” I gulp my second shot and brace my elbow against the counter to stop myself from swaying. My tongue feels as though it’s across the room from my brain. “OK, you want the truth? My dream bakery went under in three months flat. And my only paying work since was for someone who never talked to me unless it was to laugh at me back in high school.”

Drew winces on my behalf. He tosses down another shot. “My first solo album bombed so bad I got downgraded from stadiums to coffee shops before my tour even started. And the record company practically paid me not to do another.”

Yikes. “All right,” I say. “I think you might win after all.” I chug another shot, and it kicks me right in the brain. The last thing I remember is gazing at Drew’s brilliant smile and feeling it turn me into just as much mush as it did at sixteen.