Tasty by Bella Cruise

this place for thirty years, Jules,” she begins. I lift
my eyebrows.
    “You
don’t look a day over forty.”
    “Puh-lease.
I’m fifty-seven. But I was once a young, hot woman like you.
Full of life, tits out to here before I had my babies. Now they’re
down to my ankles.”
    I
roll my eyes. They’re not. Hermosa is as fit as any Miami mami.
But she just laughs at my expression and goes on.
    “You
have to work it while you got it, Jules. Have fun. With men, and
food, and dancing, and wine. Don’t worry about this—what
did you call it?”
    “Pop-up
shop.”
    “Pshaw.”
Hermosa flashes a hand through the air. “Pop-up shit is more
like it. You know the restaurant next door used to be a Cuban bakery.
Then a laundrette. Then a pawn shop. Can you imagine if I’d
buckled as soon as they opened, if I peed in my pants and cried into
my boots? You just gotta be strong and not let any of this get you
down.”
    “Okay,
okay,” I concede, plucking a crumb from Hermosa’s plate.
She’s inhaled almost half the cupcakes. “I’ll do my
best.”
    “You
better. Because you know, the other guy won’t be just ‘good
enough.’ You have to let yourself be really, genuinely great. I
know you have it in you.”
    “Thanks,
Hermosa,” I say, and she puts her hand on top of mine to
squeeze.
    “Anytime,
mama.”
    I
go to bus our table for Hermosa, making room for the customers who
continue to trail through the door. Lunch hour is almost over, but
business hasn’t slowed at all. I guess that’s
perseverance for you.
    I’m
feeling pretty good about our talk. I might not have a plan, not yet,
but after chatting with Hermosa and cupcakecasanova, I feel like I
have the attitude. And that’s half the battle to taking out
Mecca Cakes—and Cal with it.
    But
then I drop off my tray and turn from the garbage can, and I run
smack dab into a man’s enormous, white-cotton clad chest. When
I look up, I almost choke in surprise. There in front of me is Cal
McKenzie, looking even better than he does in my fantasies.
    “What
are you doing here?” I demand. He smiles, smoothly, serenely.
    “I
could ask you the same thing,” he says.
     
    #
     
    It
turns out that Cal is here for the same reason I am: because Hermosa
makes the best damn pastelitos this side of Havana. He tells me he
fell in love with them while touring for his TV show. His excuses
don’t stop me from eying him suspiciously. But then Hermosa
rushes from her table and envelops him in a hug. It looks a little
bit like a small child hugging a St. Bernard. He even ruffles her
hair fondly when the embrace is over.
    “Jules!”
she says happily, “do you know Callum McKenzie? He’s on television .”
    “I’ve
heard,” I say dryly.
    “You
two should talk,” she says, putting a hand on each of our backs
and shoving us together. “You’d make cute babies.”
    With
that, she disappears behind the kitchen door. Damn that Hermosa. Not
subtle at all, but I guess when you’ve lived through the shit
that she has, you lose your tolerance for social niceties. Now I’m
all alone with Cal, and standing so close to him that I can
practically feel his chest rising and falling besides mine. I take a
careful step backwards.
    God,
I hate that his very presence makes me feel this way—hot and
bothered, full of goosebumps. It was easier when he was only my
rival. But the way he touched me in that alleyway unmoored me,
knocked me off center. I never knew I could enjoy hate-fucking so
much. Or hate-non-fucking. There’s a big part of me that still
wants to take him up on that rain check. But is that a good idea? I
need time to reflect on what exactly I want from Cal, if anything.
Hard to do that when he’s staring intently at me.
    “She’s
got a way with words,” I mutter to Cal. He lets out a laugh.
    “No
argument here. Hermosa’s brilliant.”
    “She
is. Don’t you love this place? It’s small, but it’s
so cozy. I’ve never seen it less than completely