C.A.K.E

Chapter 1: Can't Stand the Heat

“Excuse me,” Arden says with a coy smile.

“Pardon me.” The slightest whiff of an English accent is discernible in his voice.

Arden and a rather attractive man have reached for a bunch of shallots at the same time. Now her

hand is wedged underneath his. The pale purple of the tiny onions swirls about the stainless steel

counter under the pressure of their palms.

His deep-set dark eyes look her over and she feels naked. But she isn't embarrassed. She's happy to

let him look. It's only fair. Arden's studying him, too.

The heat emanating from her husband's body at her side makes her conscious of the stranger's

lingering touch. He follows her eyes to their fingers and removes his hand. A nervous chuckle escapes

him. He takes a look at his wife before smiling back at her.

Their respective spouses don't seem to notice the interaction. He hands the shallots to her. And Arden

thanks him.

“No problem at all,” he says.

His voice sweeps over her ears like a refreshing breeze. It's a nice change of pace from the heavy

syrup of the southern accents she hears every day.

British men always seem so suave. Like their accent comes with an ingrained refinement. And the This is the property of Nô-velDrama.Org.

specimen in front of her is no exception.

She wishes he would say something else. Anything else.

Arden lets her eyes wander over him in furtive glances, as she reduces the shallots to uniform oblong

circles.

As if he knows she's watching, he licks his bottom lip and she gets a flash of his blinding, white teeth as

his lip unfurls from their bite.

His face has a rugged maturity to it. Its features are bold, but not menacing. A pristine goatee frames

his thick lips. The soft laugh lines forming at his cheeks make him endearing. His head comes to a

slight point, which gives her the sudden urge to run her hand over its slope. The dark, silky skin

blanketing his six-feet-plus frame reminds her of freshly brewed coffee. Strong, black, and twice as

smooth.

Elliott's hand on her elbow interrupts her examination of the man across from her. She clears her throat

and turns to look at him.

“Should I add the wine now?” Eli asks her.

Tonight she and her husband, Elliott, are attending a couples' cooking class. He called her at the

bakery and said they were going to do something different for date night.

He wouldn't tell her what he had in mind. Just that she should wear something a bit covered.

Arden couldn't have cared less where he was taking her.

As long as they didn't end up at their regular table at Luciano's. The chef sees them walk into the door,

and begins to fire up Eli's medium-rare steak with the Gorgonzola and chive mashed potatoes. The

entire staff knows them by name.

Hell, Arden would ridicule them herself, if she had to seat the same couple at the same table every

Friday night. Familiarity is comforting. But too much of it is suffocating.

Now, she's surrounded by plenty of local produce, an industrial gas range, and enough butter to sculpt

a bust of the alluring Adonis before her. She is a tad annoyed that Elliott chose to center their date

around an activity she does every day. But she's thankful for the change of scenery.

The open-air kitchen of the smaller satellite location of the L'Orange Culinary Institute is abuzz with

sizzling skillets, and clanging pots and pans. Arden feels a little less stale among the other chatty

couples. And the presence of a broad-shouldered view doesn't hurt either.

She takes her eyes off the stranger and hands the wine to her husband. He pops open the bottle and

pours a generous amount into the pan with the simmering shallots. She notices the heavy-handed

splash. But doesn't say anything.

Eli pours a glass for himself and offers to do the same for the handsome man and his wife. The couple

accepts. And the four begin exchanging small talk across their small workstations.

The man introduces himself as Casper Callaghan. His name suits him well, Arden thinks. It possesses

a certain intrigue and uniqueness, much like his looks.

His wife, Karma, is a wisp of a woman with lips that seem to overwhelm her slender face. Her brown

eyes, give off a cold that makes Arden shiver. The gray of her structured midi dress dulls her caramel

skin, making her look even less approachable. The cocky smirk on her face doesn't help matters either.

She doesn't know much about Karma yet. But she already doesn't care for her. Something about the

way the woman carries herself puts Arden on guard. Maybe it's the woman's name that bothers her.

“Karma, your name sounds so familiar.” Arden's brow furrows, as she tries to recall where she's heard

it.

Karma purses her lips, placing a hand on her hip. “Well, that might be because of my impressive 97%

conviction rate with the DA's office.”

Now, Arden remembers. Karma Callaghan is the shark assistant district attorney whose arrogant mug

has been all over HLN for the past month. She's one of the prosecutors on the Pollard murder trial.

The state is seeking the death penalty. And if anyone can get a jury to condemn a man to the needle,

it's Karma. Todd Pollard would likely plunge the lethal dose into his own arm to escape the massacre of

her cross-examination.

The caption of the courtroom coverage often reads: “Karma's a bitch.” And the statement couldn't be

more accurate. Her blitzkrieg style of questioning a defendant can have the presumed innocent so

scared shitless, they stumble over their own lies.

“You are a force to be reckoned with in the courtroom. Bad news for Pollard,” Elliott comments with an

appreciative nod.

“But great for my reputation.” Karma grins. “He's the Ted Bundy of my career. If I nail him to the wall,

you could be looking at your next senatorial candidate.”

“And who wouldn't love to see Karma in Congress?” Casper toasts his wife with a sarcastic glint in his

eye. He smiles and glances at Arden.

She catches the flash of insincerity and laughs to herself.

Karma cuts her eyes at Casper. He wipes the smile off his face. She snatches a tomato from its basket

and places it on the cutting board in front of him. Grabbing a knife from the butcher block, she impales

the vegetable, leaving the blade standing straight up in the wood.

Elliott and Arden glance at the knife. Whatever that is about, they want no part of it.

While Karma is glaring at Casper, Eli and Arden take notice of the nearest emergency exit. It's five

steps to their immediate left. If Karma takes a stab at her husband, Elliott and Arden will be halfway

home before the blade has a chance to swing and miss.

Elliott tries to diffuse the tension by keeping Karma talking about what must be her favorite subject—

herself. She seems to forget that either Casper or Arden is even in the kitchen.

Casper yanks the knife from the wood and begins hacking away at the tomato. The result is a mushy

mess of pinkish-red flesh and seeds. Arden cringes at his dicing skills.

She selects the appropriate knife and slips it to him. Their hands touch again, as she places the handle

of the tool into his palm. A shared shock of electricity passes through them. Arden pauses a moment

and meets his eyes. What she sees there alarms her.

Looking down again, she grabs another couple of tomatoes and gives one to him. Curling her fingers

over the top of the tomato, she steadies it with her thumb. She angles the serrated blade just above the

ripened flesh, keeping the tip planted in the cutting board. Lifting her hand up and down at the wrist,

she slices through the firm skin with speed and ease.

He follows her lead, though with much less finesse than she does. But it'll do. She gives him a quick

nod of approval, as he tosses the neat slices onto a bed of romaine lettuce.

He smiles at her—again. That makes one too many times now. Arden closes her eyes a second and

breathes deep. Forcing herself to concentrate on more appropriate interaction, she asks Casper what

he does for a living.

“I'm the CFO of Regent Financial.”

Good. He has a boring, numbers job. Arden can talk about his work all night, and remain dry as a

desert. There is nothing sexy about math. As long as he rambles on about it, he won't be the least bit

arousing to her.

“I've always admired people who can understand accounting.” Eli tips his glass to Casper. “I can barely

manage two plus two without a calculator.”

“Can't take too much pride in it.” Casper shrugs. “It's always come easy to me.”

His every word makes her shudder. Who is she kidding? Casper could read War and Peace to her after

she's worked a twelve-hour day. And his voice would still be verbal porn for her.

“Arden's good with numbers, too,” Elliott smirks and nudges her. “You can guess who handles the

finances.”

“I'm just the lesser of two evils.”

“Don't sell yourself short, love.” Casper winks at her. “I'm sure your talents are more than satisfactory.”

His gaze drops to her chest, before settling on her eyes again.

Arden's breath refuses to come to the surface until she can gauge Eli's reaction.

“My wife is extraordinary.”

She lets herself breathe again. As usual, Elliott is blind to the advance. Even if he did notice, jealousy

isn't his style.

The green-eyed monster likes the company of women much better. Karma downs her wine like water

and refills the stemless glass. After burning a hole into Arden's cheek, she turns her attention to Eli.

“What do you do, Elliott?” Karma asks. Her lips caress the rim of her wine glass like she's greeting a

new lover.

Arden keeps her head lowered, focusing on the cucumber she's cutting into a fine julienne. She

eyeballs Casper's wife in her peripheral.

Elliott rocks on his heels a moment, a tick that shows when anyone asks about his work. He makes an

almost apologetic gesture and takes a sip of wine. “I am a forensic anthropologist.”

He spends most days in a lab piecing together the decayed remains of some unfortunate individual.

Eli's work either garners respect, awe or a mixture of the two. Which is why he is reluctant at times to

discuss it.

Karma and Casper look at Eli with interest. But he's too flustered to elaborate in his usual easy diction.

He can wax eloquent about Australopithecus afarensis in front of a hundred students, without so much

as an awkward pause. But put him in a more intimate setting, with a couple new faces and ask him

about his own evolutionary attributes, he gets stage fright.

“Well, I date dead people.” He shakes his head and laughs. His blonde curls sway like pliable blades of

wheat in a gentle breeze. “That came out wrong.”

Arden hands Eli a wooden spoon to stir the risotto, letting her touch linger on his hand.

“Elliott is a professor of Biological and Forensic Anthropology at Birmingham Southern. He often works

as a law enforcement consultant. He estimates the age and gender of human remains to determine

identity, as well as the possible time and cause of death.”

Arden rattles off the blurb without a hitch. It's been burned into her brain, as many times as she's had to

repeat it to relatives who question Eli's absence at family functions. But she likes telling people what he

does.

“Wow, that must be challenging work." Karma stares at Elliott "How do you deal with handling...dead

people...all day long?”

“I get to come home to this woman.” Elliott puts an arm around Arden's waist, pulling her into him.

“Nothing can bother me when she's around.”

Arden blushes, trying to contain the smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She gives him a quick

squeeze, before turning her attention to a bushel of flat-leaf parsley.

She's not much for public displays of affection. It invites scrutiny. She and Elliott get enough sideways

glances from people in the streets, without them being all over each other.

“A scientist and a romantic. You're the total package.” Karma puts a hand to her chest and twists the

diamond solitaire pendant hanging in the divide of her cleavage between her thumb and index finger.

The small green leaves of parsley take the brunt of Arden's growing annoyance with Karma's not so

subtle flirting. She minces the herb to within an inch of its becoming dust. Taking her eyes off her work

to grab a bell pepper, she looks up to find Casper's gaze on her.

She expects him to look away. But he doesn't. His shameless observation makes her wonder what he

might do to her if their spouses weren't here.

Arden tugs at the draped shoulder of her pale canary yellow dress. As she does, the chiffon slips lower

on her opposite shoulder, exposing a scar about half the size of a stamp.

Casper sort of chuckles, smirking at her.

Arden lowers her head again, promising herself that she won't look at him.

Casper studies her like a mischievous child would his next mark, as he pops a slice of the pepper she

just cut into his mouth. She watches his mouth beneath the cover of her lashes.

The heat in the room becomes a problem. She reaches for the June issue of Cooking Light that's

displayed on a nearby shelf. The makeshift fan sends gentle gusts of air whispering through her silken

strands, hurried and hushed like two schoolgirls sharing a secret. She tilts her head back and lifts the

delicate material of her dress over and over. The action bares the buttery brown skin of her collarbone

and the crests of her breasts.

Her complexion glistens, set alight by the steam escaping the stovetop. The blush she swept along her

cheekbones becomes a rosier hue. It enhances their steep structure, earning them easy entry into the

company of the clouds.

“Getting hot?” Eli asks her.

Arden lifts her head. Casper is staring straight at her.

“Yeah.” She glances at Casper out of the corner of her eye. “Little bit.”

Eli leans in and whispers to her. “I'm usually the one who's all hot and bothered around you. Didn't

realize you have the same effect on yourself.”

He kisses her neck. She bites down on her lip. Nudging him, she whispers for him to stop. Elliott goes

in for another kiss.

Casper clears his throat loud enough for it to be heard over the pop and crackle of hot pans. The

couple at the next range gives him a quick look. He tugs on the lapel of his suit and throws a nervous

smile their way.

Arden smiles to herself, as Eli withdraws his hands. Someone other than her husband is appreciating

the view. Her inner harlot just got its wings. But the Jezebel better not get any big ideas.

Arden isn't the least bit interested in testing the murky waters of another woman's well. However, she is

prepared to check her reflection in the darkened pool's surface with her toes planted safely on the

edge.

“So, Arden.” Casper slips out of his navy suit jacket and lays it on a nearby chair. Loosening his

iridescent cobalt tie, he undoes the top button of his shirt. “How do you spend your time, while Elliott is

rearranging skeletons?”

I'm not going to look at him . . .

As she tries to ignore Casper's hard-earned physique, she gains another captivated audience member.

This one isn't quite so pleased with the show.

Karma's eyes travel from Arden to Casper and back, before deciding to shoot icy daggers at the man

who shares her Egyptian cotton sheets.

Just as Arden opens her mouth to answer him, a spray of orange flames shimmers across Casper and

Karma's cooktop.

She shoots around the counter and pulls a stunned Karma back from the blaze. Smothering the fire

with a towel, she turns off the burner quicker than the other three can realize what's happening.

One of the instructors rushes over with a fire extinguisher. “Is everyone all right?”

Arden wraps the handle of the skillet in another towel and moves it aside to survey the damage.

“We're fine. Just a little flare-up.”

“Thank goodness.” The stout woman clutches at her heaving chest. “It's okay everyone. Everything's

under control.” She waves the alarmed group of novice chefs back to their stations and then turns to

Arden. “You were great.”

“It's nothing, really.” Arden flips her hair out of her face. “I put out at least one fire a week.”

The woman chuckles, making her starched white chef's jacket crinkle like a paper cone. “Well, we're all

grateful to have a professional on hand tonight.”

As she heads back to the other end of the kitchen, she tells the others to feel free to torch the place.

“I don't know what happened.” Karma steps forward, eyes wide and mouth hanging half-open. “One

minute it was fine and the next, whoosh.”

Arden nods and offers her an understanding smile. “That's usually all it takes.”

She places the pan back on the fire, then minces another handful of shallots. Spreading her hand over

the skillet to test the heat, she drops in a pat of butter. When the shallots are introduced to the greased

copper bottom pan, they scream in protest. Splitting her stance, she tosses the pan's contents into the

air a couple of times.

“Now you're just showing off,” Elliott says with a smirk.

“All in the wrist.” Ardi winks at him and hands the reins over to Karma. “Keep the heat low. It's better

not to rush the sweating process.”

Casper makes the observation that her tip could also be applied to lovemaking. As Arden makes her

way back to her husband's side, she smiles at Casper's remark. Elliott snickers, too.

“You'll have to excuse, Casper.” Karma rolls her eyes at him. “Some misguided soul led him to believe

that he's funny.”

“Unfortunately for her, she was that misguided soul.” Casper kisses Karma's cheek. She shoos him

away.

“I was such an idiot at seventeen.”

“Best stroke of luck I ever had.” Casper grins at her.

She relents and cheeses back at him. The first real sign of amusement his wife's shown in a long time.

He almost reaches for his phone to document it.

“Arden, you didn't get a chance to answer Casper's question.” Karma glances over at her. “What do

you do?”

“Obviously, she's a volunteer firefighter,” Casper pipes up.

“Shut up, Casper.” She slaps his arm.

“I'm a pastry chef.”

“And the best damn one in the state. Scratch that. The country.” Elliott steps behind Ardi and wraps his

arms around her.

“No wonder,” Karma says. “Isn't this like slumming it for you?”

“I dragged her here tonight. She has this thing about making me happy.”

“Don't worry. That'll pass,” Casper smirks. “So chef, at what establishment can we sample your wares?”

“SoHo Sugar,” Eli says, a touch too excited.

“Oh, the bakery in Homewood with the adorable staff?” Karma smiles at Arden.

Casper stares at his wife. There's a sudden fire sale on Karma's pearly whites tonight. He really should

pull out the camera.

“I love that place. I've been dying to meet the owner.”

Arden extends her hand to Karma. “Arden Stone, head chef and owner of SoHo Sugar.”

“You're kidding?” She shakes Arden's hand. “Your macarons and opera cake are the reason my skinny

jeans are digging into my waist. My trainer has banned me from your bakery.”

“My apologies to your trainer. But I'm pleased you enjoy our food.”

“I told her those macarons should come with a warning label. And she makes this lemon tart

that's...heaven on a plate.” Elliott sneaks a kiss on her cheek, before releasing her. “She's addictive. In

more ways than one.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Casper says.

“Oh, she is. I would eat her chocolate ganache off a shoe.”

They all share a laugh.

Casper and Arden's eyes meet for the umpteenth time tonight. For a brief second, they're the only two

in the building.

She looks away first, going back to supervising Elliott's cooking. But the other man's every word and

movement continues to steal her attention from the task at hand.

An hour or so later, the ding of kitchen timers brings their little dance to an end. Once chickens have

been rescued from their 400-degree hell, and the mushroom risotto is garnished with a touch of

parsley, the two couples sit down together to enjoy their dinner.

The conversation is easy and lighthearted between the four amid the crisp white tablecloths and tea

candles. Punched tin lanterns suspended from the ceiling cast intricate patterns on the toasted

marshmallow walls.

The air conditioning makes the metal stars and orbs sway like skirted Moroccan dancers, weaving a

comforting tale with every swirl.

Charming black and white pictures of Downtown Birmingham in its heyday bear the patrons' reflections

in the glass of their dark frames.

Dim lighting, good food, hearty wine, and attractive company. A treacherous combination, if not tread

with caution.

A bottle of Cabernet Franc later, Arden, Elliott, Casper, and Karma are making their way across the

small courtyard of the school's main entrance.

Arden and Elliott walk down the sidewalk, both with an arm around the other. She's resting her head on

his shoulder. Their gait is slow. But neither seems bothered by the sacrifice of speed to be near each

other.

Casper and Karma walk arm in arm. But their stride is out of step. Hers is much faster. His steps are

more subdued. She won't slow down. And his polished loafers refuse to play catch up.

When they reach the end of the lawn, Eli turns to the other couple. “This has been a very pleasant

evening.”

“We should all get together again sometime,” Casper agrees.

His eyes dart to the hem of Arden's dress which hits her about mid-thigh. She catches him looking

before he has a chance to right his gaze.

“Definitely.” Karma tightens her grip on Casper. “How about next weekend?”

“Sure. There's a new restaurant in Hoover we've been meaning to try,” Arden offers.

“I was thinking of dinner at our place.” Karma glances up at Casper's confused expression. “It's the

least we can do, seeing as you saved my life tonight. Please, it would make me feel so much better.”

“How can we refuse, then?” Elliott says. “What time?”

They agree to meet at the Callaghan's home around eight the following Friday, and exchange numbers.

The four go their separate ways.

Eli and Ardi head for their Southside condo. And Casper and Karma make the drive to the two-story

new construction they call home.