Sweet Destiny

Sweet Destiny

Kelly Ann Carter, a farm girl from Iowa, never expected to find herself this far away from home, in the big city of Miami, following her dreams of becoming a professional chef.

But now, she’ll do anything to make her dreams come true – even if that means ignoring her heart’s warnings when she meets the sexy, confident Gil Martinez on her first day of culinary school.

Their attraction may be a recipe for disaster. Yet, with the right ingredients, could it could turn into a recipe for love...?

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Sweet Destiny

Oh, come on! Really? I groaned as I kicked the sheets off my bed and knocked over the alarm clock that had failed to wake me up on time for my first day of class. Running to the shower and then throwing on my white student cook’s uniform, I unleashed a torrent of every obscenity known in the English language, along with some I just made up on the spot.

Do you want a lift to school? My great aunt peeped her head around the corner. She was still in her nightgown, no doubt just woken by my epic blue streak. Hesitating for a split second, I then dashed to the kitchen to grab an apple, the only thing I’d have to eat before noon.

No, but thank you. I think I can make it.

I’d ridden with Auntie Helen before. Once when she picked me up from the airport a week ago and then when I went on errands with her the day before yesterday. The way she drove aged me twenty years.

She watched me flail around her small two-bedroom condo and sighed.

Well, at least let me make you some coffee.

I scraped my bangs back from my forehead, partly because they were still wet and sticking to my face, but also out of frustration. I couldn’t find the extra set of keys she had given me. My socks didn’t match and an angry red pimple had popped up on the tip of my nose overnight.

Mercury was in total retrograde for me, turning everything upside down and fantastically wrong. Maybe it was a sign that I should never have left Iowa in the first place.

Auntie Helen handed me a steaming mug of instant coffee from the microwave and a blueberry Danish sealed in plastic wrap.

Kelly, you don’t know Miami’s public transportation system yet. Let me drive you, just this once. Wouldn’t want you to be late for your first big day of cooking school!

She gave me a smile that was half sweetness, half smirk and all no-nonsense Midwestern, as if she could read my mind about wanting to give up before I even started. I tried not to grimace as I looked at the weak brown water and sugar coated doorstop in my hand.

Auntie Helen may have been pushing seventy-five, but she had a mind as sharp as a bear trap. She had opened her home to me so I could take a pastry course at the Miami campus of L'Académie Gastronome, one of the oldest and most prestigious cooking schools in the country. With that on my resume, I could fulfill my dream of working as a pastry chef in any of the world’s finest restaurants.

I exhaled and straightened my shoulders. Stop being a brat.

Okay, thank you, I said and took a sip of the coffee. It burned my lip and tasted like tree bark soup. Auntie Helen’s face beamed.

Let me just throw something on and I’ll get my keys. She padded to her room and I stashed the Danish in my bag, vowing to give it to the next homeless person I saw. I looked at the clock on the kitchen wall and then pulled up my class schedule on my smartphone. If we left in two minutes, I would possibly just make the first one, Classic French Techniques-Cakes, Pastries and Macaroons at 9am.

All right, Kelly Ann, let’s roll.

My aunt breezed through the kitchen wearing large round pink sunglasses, a matching hot pink dress and enough sparkly costume jewelry to fill a treasure chest. I looked at her and smiled. She may have had lousy taste in food, but she made up for it in spades with fabulously eccentric personal style and a huge heart.

It made me wonder, not for the first time, how I could possibly belong to my family. The best thing you can say about the way I dress is that it’s neat and clean-mostly, when I’m not covered in flour and powdered sugar, that is.

My mom told me that her mother, Auntie Helen’s baby sister, always dressed to the nines, even to go the corner store in Dubuque, Iowa. My dad is no slouch in the looks department either. Both my parents have toothpaste smiles, shampoo commercial golden blonde hair and slim model physiques. I’m curvy, average height, with a mop of unruly brown curls that have been a nightmare to control since I stepped off the plane into the South Florida humidity.

Another thing that sets me apart from my family is that no one cooks. One of my first memories is being shooed out of the kitchen when I was five years old.

What on earth are you doing standing on that chair in front of the stove, Kelly Ann? my mom asked me one Sunday morning.

I saw a lady making pancakes on TV and I want to do it too.

My father walked in and lifted me to the ground. Well, that’s what restaurants are for, Pumpkin. And nice waitresses to bring us breakfast. Let’s go out to eat.

That’s pretty much what the motto on our family crest would be, if we had one. Let’s Go Out To Eat.

But I did get at least one thing from my mother: big blue eyes, just like all the women in her family. Auntie Helen’s sparkled when she smiled, showing off deep dimples in her plump cheeks, making her appear fifteen years younger. That’s another trait I inherited, a round baby face. I’m twenty-two and look twelve, but I will probably appreciate it in my forties.

So, I’m not hideous or anything. The most common compliment I get on my looks is that I’m cute. Grrr. Cute. I want to be the Sophia Loren of the pastry world, a sensual goddess of scrumptious confections and sugary delights. But right now, my biggest worry was hauling my butt to school.

Thanks, Auntie Helen. I’m ready to go.

She nodded her head as she jangled her keys. Good. And I’ll get you on my insurance so you can take the car sometime too. It’s good for a girl to have her independence.

Auntie Helen was pretty awesome.

I swallowed the rest of the coffee in one gulp and put the mug in the sink. Fighting the urge to rinse my mouth to get the bitter taste out, I wiped my lips with the back of my hand. Auntie Helen made a face and looked away. Quickly, I ripped a paper towel off a roll on the counter and delicately dabbed the corners of my mouth to satisfy her sense of propriety.

In the hallway, Auntie Helen stopped to introduce me to all the passing neighbors. Everyone who lived in the building was over sixty-five, so a young person was a constant source of curiosity and a chance to compete in the my grandson is a lawyer, well, my grandson is a doctor Olympics. I answered questions and shook hands politely, but my heart pounded like a timpani drum.

The elite cooking schools are no joke. Lazy and unprepared students are weeded out immediately. If I were late on the first day, I would have to work like crazy to show that I was serious about being the finest pastry chef of my generation. Auntie Helen glanced at me in the elevator. She could see the panic in my eyes as a tiny lavender haired woman with a walker waved at us to hold the door.

Sorry, Madge, she called out as they closed.

I breathed out a sigh. Thank you. Sorry. Hope that wasn’t a good friend.

Auntie Helen shrugged. She’s one of the forgetful ones. In five minutes she won’t remember a thing. Then she giggled. Oh, I’m a terrible person.

Thankfully, the lobby was empty, except for the security guard who stood and tipped his hat to us.

My aunt gave him a serene little wave, like the Queen Of England. Morning, John.

The humidity outside felt like someone dropped a wet towel over my face, the minute we stepped out into the underground garage.

Buckle up, Buttercup, Auntie Helen said as we got into her ice blue Cadillac. I didn’t have to be told twice. She started the engine and peeled out of there like Dale Earnhardt Jr. I clutched the sides of the seat, my knuckles white as we sped out onto Miami Gardens Drive and over the Intercostal Bridge to L'Académie Gastronome’s South Beach campus.

The sky was a cloudless blue. I breathed deeply and felt the knots in my shoulders loosen just a bit. Maybe I would be on time after all. As we crossed the bridge, I let out a little gasp. The sun sparkled on the turquoise ocean and bounced off the glass on the blindingly white apartment towers and buildings.

Wow, it’s like Oz, I said.

Auntie Helen smiled dreamily. It is lovely. I can’t imagine ever living anywhere else.

A thickness at the back of my throat made me swallow. Don’t you ever miss Iowa? I said, thinking about the lush green rolling hills, the red farms dotting the landscape. Mom. Dad.

Auntie Helen slapped the steering wheel, making me jump. Hell no! And you shouldn’t either. You have the world at your feet. You’re a brilliant beautiful girl.

She caught my eye roll and wagged her finger.

You are and you better believe it. If you don’t, no one else will.

I mumbled something under my breath. Auntie Helen chuckled. I’ll choose to interpret that as your awe at the astonishing wisdom of my age.

We drove the rest of way in silence, save for her humming a tune that was probably written before my parents were born. I loved to hear her sing. In the late 50s, she was the lead vocalist in her husband’s swing band, Frankie Cash’s All-Stars. They played all the big hotels on Miami Beach.

Her apartment was filled with photo albums of her looking unbelievably glamorous in gorgeous dresses, drinking and laughing with Frank Sinatra and Jackie Gleason. But the one I loved the most was of her and Uncle Frankie sitting on the beach. He had his arms around her and she was smiling blissfully with her eyes closed, snuggled tightly against his broad shoulder.

Oh, he was such a looker, she sighed one day as we flipped through the photos together. I was so in love with him. After he died, I never wanted to be with another man again.

How about now? I asked. She glanced away. I have company, occasionally. It’s not good to be alone.

Her voice grew thick. But there will never be another Frankie. Never.

I placed my hand gently over hers. We Midwesterners are not known for being big huggers. Looking at her now, I thought again about how she and Uncle Frankie had been so perfect for each other and wondered if I would ever find the same thing, someone who was wild about me and who just got me, the way that I got him.

Well, here we are, darling, Auntie Helen said as she pulled to the curb, almost jumping over it. I barely gave her a chance to stop before I opened the door and leaped out.

Thank you! I can find my way home, don’t worry, I called out over my shoulder as I sprinted to the front door. I heard her beep the horn twice and then the roar of the car’s engine as she sped away.

The school’s lobby was huge. Two girls walked in behind me and I turned around. I must have looked like a mad woman, because one of them jumped when I touched her arm.

Sorry, I’m looking for the Basic Techniques class? It’s my first day.

She pointed to the bank of elevators. Room 303.

I sped off, practically tripping over my feet. Thanks!

Of course, it was the slowest elevator in the history of mankind.

Come on, come on, I seethed as it crept up to the third floor. The doors finally open and I tumbled out...into an open classroom directly across the hall.

Eleven students swiveled their heads to face me. They stood on either side of a long marble counter that divided the room and wore the same uniform I did, except for one difference. Everyone had on chef toques, those puffy white hats that look like popovers. Mine was still on the dresser in Auntie Helen’s guest bedroom.

I almost groaned out loud.

The sound of a man sternly clearing his throat behind me made me cringe. Slowly, I turned around.

Mademoiselle. Are you in this class?

He was perfectly round and stood no taller than my shoulders, even with his toque on. His dark eyes blazed as he raised his chin imperiously and waited for my answer.

Yes, Oh my God. What was his name? I furiously searched my brain, trying to visualize the class schedule on my smartphone, but I drew a blank. His neat little black mustache twitched with impatience.

Monsieur Galet. He drew out the last syllable so that it sounded like Gal-aaaaayyyyy.

I gave him my most charming smile. Yes, Monsieur Galet, my apologies for being late. It will not happen again.

His face was like stone.

Where is your toque?

Flames of embarrassment climbed the ladder of my throat. I...don’t have it with me.

His lip curled as he looked at me like I was something he had picked up on the bottom of his shoe.

A male voice called out over my shoulder. Monsieur Galet?

I breathed an inner sigh of relief as the angry little tyrant shifted his withering gaze from me to a new victim.

What? he spat.

I have an extra one.

I would have fallen in love sight unseen with the guy, even if he sounded like Donald Duck, because he had just saved my butt in the biggest way. But in addition to being my hero, his deeply sensual voice, like the first bite of extra-dark chocolate when it just starts to melt on your tongue, made all the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up and shimmy.

Monsieur Galet’s eyes narrowed. I see you are very prepared, Monsieur...

Martinez. Gil Martinez. Without looking at him, I knew he was smiling.

The instructor turned to me.

Your name?

I felt like I was in the army. Kelly Ann Carter. Reporting for pastry duty, Sir!

He pointed a fat finger over my shoulder.

Stand next to Monsieur Martinez. Maybe you will learn something. He turned his back to me and sniffed, just loud enough for me to hear. I wouldn’t bet money, though.

My shoulders slumped. I tried to move, but my legs felt like lead.

Then I heard Auntie Helen’s clear voice ring out like a bell. You have the world at your feet. If you don’t believe it, no one else will.

Breathing deeply, I straightened up and exhaled. Every professional kitchen had its share of bullies. Monsieur Galet wasn’t going to break me.

I spun back around to face the room. No one I saw matched the voice.

Then a face peered out at the back of the line on the right.

In the cartoon version of this story, bluebirds danced around my head as singing mice appeared from nowhere to sew me a wedding dress, because I had just seen my future husband, Prince Gorgeous.

I am not exaggerating. To say he was good-looking would be like calling the sun kind of hot. Eddie Cibrian would pass as his ugly little brother.

Monsieur Galet’s exasperated voice rang out. Today, if you please, Mademoiselle Carter.

I scooted to the back. Mr. Most Amazing Pair Of Brown Eyes In The Universe moved over to make room for me as I zoomed in next to him.

Thank you, I whispered out of the side of my mouth. He smiled and a thousand butterflies fluttered in my stomach.

Hey, no problem. He reached behind him and rustled in his bag, pulling out a pristine white toque. With an elegant flick of his wrist, he puffed it up by waving it in the air and then slowly set it on my head like a tiara. It was sweet, but a little bit condescending too, like I wasn’t someone to be taken all that seriously.

Monsieur Galet’s face was as purple as an eggplant. Are you done? he hissed through clenched teeth.

Gil stared straight ahead, his posture straight as a flagpole. Yes, Monsieur. Then he slid his gaze sideways towards me and winked.

My mouth went slack as my pulse throbbed in the hollow of my throat.

Monsieur Galet hit the edge of the counter with a rolling pin. Everyone jumped. Looking around with satisfaction, he placed his hands behind his back like a general and paced the room.

Welcome to L'Académie Gastronome’s four month Pastry Intensive. Here you will knead, frost, taste and learn your way to the top of the restaurant industry. He paused for dramatic effect before taking a wide-legged stance, like a beach ball with legs.

To become a world-class pastry chef is like baking. Your excellence is in your ingredients-dedication, discipline and imagination. He stopped in front of me and glared.

Without them, you are like bread without yeast. You will not rise.

The room was silent. Then a girl at the head of the opposite line giggled. Everyone froze. Monsieur Galet slowly turned his head. The corners of his mustache lifted as his florid face beamed like an actor basking in applause. We all exhaled.

Note to self: Laugh at his dumb jokes.

Gil tapped the side of my shoe with his. I quickly glanced at him. His eyes were shining like he was about to burst out laughing any minute. I had to bite my lower lip and look away before I lost it too. Silently exhaling, I organized my face into a mask of perfect neutrality, which is not easy for me to do. I would be the world’s crappiest poker player. You can read my expressions from the moon.

I had to focus on something. Gil’s hands rested casually at his sides. My gaze slid down his arm, stopping to admire the bulge of his bicep, visible beneath his white chef’s jacket. Light golden hair sprinkled across his thick tan wrist. His fingers were long and strong looking, like a pianist. My mouth watered as a vision of them raking through my hair flashed in my brain.

Damn it. I had to look somewhere else. Furtively, I snuck one more glance at his nails. Just as I thought: they gleamed like pearly pink shells. Beautifully manicured hands on a man are one of my personal weaknesses. I swallowed and tried to focus on Monsieur Galet’s words.

The next sixteen weeks will be a test of your stamina and skill, your ability to learn and process new information and ideas. Some of you will graduate...some will not.

I kept my gaze on the counter, afraid to look up and see him staring at me again. His voice turned soft, almost sentimental. Despite myself, I glanced at Monsieur Galet’s face. His eyes were misty and he had his hand over his heart.

"But if you are sincere, if you have the soul of a true pastry chef, you will be an artist (he pronounced it artiste) a fantasy maker, a magician!"

A drama queen. Jeez, I like cake as much as the next gal, but come on.

Mademoiselle Carter. Do you have something you wish to add?

Shit. My face gave away what I was thinking again.

No, Monsieur. I was listening very closely to what you said.

He clasped his hands across his broad stomach and raised his chin.

Good. Do not upset me again, Mademoiselle.

I shook my head vigorously. No, Monsieur Galet.

He paused with pursed lips. Was I supposed to say something else? His eyes twinkled.

"Because then...you would be a gluten for punishment."

This time, we all picked up our cue and laughed our heads off till he held his hands in the air like a conductor for us to stop.

And now, the first step of your journey begins, he said in a hushed whisper, his eyes wide. "You will make your first pâte brisée!"

That’s French for pastry dough. I’d been making it since I saw a how-to video on You Tube when I was fifteen. Flour, butter, ice water, a little sugar, a pinch of salt-the trick is to keep the water really cold. No big whoop, really.

Monsieur Galet gave Gil and the girl who laughed at his first joke the task of handing out the ingredients and utensils. I took the opportunity to study Gil as he strode with effortless grace across the room. He looked like he was about twenty-four. A glossy brown curl had escaped from the back of his toque and grazed his collar. My fingers itched to stroke it.

He was tall and lean-hipped with wide shoulders. When he smiled, his even white teeth gleamed against his tawny skin, which, even under the classroom’s fluorescent lights, glowed like sunlight through a glass of sweet tea. I noticed more than a few of the girls in the class fluttering their eyelashes at him as he set down measuring cups and mixing bowls.

Gil handled their flirtations with the natural ease of someone born beautiful. He probably gave no more thought to women from eighteen to eighty flipping out over his granite jaw and bedroom eyes than he did about taking in his next breath.

He was a perfect gentleman-or would be if he didn’t also radiate a coiled up energy, which gave him just a hint of danger, like a sleek panther waiting patiently in a tree branch for his next meal. It was that combination of old world manners and sizzling bad-boy charisma, not to mention a face and body to rival a Greek god’s, that made my brain, and to be honest, places further down my body, woozy like a bumblebee drunk on nectar.

Don’t be fooled by how sweet he seems. That boy is the dictionary definition of player.

Gil raised his eyes to meet mine across the room. Again, my face betrayed my innermost thoughts. He arched one dark eyebrow and a slow sexy smile traveled across his face, hot enough to make my face burn and the elastic waistband on my panties melt. Raw desire, unlike anything I had ever known drew a tiny gasp from my throat. A girl across from me gave me a curious look.

I quickly covered my mouth. Hiccups, sorry, I mumbled.

A bowl of flour was set before me along with a stick of butter and a pan of ice water.

For you, Mademoiselle, Gil whispered low, in Monsieur Galet’s ridiculous accent. The tips of my ears burned as I tried not to laugh.

Merci, I murmured back without looking up. He stood closer to me this time. So close, that our shoulders almost brushed together. It took all my will power not to lean into him and feel his arm press against mine.

My nostrils flared as I inhaled his scent. It was citrusy, but with an earthy base note of light musk. He smelled tantalizingly delicious and undeniably absolutely male.

Just let me know if you need help, he murmured, flashing another sly confident smile.

I immediately bristled. Why would you think I need any?

He stared at me, his eyes widened. His full mouth dropped open, ready to speak.

Monsieur Galet clapped his hands. And now, we begin.

The room crackled with concentration. A blur of hands whisked flour, salt and sugar, then cut in the butter using our fingertips, all under the relentlessly roving eye of Monsieur Galet who stalked behind us and growled out insults that would send a Marine cadet crying home to his momma.

"Is that what you call a crust? Non. That is not fit for convicts. Start over."

Sweat beaded my upper lip as I felt his approach. He leaned his elbows on the counter and bore holes in the side of my skull as I patted the dough into a ball. Monsieur Galet took a pinch of it and brought it to his lips. Time stood still as I waited for his verbal abuse to rain down.

His lips smacked as he chewed in silence. Then he walked away without a word.

I breathed deeply, resisting the urge to wipe my forehead.

Gil worked steadily beside me. His motions were fluid and sensual like a ballet master. I tried to stick to my own rhythm, but my hands kept syncing up with his as we rolled and cut the dough to fit the baking pans. We were the first ones to finish. He