Sweet Tooth: A Second Chance Romance Read online

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  MY HOT STEPBROTHER

  THE SECRET: A SECRET BABY ROMANCE

  MR. BIG SHOT

  AGAIN: A SECOND CHANCE ROMANCE

  UNEXPECTED: A SECRET BABY ROMNACE

  PREVIEW OF ARIA FORDS BOOKS

  THANK YOU!

  ABOUT AUTHOR

  Copyright 2018 Aria Ford - All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  SWEET TOOTH

  A Second Chance Romance

  By Aria Ford

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  SWEET TOOTH

  MY HOT STEPBROTHER

  THE SECRET: A SECRET BABY ROMANCE

  MR. BIG SHOT

  AGAIN: A SECOND CHANCE ROMANCE

  UNEXPECTED: A SECRET BABY ROMNACE

  PREVIEW OF ARIA FORDS BOOKS

  THANK YOU!

  ABOUT AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  I closed my eyes as he pushed into me slowly. My breath caught in my throat and I felt myself quiver with pleasure as he started to move. The feeling of bliss was sweeter than chocolate icing and as warm and sticky as syrup.

  “Oh, baby,” he groaned.

  I opened my eyes, peeked at him and smiled.

  He was so handsome I couldn't resist watching him a little. I sometimes doubted he was real.

  With his thick curly brown hair and big brown eyes, he was like an enchanted prince.

  A sexy, rated R one, though.

  As he thrust into me again and again and the sound of our breath mingled in my ears and my body started to reach climax, shivering and quivering, I wondered how it was I could be this blessed.

  Drew Liston – sexy, stunning and so-high-class that I was amazed he’d actually looked at me. He was the son of a super-wealthy freight tycoon and I was just the daughter of a grocer. But we had met through some crazy set of circumstances, and we loved each other.

  “Oh, baby,” he panted as he started to come closer to climaxing. “Oh, you make me feel great...” he grunted, gritting his teeth as he came at the same second I did.

  I felt my body shiver and then melt in bliss.

  Later, as we lay beside each other, him stroking his hands through my thick chocolate-brown hair and me with my hand on that delicious body, I couldn't quite believe how lucky I was.

  “Drew?”

  “Mm?”

  “It's just...so wonderful.”

  He chuckled. “You make me feel great too,” he murmured.

  I shook my head. It wasn't just how I felt now – stunning though that may be – it was everything. I felt so lucky to have him in my life.

  “What?” he asked, leaning over to kiss my hair. I smiled.

  “Nothing,” I said. I didn't know how to put it all into words.

  He chuckled again.

  We lay like that – like we always did – drowsing off. Then, like we always did, he slipped off the bed and washed himself, then came back and started to dress.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  I smiled. “Always.”

  We laughed together and he headed off into the gorgeous kitchen of his apartment to go and find us something small to eat. Grapes, usually, or whatever fruit or antipasto he happened to have in the house.

  I lay back and looked up at the ceiling and thought I couldn't be more content.

  When I left, driving back to my own small, rickety apartment at the edge of the more-salubrious area of town, I wondered – as always – what would happen.

  Now, I know what happened. We attended a party at his uncle's home. Then, the next day, out of the blue, he mailed me.

  We won't see each other again.

  Just as weirdly as he had appeared in my life, he disappeared.

  That was six years ago now, and part of me still hasn't gotten over it.

  How do you get over something you can't understand? Impossible.

  I sighed and stretched, reaching up to the ceiling. “I don't have time to just sit here,” I told myself. “Work again tomorrow.”

  I stood and headed off to my study to prepare for tomorrow. As the owner of my own business – I'd finished chef school and now owned my own establishment, still paying it off – I couldn't take time to sit and wonder about how things might have turned out if things hadn't turned out the way they did.

  I ran a hand down my angular, oval face and headed upstairs. I had tax reports to file, and accounts to fill in and bills to manage. I absolutely did not have time to indulge in wishful thinking. Because, however I might wish, I wasn't getting a second chance with him. Or was I? Only if the impossible happens.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Drew

  The clink of glass on glass broke into my daydream. I looked up and found myself looking into the cool gray gaze of Uncle Rowell.

  “I said, you're going to be handling the marketing side of the venture, right?”

  I sighed. “Yes, uncle. That's right.”

  He nodded, looking satisfied. “Good.”

  I took my gaze away from his stern, firm features and around the rest of the dinner-table. Opposite me was Reese Berkshire, our newest partner, and then Blake Dennis. On my far right was Brent Bronson, a man I was trying my best to avoid. At least Uncle had the presence of mind not to seat us close by.

  Beside me, he coughed. “Drew?”

  “Mm?” I looked up mildly from my starter of Caesar salad and frowned.

  “I hope you're going to North Carolina next week?”

  “Of course, Uncle,” I agreed, taking a sip of water to calm my nerves, which were restless. “I said I would.”

  He gave me a look. “Like you said lots of things.”

  I felt my hand clench into a fist under the table. Did he have to raise that here? Now? I was doing my level best to forget about it, especially with the aggrieved party sitting on my right, about three feet off. Did he have to?

  “I know, Uncle,” I sighed. “But you know how it is...” I trailed off as those stony gray eyes raked across my face, hard and pitiless.

  “I know precisely how it is,” he said coldly. “Which is precisely what worries me.”

  I sighed again. Why Uncle Rowell – owner of Bradford and Associates, one of the largest transport companies in this region of the country – had to put this kind of pressure on me, I did not know.

  If winning Brent Bronson over is so important, why don't you do it?

  I was irritated and I felt restless. Which was unfortunate, because we were here at the top of The Imperial hotel, having what should have been a wonderful afternoon. The day was cloudy – it was March, after all – but the weather was warm and the meal was exquisite, like the decor, the wait-staff discreet and helpful.

  “I am sure you can trust me to launch an advertising campaign, uncle,” I said thinly. “After all, I've been acting CEO for the last six years.”

  He raised a brow. “I know,” he said.

  I looked at my hands, trying not to lace the fingers together – a habit when I was worried – and breathed steadily.

  “I am certain you are aware that, during that time, we've had steady growth,” I said under my breath. Across the table, Blake and Reese were chatting about their plans for the summer – something involving yachting or traveling to the Bahamas. I was barely listening. Brent was looking at his place-mat thoughtfully, a frown on his
brow.

  “I am aware, nephew,” he said thinly. I closed my eyes. He only called me “nephew” when he was really in one of his autocrat moods. I sometimes thought had delusions of grandeur. Not that I could blame him – he did own a billion-dollar company and he'd built it up from a modest trucking venture when he was about my own age.

  “Drew,” Reese said, interrupting my train of thought and breaking the roiling tension between me and Uncle.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Reese chuckled. “Use my name, son – it's easier. We've known each other ages.”

  “Yes, Reese,” I said, taking another bite of my salad as he cleared his throat to continue.

  “We were saying...maybe you know about a good investment prospect in Florida? There are great property predictions for the state for this year.”

  I scratched my head. “Tampa?” I said. “I've heard great things about it as a place for property investors.”

  “Ah,” Brent nodded, evidently listening in on the conversation. It was the first thing he'd said in a while, which was surely a good sign. “I heard that.”

  “Wise suggestion,” Reese nodded. “Thanks.”

  I looked at my hands. “It's nothing,” I murmured. I was secretly relieved I'd thought to read CNBC's recommendations on my way here. I knew very little about such things but it was always worth keeping up-to-date when talking to men like my uncle's business partners. I sometimes wondered if they were interested in anything besides share-prices.

  I risked a glance at my uncle, and noticed he'd relaxed fractionally. I breathed out. Whew.

  A waiter hovered and my uncle called him over.

  “Ready to order?” he asked the others. We all nodded. “Good. I'll have the lemon-kale baked tuna.”

  We all placed our orders and lunch progressed with markedly more enthusiasm than before.

  “If I were you, Reese, I'd put my money in Commodities this year. The market's gonna grow...”

  “No – I disagree, Brent...property's sound. Always has been.”

  “Have any of you considered harnessing the new trade agreements?”

  I drank my San Pellegrino – keeping a level head was my main aim this afternoon – and let the talk flow round me. I'd been hearing this kind of thing since I was a kid – it was the stuff of all family conversation – and I had to admit I was sick of it.

  Give me a good honest chat about the weather. Or the meal. Or something that isn't stocks and shares and salaries.

  I sighed and sampled some of my dinner, looking out of the big glass windows at the cityscape beyond.

  I loved my life – I was privileged and I knew and appreciated it fully – but sometimes I felt a bit unreal.

  I wish I could just connect to myself. I wish I could live life, with mud under my feet and a grin on my face, without having to worry if I'm going to make a good impression at the next meeting. I had allowed myself brief samples of that kind of life, but this one had a claim on me and it wouldn't let me go easily.

  We talked about the stock-market and ordered dessert and then, almost before I'd noticed two hours had passed, lunch was finishing.

  “Thanks, Drew,” Reese said, as we stood and said our farewells. He took my hand in his own warm one, a soft grin on his lined, gentle face. “I'll be considering putting my money in Tampa property...”

  I smiled at him. “That's great. Glad I could help.”

  “Always, Drew. Always good to have a fresh viewpoint...young investors have a totally different way of thinking about the market, you know.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  When the other three men had gone, I joined Uncle and we headed downstairs in the glass-sided lift together. I watched the sunset on the way down, feeling wistful and more than a little trapped. It's like I'm in this glass box, watching the sunset, every day.

  “That was successful,” My uncle said, breaking my reverie. “Well done, nephew.”

  I nodded stiffly. “Well, it seems like they're all on board with Safetrans.”

  “Yes. You're ready for the launch?”

  “Yes, uncle.” I sighed. I had told him that at least five times this evening. He did insist on treating me like an incompetent. I wished he wouldn't – it made me doubt myself.

  “Good. I trust you'll do it well.”

  I felt my eyebrows shoot up into my hairline. That was new, coming from him.

  “Thanks,” I said sincerely.

  The lift opened, leaving us in the downstairs car-park. I followed uncle to his BMW and slid into the passenger seat.

  “Well,” Uncle said as we started off. “I've got hopes for this venture. Don't let me down.”

  “No,” I promised miserably. “I wouldn't.”

  He gave stiff nod and I closed my eyes. Would he insist on reminding me of my one failure?

  When he left me at my apartment building I climbed the steps with tired legs. I reached the top and buzzed myself into my apartment, sinking down into the elegant designer leather seat and closing my eyes.

  “Does he never get off my case?”

  The thing that Uncle wouldn't let me forget was Carrie. Beautiful, appropriate and totally-unsuited, Carrie Bronson was the girl Uncle wanted me to marry.

  We'd started dating six years ago and I'd done my best – really I had. When we finally split, about two months ago, I reckoned it was the best thing we'd yet done.

  She's a great girl but we just aren't suited to each other.

  I liked her and I wished her well. I think she felt the same for me. But that wasn't enough for them.

  Them was my uncle and her father.

  I don't know why they wanted to consolidate their empire by marrying us to each other. It all seemed positively old-fashioned and unfair. Not to mention wrong. We were adults – I was thirty-five and Carrie thirty-two – we could make our own choices.

  “If they let us.”

  I sighed and stretched and went through to the kitchen to make coffee. I had the speech to prepare for North Carolina before I left tomorrow.

  Standing in my kitchen with the scent of coffee in my nose, I looked out over the cityscape and wondered what I would do in North Carolina. I was nervous of going there, because I had one important reason for knowing anything about the state. I had loved someone who lived there and, if I was honest with myself, it was memory of her that made me discontent with my life.

  The past is the past. Nothing I can do now can change it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Allie

  “Marcelle?”

  “Yes, Ms. Hendricks?”

  “For heaven's sakes...those buns should be ready now!” I protested, feeling my mood spontaneously unraveling into acute stress-mode. My assistant raised two coal-black eyebrows and gave an elaborate shrug.

  “Yes, they should. But they're not. Sorry.”

  I sighed. “Is the oven playing us around?”

  Marcelle glanced at the dial and shook her head. “I don't think so, Ms. Hendricks. It looks okay.”

  “Fine,” I said crossly. I transferred my attention to the batch of dough I was making, restraining myself from working my frustration into it. I didn't want to go breaking up the gluten by stirring it too much – that was a sure-fire way to make scones that flopped.

  Slow and steady. Give it some love.

  I heard the voice of my mentor, Chef Petersen, in my head, and took a steadying breath.

  Then I finished mixing the dough and started rolling.

  “All done,” Marcelle called.

  “Hurray,” I said, as relief flowed through me. Those cakes were for a catering order and they had to be done before three today, cooled and ready for packaging.

  “Ms. Hendricks?” a voice asked.

  “Yes?” Kelsey, my friend's teenaged daughter and my temporary help in front-of-house. She was on her gap year and I was glad Frank had suggested she work for me – I didn't know what I'd do without her.

  “I need two coffees for Table 2. They're waiting for scon
es.”

  “Oh, for...” I closed my eyes. “Is the machine working again?”

  “Uh huh,” she commented. “I'll get the coffees going.”

  “Perfect,” I said tightly. “I'll try and get the scones done before too long. Take them some of those little crunchy things with the coffee and apologize for the wait, hey?”

  “Okay, Ms. Hendricks,” she said cheerfully.

  I sighed and got back to making scones. As I worked, the peace descended over me as it always did. I loved my kitchen and no more so than now, with the chaos and the sweet scent of baking. I breathed out and closed my eyes and let the clink of glasses and the scent of baking and the sound of talking people fill my ears and settle my soul.

  I love my job.

  It made me jump out of bed with enthusiasm every morning – the one thing in my life that was likely to make me grin even when I was feeling glum. Which happened more than I would have liked nowadays.

  “Two filled croissants, please,” a customer asked as I headed to check on the front-of-house.

  “Uh, sure,” I nodded, reaching for the croissants and heading to the newly-installed filling device. I prayed inwardly that this was a good day – the thing had taken two weeks to settle down into functioning – and pulled the handle. The right volume of filling seemed to issue into the croissants and I wrapped them carefully in one of the new monogrammed paper bags and exchanged them.