Prologue

Molly

There is a phrase in the English language that I believe should be banned for all of time. Two little words that will fuck up life as you know it and make everyone around you certifiably insane.

“I’m pregnant.”

You just shuddered a little didn’t you? A small chill wound its way up your spine, your eyes got wide, and you looked over your shoulder like a monster might be standing there waiting to rip your head off. Maybe you even put your hand to your stomach and said, “Awe, shit.” It could be out of sympathy for the words you just read or maybe it’s real. You could be knocked up right now and not even know it. If you are currently with child…my condolences are yours for the taking. I mean, sure, once the baby gets here you’ll probably be happy, but you have nine months—give or take—of people riding full speed ahead on the crazy train and dragging you with them.

I had a good life. No, I had a GREAT life before I uttered those stupid words. Twenty years old, almost finished with my two-year accelerated program in culinary school, and perfectly content staying hidden in the background around my nut-job family. I learned at an early age to keep my mouth shut so I’d have a good chance at never being publicly humiliated by them. It worked great until a couple of months ago when I just HAD to open my mouth and make my presence known.

My older sister, Charlotte, seems to think all of this is a great “learning experience” for me. Of course she would say that considering everything that happened is HER fault, but I guess she sort of has a point. I definitely came out of my shell in the last eight weeks. For the past two years I’d done nothing but eat, sleep, and breathe culinary school. When I finished and finally had some free time, I got a life. It was a fake life for the most part, but hey, at least it was a life.

Unfortunately at this point, I’d much rather still be the girl who spent two years secretly daydreaming about her pastry chef instructor and what he would do if she walked up to him and swiped the flour off of his cheek that always seemed to be there.

Luckily, I got to find out what would happen when I did that. I also got to find out a lot of things about my instructor and what he would do, like lie right to my face about something extremely important—and after I let him make me a non-partial virgin, too! But at least we had a few good weeks. That poor guy put up with a lot—a black eye, everyone knowing how he masturbates, me puking on his brand new chef coat, learning things about afterbirth he probably never, ever wanted to know, eating an actual bag of dicks…oh yeah, and telling everyone he was the father of my baby that wasn’t really my baby without even knowing that the baby wasn’t my baby because he’s just a damn good guy. You know, if he wasn’t such a liar-face liar pants.

So, this is the story all about how my life got flipped-turned upside down…no, seriously, it is. Stop singing, you heartless bastards.

I’m pregnant.

Those words can just fuck right off.

Chapter 1

– Can I Get A Woohoo?! –

Molly

“If you whip and fold in the egg whites last, you’ll get the best volume in your finished soufflé.”

Listening to the deep timber of my pastry instructor’s voice as he wanders around the test kitchen, I pause with my whisk in my hand and imagine Marco Desoto naked for probably the thousandth time. Today.

“Very nice, Molly,” he speaks softly right behind me.

He continues watching over my shoulder, and I don’t even care that I’m the only one in the class who already had the foresight to add my egg whites in last. Everyone else is scrambling around to start their soufflés over while I’m just standing here with a kitchen utensil in my hand thinking about slathering his body with the egg whites and licking them off. Shaking away my lust-filled thoughts and the idea of consuming raw eggs and the possibility of Salmonella, I go back to manically whipping my whisk through the fluffy white mixture in my bowl until I have perfect, soft peaks.

“You have beautiful peaks, Molly,” he adds quietly.

Usually, nothing breaks my concentration in the kitchen, and even though I know I have perfect egg white peaks in the bowl in front of me, hearing my instructor say the words right by my ear turns me into an idiot.

“Do you think so? They’re a nice, full B-cup, but I’ve never thought of them as beautiful before,” I ramble.

“Did you say something, Molly?” he asks.

I notice he moved a few feet away and didn’t hear me talk out of my ass like…someone in my family. Quickly shaking my head, I concentrate on the peaks in my bowl instead of the ones on my chest.

For two years I’ve had to try and be stealthy about my obsession with our student-teacher, Marco Desoto, and I can tell I’m losing my edge. He’s caught me staring at him more than once, and the few times (okay, more than a few) I’ve quietly walked up behind him just to smell him while he was busy at the stove, he knew I was there and called me out on it. I can’t help it. He smells like the best damn cookie in the world. Like vanilla and almond dipped in brown sugar and butter. Girls buy lotions to smell like that crap and this guy oozes it from his pores.

I was once the queen of stealth. I walked through our house completely naked because I realized we were out of towels right when I was getting into the shower and I had to grab one from the dryer. Our living room was filled with all the adults in our family, and no one even noticed me strolling bare ass across the carpet to the laundry room off the kitchen. That was the day I found out my Aunt Claire smoked pot and licked the walls at Seduction and Snacks.

Another time, I stood over my sister, Ava’s, shoulder and spent fifteen minutes watching her text her boyfriend, Tyler. I learned about “accidental anal” and a bunch of other shit I can never scrub from my mind, but hey, I got some more dirt to add to my ever-growing laundry list of things about my family I’ve titled “Things I need to know in case anyone ever tries to fuck with me”. It’s not that I don’t love my family, I just like to cover all my bases. I like being the only quiet person everyone forgets about until I speak up, and then they all look at me like they’re trying to remember who I am and what I’m doing there. It’s not their fault. I’ve spent the last two years living and breathing culinary school studying to be a French Pastry Chef.

“I thought I heard you say something about cups, my mistake,” Marco says with a smile.

“Nope! No cups here. Just beautiful, firm peaks that will not drop no matter how old and wrinkly they get!”

Marco Desoto is turning me into the princess of bumbling idiots and my family will never let me live it down if I don’t get my shit together. Uncle Drew was disappointed when I told him I was going to culinary school and had to inform him that there was no such thing as “ninja school”. He truly thought he would get to tell all of his friends that he had a niece who was a real-life ninja. I’m pretty sure that was the first day I ever saw him cry.

Monday through Thursday, every day including summers for twenty-four months, I’ve been up at school from six in the morning until eleven at night. I’m lucky my family even remembers my name at this point. Even before that though, I usually kept to myself. My family is plenty loud and annoying enough to make up for my lack of enthusiasm.

It makes this unhealthy obsession with Marco all the more annoying. Even though I remembered the whole egg white thing today, I’ve been flakey and off my game the last few weeks. Being a pastry chef is my dream and I’m on the verge of making it a reality. Tomorrow is my last final exam and I will finally be done with school. I need to stop thinking about Marco covered in eggs and concentrate on what I’m supposed to be doing. I have to finish writing an essay about the history of soufflé’s, and then all day Monday, I have to do my final presentation, which includes making eight different desserts and showcase them in an exhibit. I’ve already spent over twelve hours researching my paper and getting most of it typed up, but I still have a few more things to add as well as doing a few practice baking runs when I get home so that everything is perfect. It has to be perfect. Nothing can distract me, especially Mr. Sugar Cookie, who I can’t stop staring at as I fold my egg whites into my other mixing bowl.

Why did he have to show up in one of my classes two years ago? WHY? Ever since then I’ve made sure that I sign up for whatever courses he’s teaching that corresponds with my schedule like some kind of creepy stalker. I stare at him instead of concentrating on my food, and for God’s sake, I started talking to him about my BOOBS a minute ago.