The Heavenly Baker

THE HEAVENLY BAKER

An erotic novella

JJ Monroe

Ava Michaels, the proprietor of Little Angels bakery, is a born romantic who harbours a torch for celebrity baker, Matt Richards. When she catches her current boyfriend in flagrante delicto she seeks solace and vodka in the shape of her best friend who decides there and then to enter Ava into the latest Heavenly Baker competition.

Thinking nothing more of it, Ava is shocked to receive a call from the Heavenly Baker's assistant asking her to travel up to London for an audition. Unwilling to get her hopes up, Ava nonetheless wows all who meet her including the Heavenly Baker himself. When their eyes meet across a crowded television studio there is no turning back and the blue touch paper is well and truly lit.

Sugar and spice and all things very naughty; is it lust or love that propels Ava into the arms of Matt Richards? She doesn't care as she is having so much fun until the arrival of Roxy McQueen, an old flame, and then the stakes are upped.

Can Ava compete with the minxy Roxy McQueen or is she destined to be unlucky in love?

Chapter One – The Raincoat Girl

I feel dirty. I feel lowdown, tramp-like dirty standing outside my lover's apartment dressed only in my fresh-out-of-the-box navy blue demi-bra, matching lace panties, and heels beneath my favourite red greatcoat. Is this how hookers feel? No, they dress far more cheaply than I am. I'm a high-class working girl in this outfit, the kind you book through an agency. You can't just pick me up on any street corner. No, that would be cheap and really filthy. I'm not there yet. I'm just dirty.

This is delicious. I'm not a bad girl, but we all have our moments and I've been planning this little outing for weeks in my head now. My boy is going to be so blown away that he's really not going to know what's hit him and then he's going to be so turned on that I'm not going to be able to sit down properly for a week. At least! If I'm really lucky!

I blow the air out of my cheeks and try to calm my racing heart as I reach for the buzzer. Then it occurs to me. Why not ramp up the surprise to the next level? Why give him the satisfaction of regaining some element of control before we've even reached his apartment? Surely it would be more devastating to surprise him right outside his door. Say hello, drop the coat, and watch him blow his load as he surveys my cookies. What better way to claim an all-out victory then a blitzkrieg attack right on his doorstep? Yes, the more I think about it, the more I can't fault the perfect logic.

Fishing his keys out of my coat pocket, I let myself into the apartment building and walk to the elevator. I feel horny. I don't normally do this kind of thing, and it's blowing my mind. Calm yourself, girlie! Don't blow it yet! Though thinking about my lover's cock is getting me ridiculously wet. This lingerie is beautiful to the touch but I fear for its safety when he gets a look at me. Call the president. We're about to go to Defcon One!

I have a pretty face, I think, and a good figure. My breasts are a handful but not pneumatic, but my legs are long and slim which always helps the cause. I used to have my hazel hair in a bob and even went through a phase of dyeing it black, but now I've let it grow out and it falls down my neck and onto my shoulders and I kind of like it as it is presently, but who knows how long that will last? I get bored and then I make decisions, and not all of them have been sound, but this is new for me. Creeping around the city at night dressed only in my underwear, I feel like some kind of sexual vigilante – or maybe not.

My palms feel sweaty now I'm outside the door of my lover's apartment. I'm ultra-nervous and consider walking away, a moment of doubt. Then I rationalise; I've come this far and this lingerie really isn't to be missed so come on, where's your backbone? Slotting the key into the lock I take a deep breath and then another for good luck and press on.

It's like bullet time in
The Matrix
when I open the door and step inside. Everything slows down. My lover pushes the girl away, the one who is kneeling before him as he sits sprawled on the couch with his jeans undone and his cock in her mouth. She staggers backwards in complete surprise and winds up lying on her back like a flailing turtle. He yells something as he tries to push his erect cock back into his jeans and I stand open-mouthed while all of this unfolds before me and all I can think is at least my coat is still buttoned. I'm so shocked that I'm not actually angry but that emotion, seemingly still lagging behind in the elevator, arrives soon enough and then it is just how I imagine World War Three will be; screaming, yelling and bombs going off left, right, and centre.

It's too much for the senses to deal with. I turn around, close the door quietly behind me and walk away. The elevator is a welcome sanctuary. Leaving his apartment building helps, but the passing cab is a gift from the gods. I duck inside, thus avoiding any further confrontation, and let the familiar sights and sounds of this little coastal town wash over me. I block out the anger, I refuse to consider the awful awkwardness of everything and in my mind I think I deny the existence of this night. It never happened.

Retreating to the safety of my little house I strip off the lingerie, no longer gorgeous, and shower for no apparent reason than to wash off the memory of a nightmare evening. I hide out in sweats and turn off my phone. I try to watch the television but I'm too distracted. I try to read but it's impossible so I accept the inevitable. I turn my phone back on and make the call to the one person I know who will not judge me and who'll feed me ice-cream and other completely inappropriate chocolate-based food products.

Carly is my romance guru. Carly is the font of all knowledge. Carly is my best friend. I trust her implicitly. She greets me at the door to her apartment with a shot glass.

‘Drink this.'

‘What is it?' I ask.

‘Don't ask questions!' she insists. ‘You come to me for solace. You come to me for advice and I will heal you, but the healing process begins with a shot.'

I eye the shot glass suspiciously. Carly coughs, so I concede and drink and it burns all the way down.

‘Lightweight,' she mutters, retrieving the glass. She walks over to the coffee table and pours me a fresh shot from the Tequila bottle.

‘I really hate Tequila,' I tell her, with the taste of Mexico's finest memory-loss potion very much alive in my mouth.

‘Good for you.' Carly hands me the glass refilled. ‘Drink!'

‘I don't want to get loaded.'

‘Drink,' she insists, so I do and it burns just as badly the second time around. I blink away the tears.

‘When was the last time you got loaded?' she asks.

‘I can't remember,' I say.

‘That's shocking!' Carly retrieves the glass, intent on refilling it for a second time.

‘No more,' I plead.

‘Drink,' she orders.

‘I'll yack if I keep going at this rate.'

‘Last one,' promises Carly.

‘I think you're lying.'

‘That's a terrible thing for you to say.'

‘It is,' I agree. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘You're forgiven,' says Carly. ‘Now drink.'

I sink it. This isn't getting any easier. I'm pleased to see Carly remove the bottle to safety.

‘You want to talk about it?' she asks from the kitchen.

‘I feel really stupid,' I admit.

Carly returns from the kitchen with a monster tub of Chunky Monkey and two spoons.

‘It's for emergencies,' she explains, noticing my raised eyebrows. Placing the tub on the coffee table, she hands me a spoon. ‘Dig in.'

‘Thanks.'

‘You're not stupid,' she reminds me, levering the lid off the ice cream tub. ‘What happened?'

‘I got dressed up.'

‘Expensive lingerie?'

‘Check. I went to surprise him.'

‘Don't tell me,' says Carly, a step ahead of me. ‘It wasn't him who was surprised?'

‘Yes. I should have called.'

‘Honey, that's not the way it works when you're surprising your man. So how bad was it?'

‘Some floozy on her knees sucking him off. It really wasn't dignified.'

‘Did you recognise her?'

‘No.'

‘That's OK,' Carly assures me. ‘We can track her down.'

‘You're not going to stalk her on Facebook?'

‘Don't be a spoilsport,' says Carly. ‘I'm getting really good at it.'

‘That's worrying.'

‘Don't use that tone,' she counters. ‘Sometimes needs must.' She reaches for a spoon and carves into chocolate heaven. ‘You're not going to call him, are you?'

‘No.' I'm not going to, but then instantly I lose my nerve. ‘I don't know.'

‘You're
not
going to call him. He's officially binned and you, my dear, are moving on.' Her eyes light up. ‘Of course, we can do that now.'

‘We can do what now?' I ask. My inner calm is all at sea. Carly shouldn't be this happy. She leaves the couch momentarily, returning with a bottle of whisky and two glasses. ‘For courage,' she insists and pours two measures.

‘I'm fine,' I reply.

‘Drink,' she insists. She's like a broken record, but I drink all the same.

‘Now you're single and back on the market.'

‘Easy there,' I mutter. ‘I'm hardly ready to get back out there and start dating. My heart has just been broken.'

‘Bullshit!' declares Carly. ‘You didn't love him. You were always complaining about him. It was only the sex that was keeping you together.'

‘The sex was good,' I admit.

‘He's not the only man who knows what he's doing in the bedroom,' she reminds me.

‘What are you doing?' I ask as she taps away on her little tablet.

‘You'll see,' she replies with a mischievous smile, crossing her legs and reaching for her drink. She is shorter than I am but has the physique of a dancer – that is until her breasts grew and then grew some more. I'm jealous of Carly's breasts and a little bit envious of her lovers. They must be fun to play with and now I know I'm drunk because my mind is wandering down avenues it doesn't need to go down. Both having big, brown eyes and dark locks, we occasionally get confused as sisters, but clearly I'm the prettier one. (It's a joke, OK!) She is seriously good looking.

‘No, seriously, what are you doing?' I say. ‘You're making me nervous.'

‘I can see that,' she replies. ‘Put your trust in me, girlie, and I will deliver to you a happy ever after.'

‘You've hacked George Clooney's account and got me a date?'

‘No, I'm still working on that little conundrum,' she admits.

‘So what are you doing?'

‘You'll see,' she says and continues tapping on the tablet.

‘You're not signing me up for internet dating, are you?'

‘No,' she replies. ‘This is so much cooler.'

‘You're scaring me.'

‘Chill out, stressed girl,' she murmurs. ‘I'm about to make all of your dreams come true.'

‘How are you going to do that?'

‘I'm entering you in
The Heavenly Baker
contest.'

‘No, you're not.'

‘Yes I am,' says Carly, undeterred. ‘We've spoken about this and now, with that deadbeat kicked to touch, it's the perfect opportunity for you to get your rocks off with our studly baker boy!'

‘No! Hang on – did you just call my boyfriend a deadbeat?'

‘I did, and he's officially your ex now so it's perfectly fine.'

‘Exactly how long have you thought of him as a deadbeat?'

‘Since the two of you hooked up.'

‘And you never considered saying anything?'

‘No. You would have sulked. You were into him. It's not my place to say anything.'

‘Wow! You're a better liar than I thought. I never knew.'

‘I'm a world-class liar when I need to be,' explains Carly.

‘What if he'd proposed?'

‘It was never going to happen.'

‘You don't know that.'

‘Yes, I do. You were convenient, but he was never that into you and you chose to ignore that because the sex was good.'

‘But if he had proposed?'

‘I would have made you see sense like now.' She holds up the tablet, smiling at me, her finger hovering over the send instruction.

‘No, wait!' I plead. ‘At least let me read it.'

‘No chance of that happening,' says Carly, shaking her head. ‘I'm not that dense. You'll delete all my beautiful prose.'

‘I won't. I promise.'

‘You actually sound very convincing but I've been burned before,' she warns me. ‘I'm immune to your feminine wiles. This is going to happen and you are not going to stop me. Your Jedi mind tricks will not work on me, girlie!'

‘You're a little bit drunk, aren't you?'

‘I may have tested the Tequila before your arrival,' admits Carly.

‘Wow! I've only just worked that out.'

‘That's because you're a little bit smashed now,' she says. ‘But don't worry. Everything is going to turn out brilliantly. You have my word on that.'

‘How can you possibly know?' I ask.

‘Some things a girl just knows.'

‘Well, I don't. Let me see the application.'

‘OK,' says Carly. She adjusts her grip on the tablet to hand it to me but then passes her finger over the send button. ‘Oops!' she murmurs, smiling guiltily. ‘How did that happen?'

‘I wonder?' I reply, shaking my head.

‘There's nothing for it.' She shrugs. ‘We might as well drink.'

‘Except for the small detail that we both have to be at work early tomorrow,' I remind her. ‘I promised the Clarks I'd have their anniversary cake finished by the close of play.'

‘Why would you do something silly like that?' enquires Carly, frowning at me.

‘It may have something to do with me being the boss.'

‘Just have a drink,' she urges. ‘It'll all seem clearer in the morning.'

‘You're such a liar!'

‘But you still love me.' She pours another measure of whisky for both of us and hands me a glass.

‘I will throw up.'

‘That's a price I think we're willing to pay.' Carly raises her glass aloft. ‘I think we should toast.'

‘To what are we toasting?' I ask.

‘To useless men and to starting over,' says Carly. ‘I still believe in fairy tales and happy ever after!'

‘I'll drink to that.' We clink glasses and drink. The evening gets blurry. That often happens when alcohol and Carly are involved.