The Biker and the Baker: Oil and Water, #4

By S. Ann Cole

Owen "Onyx" Walsh tried to stop me from being great.
Pity he didn't know I'm more determined than a bull.

He's a dream-blocking jerk and I can't stand his stupid freckled face. We despise each other, that much is clear. That's why I'm spun confused when he starts looking at me like he doesn't.

I'm not a size two with a tiny waist, nor do I have bright blue eyes or perky tits—you know, the type he loves hanging around—so why does he want to be around me all of a sudden?
Oh, right, because I tried to be nice to him once and made the mistake of fibbing to my family that he's my boyfriend. Now he's like a plague I can't get rid of—not that I've been trying too hard.  
​
I tried to stop him from winning my heart.
Pity I didn't know he's more determined than a starving lion. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: S. Ann Cole
• Release date: Nov 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393810162

S. Ann Cole

S. Ann Cole is a voracious reader, a moody writer, and a lover of anything that distracts her from the real world.She hates chocolate. Candle-lit dinners and all that hearts and flowers stuff makes her feel awkward. Coffee makes her drowsier than ever. And she spends way too much time talking to herself.When Ann is not abusing her computer keyboard, you can find her nosing a novel, watching anything on television that makes her laugh until she breaks into hiccups, studying the Bible, or sipping red wine.

Book preview

From the Author

If while reading this book you come across any word, terminology, slang, misrepresentation/misappropriation of culture or religion that makes you feel hurt, uncomfortable, or offended in anyway, please do not hesitate to contact me.

My aim is to do better, listen, learn, and grow as I go. I'm not perfect and I don't know it all, but I'm willing to adjust, adapt, and make changes where necessary.

One Love. One Blood. One Heart.

––––––––

_____

This book is set in Denver, Colorado, a state of which I am not a resident. To familiarize myself, I have done a lot of research and asked a lot of questions. That said, if despite all my efforts you, being a resident of Denver, Colorado, come across any inaccuracies, I do apologize, especially if it affects your reading experience. Feel free to contact me and I’ll make corrections where necessary.

Thanks,

Ann

Theme songs for this book:

Let You Love Me by Rita Ora

She’s Casual by The Hunna

Chapter 1

Pia

––––––––

"Those bikers are not happy that we’re out of calzones, Marissa, one of the servers here at Cookie’s Treat says as she enters the kitchen with a loaded tray of dirty cups and dishes, the door swinging back and forth behind her. They said they rode here from Boulder on word that we sold the best calzones in Denver, only for us to tell them we’re out."

"We’re out because we sell the best calzones, I say, sliding a tray of mint bars into the refrigerator. Did you tell them that?"

Yep. Marissa twists her lips and unloads the tray over by the sink. They’re insisting they won’t leave until we serve the calzones they rode here for. They’re willing to wait.

Oh, for Pete’s sake.

At that, the entire kitchen staff looks to me, awaiting my verdict. It’s almost quitting hours. We just got done prepping for tomorrow and are about to start cleaning up. But bikers are tricky. Cookie, my boss, is especially partial toward them. This decision is up to me, the Pastry Chef, but I also have to think about what Cookie would have done if she were here.

With a sigh, I tell Marissa, Get their orders. Find out if they want singles or a large to share.  To the others, Start prepping.

No one carps or grumbles. Working overtime is never a preference, of course, but we’re here at Cookie’s Treat because we love what we do. Especially me.

Cookie’s Treat is a pastry and lunch cafe that looks like something straight out of a storybook. It’s probably the most colorful, delightful, cutesy food spot in this region. Lots of pink, purple, yellow, and mint-green, with cupcake chairs and cookie tables. It’s magical, utopic, and smells like heaven. Walk in, and you’ll never want to leave.

Since its grand opening, I knew this was where I was meant to be, and after two years of relentless applications, I was finally hired.

"You’ve applied for over two years straight. Are you persistent by nature or do you just really want to work here?" Cookie had asked me in the job interview.

"The latter, I’d replied without hesitation. This is where I belong. I’ve been in love with this place since the grand opening. I am what you're looking for. Give me a chance and I’ll prove it."

She did. And I’ve done my damnedest to make sure she never regrets that decision. Not that I have to try too hard, seeing as I was freaking made for this job. Pastry Chef at Cookie’s Treat, with my own handpicked kitchen team. What else could I ask for?

So, in moments like these, I do what Cookie would have done. Happy boss, happy work environment, and we all get to keep our fabulous jobs for another day.

With reluctant cheerfulness and enthusiasm, we work overtime to accommodate the bikers with freshly baked calzones. After all, they drove this far to experience the best damn calzones in Denver.

––––––––

A few hours later, Eloise—my baker—and I are the last to leave. Eloise was the first person I brought in when Cookie extended me the privilege to bring in my own team. We met over seven years ago when I went to France for culinary school. She’s the queen of all things cake.

According to Cookie, cake sales have gone through the roof since bringing Eloise on, and the demand for birthday and wedding cakes are so great that there’s a three-month waiting period.

Thanks to you, I will have to make it up to Derek for canceling date night, Eloise chides me through her thick French accent as we exit the kitchen.

"Of course, blame me. Even though I distinctly remember shooing you out because you weren’t needed for the calzones. I slide my gaze to her and arch a brow. If you really wanted to go out with Derek tonight, you would’ve gone."

She groans. Oh, I love that man, but I hate going out. Why can’t we just ‘Netflix and chill’, as you Americans say it.

"Then tell him that. I laugh and shake my head. Tell him you’d rather hang out with him on the couch than sit across from each other at a table in a restaurant. Just be open and honest about your feelings."

"But he is so sensitive, she whines. He thinks everything I say is an attack."

Well, no communication, no progress, I say. Up to you. You can’t hide behind my overtime calls forever.

Pushing the front door open, I hold it open and let Eloise go out before me.

Onyx, Cookie’s nephew, is propped against a streetlight on the curb, puffing smoke from a blunt, waiting for us.

Shit’s sake, he grumbles around a blow of smoke. Thought you two were never gonna get the hell up outta there.

Onyx is in charge of a lot around here. Including locking up and securing the premises each evening. We see him far more than we see Cookie. He doesn’t exactly have a title, but if he did it would be COO. The others call him boss, but I refuse to. I’m sure he’s miffed he had to wait longer than usual, but screw him. He’s an ass.

Remember when I said I applied to Cookie’s Treat for two years straight? This sonuvabitch is why. He’d interviewed me three times and never hired me. With him, skills and consummate expertise didn’t matter. Looks and sex appeal did. And apparently, I ticked none of his boxes.

The staff at Cookie’s Treat are all female and all bombshells. No joke. I’m talking perfect tits and asses, size six and under, high cheekbones, big bright eyes, and modelesque features. But I’m a size sixteen, Indian—no big blue eyes here—and a bit too real for Onyx. Rather than giggly and easy—the way he prefers them.

Nonetheless, I kept applying because I knew Cookie’s Treat is where I was meant to be. Especially since their kitchen staff never lasted more than a few months on account of Cookie being too particular and Onyx being a micro-manager.

Of course, he had to micromanage them. His dumb ass hired them for their looks rather than their skills. No wondering there. I knew I’d be the best match for the job, I just knew it. So I never gave up.

A little over a year ago, when I didn’t even know they were hiring, I got a call from Cookie herself. Turns out Onyx was on vacation and traveling, so she was doing the hiring this time around. She never bothered to put out a notice for new applicants. She’d quietly fired the Pastry Chef and decided to peruse past applications with her silent partner, Toni Blume, who also owns the wine cream parlor, Tipsy Scoop, directly across the street. That’s when she noticed I’d applied over a dozen times in the past two years.

Half-way through the interview with her and Toni, I knew the job was mine.

You’re always gassy about something, I snipe at Onyx. Someone needs to get your colic ass some gripe water.

And you’re always on my dick about something, he shoots back. Someone needs to get your lonely ass a dildo.

Why would I need a dildo if I’m always on your dick? I cock my head. "Are you saying you’re so tiny and inconsequential that I have to get help from a toy?"

He glares at me.

I glare right back.

Suffice it to say, Onyx and I do not get along. Why? I’m guessing because Cookie hired me behind his back. Not only did she hire me, but she also gave me control of the kitchen staff. I fired two of his lazy, inept workers then went ahead and—gasp!—brought in a male kitchen hand. How dare I hire someone who’s not a gorgeous, skinny, long-legged woman. I came and shook things up and he didn’t like it. That’s my guess. But he can do nothing about it because Cookie freaking loves us. By her admittance, things have gotten ten times better.

He flicks his half-smoked blunt to the sidewalk and grinds it with the heel of his boot. Your days here are numbered, Pia.

Dream on, Ginger Boy.

His scowl deepens at the nickname, though I have no idea why he hates it so much. He is a ginger. A ginger who’s half-black. Therefore, a hella hot ginger. And as if it isn’t hot enough that he’s a half-black ginger, he’s also a shitkicker, leather-wearing biker with a face covered in freckles, a full copper beard, and textured hair that he usually keeps stylishly cornrowed.

It irks me that I find myself checking him out from time to time. The tautness of his muscles and the artistic tattoos inked over them. His broad shoulders and sturdy build. His lips...oh heavens, those lips...

Those lips part, ready to spew some insult at me, but Eloise tugs on my arm, pulling me along and leaving Onyx glaring after us.

Must you always poke the bear? she chides.

He wants me to be afraid of him and I’m not, I lobby. He’s a fatphobic douche. I can’t stand his stupid freckled face.

Eloise slides me a glance and sighs as we trek to the parking lot. Oh, Pia... 

Oh me indeed.

~

I’m surprised to see my parent’s hatchback parked in the front driveway when I get home. It’s mere minutes to eight and they aren’t usually home from the deli until ten or eleven at night. When I circle to the side driveway, Ramesh, my little brother, is washing down the ‘Saxena Deli’ delivery van. This particular driveway was dug and paved for me, because, well, I live in my parent's basement.

I park behind the van and get out, slinging my work bag over my shoulder. Walking up behind Ramesh, I yank his earphones out. Did the Deli close early tonight? What’s going on?

My parents own and operate a pretty successful Indian deli in Capitol Hill. It’s where I, along with my two older sisters, started. Until I decided I wanted more and left for France to attend culinary school. When I returned, instead of going back to the deli, I worked at various bakeries before landing my dream job at Cookie’s Treat. Suffice it to say, my parents have been sour about it. Like the rest of my siblings, they believe I, too, should be wielding my culinary skills in the family business. But I’ve forever been the rebellious middle child, always ready to step out and do her own thing.

Ramesh shoots me an annoyed look. Yeah. Because of the mundan ceremony for Vivaan’s son this evening. Did you forget?

Of course, I forgot. Why? Because I don’t care about these things.

Let me explain. My parents are from Tamil Nadu, Southern India. Both their parents were close friends who migrated to the US together. They grew up almost as siblings. Considering they were barely teenagers when they moved here, it was only a matter of time before they began struggling with traditions.

By the time they fell in love, got married, and had us, their traditions were heavily adulterated. As a result, my siblings and I were brought up with little to no Indian traditions. We were complete coconuts—brown on the outside, white on the inside.

Until around eight years ago when we moved to Southeast Aurora into a developing area populated with Indian families. Families who are patriotic about their native country and uncompromising about their traditions and culture. Only then did my parents began forcing tradition on us. But the train had already left the station. By that time, we were more Americans than Indians.

While Ramesh and my oldest sister, Preeti, have been showing an increasing interest in the culture over the years, my second sister, Mira, and I have given up. Mira's an atheist and I’m agnostic, but they’ve been trying to thrust religion on us, forcing us to chant mantras and discuss Hinduism.

Trust me, I tried. I tried to get behind the culture and traditions. I spent over a year fully immersed, learning what I thought I needed to be more Indian. But the more I tried, the more I forced it, the more confused and out of place I became. And there were so many things I didn’t like about the traditions I was expected to keep. I couldn’t deal with the hypocrisy. The this way is right and that way is wrong mentality. Some of the outrageous beliefs. So, I quit forcing it and went back to living how I did before—as a red-blooded human who embraces everyone’s cultures and beliefs and doesn’t want to be put in a box.

This Vivaan person isn’t even family. Just a neighbor. Yet the Saxenas have shut down their business hours early to go see their neighbor shave their one-year-old son’s head. Why? "Because we’re all family."

You people are ridiculous, I mumble to Ramesh, then continue to the side of the house which leads to my apartment. 

Aunty Pia! Do you have any sweet bakies?

Glancing up, I see my two nieces—ages six and five—on the upper balcony of the beige two-story house next door. Yep, Preeti is our neighbor, while Mira lives two cul-de-sacs away with her roommate. Ramesh lives in the house with our parents, and I rent the two-bedroom basement apartment downstairs.

Why of course, lovies, I say, patting my work bag. "I’ll bring them over soon, only if your mommy tells me you’ve been good."

We have been good all day, Aunty Pia! they say within seconds of each other, jumping up and down on the balcony. We promise!

Well, if that’s true, you'll be getting your sweet bakies real soon.

I skip down the steps to the entrance of my apartment, laughing as they squeal at me to hurry and call their mommy.

Nope, I’m not ashamed of living in a basement apartment at thirty. When you choose a career in the restaurant industry, you do so with the understanding that very few end up with a high-class lifestyle. Food is a labor of love. Long hours, low pay, high turnovers. You’d be hard-pressed to find a cook, baker, mixologist, or server who are paid what they’re worth. It takes a while, if ever, to find that perfect job. Which is why most shoot for restaurateurship.

I absolutely love what I do, but before landing a position at Cookie’s Treat, I made crap money. From that, I dutifully saved every penny to be able to afford an accelerated culinary degree and then pastry school. I lived unabashedly frugally for a long time. Anything if it meant I wouldn’t owe Sallie Mae a penny at the end of it all. I’m not about that loan-and-debt life.

Only after I began working at Cookie’s Treat on a proper salary with regular bonuses did I begin seeing some real progress with my finances. In another year or so, I should be able to buy a house, not in this neighborhood. For now, I’m grateful and have no complaints about my life as it is. With my only debt being my rent, I’m good.

My apartment is Boho-Chic. I’m loud and colorful and my home matches that. Bright colors, mismatched furniture, mandala printed rugs and throw pillows, kitschy art, and plants.

Plants, plants, plants. Tall plants, small plants, hanging plants, dying plants, striving plants.

I love life, love living things. But I’m allergic to pets and it devastates me, so I fill that gap with plants. Not the perfect replacement, but at least they aren’t crapping all over the place.

I deposit my work bag on the rustic dining table then grab a bottle of coconut water from my yellow retro fridge, quaffing half its contents in one go. Once I’m quenched, I pad to the bedroom and plug my drained cell into the charging station on my nightstand. As I wait for it to juice up and power on, I strip out of my work clothes, throwing them onto the bed. 

Once my phone is up and running again, I video-call Mira.

You're calling about the mundan ceremony, aren't you? she immediately answers, her face filling up my phone screen.

In appearance, Mira is the opposite of me. Small. Small waist, small nose, small mouth, small everything. But she's my favorite and I love her to death.

You're going? I ask in reply.

Better to go and get it over with than have an argument about it, she says. Kim and I are still fighting and I can only deal with one drama at a time.

Kim is Mira's roommate. But no one, except me, is privy to the fact that Kim is Mira's literal roommate—as in her bedmate. To everyone else, they're merely two good friends renting a house together. In actuality, they’ve been dating for over three years. Both are still in the closet and don't intend on coming out anytime soon. Kim's parents are super religious, homophobic Catholics, and while our parents are diluted in terms of tradition and culture, homosexuality is not a reality they've warmed up to.

Mira, regardless of how much I’ve urged her to come out and be the fearlessly unapologetic person I know she could be, is terrified of how our parents will take it. Especially now that they’re on this path of re-embracing their traditions to save face with the die-hard patriotic judgmental hypocrites in this neighborhood.

Well, have fun, I say. "I'll be home watching Guy’s Grocery Games."

"No! Pia, you have to come, she begs. I'll suffocate if you aren't

Reviews for The Biker and the Baker

[Georgiana Craven Salter · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Love everything about this authors work. You do not want to miss out on such interesting , passionate characters and writing.