Pamela DuMond - Annie Graceland 03 - Cupcakes, Pies, and Hot Guys Read online

  Cupcakes, Pies, and Hot Guys

  By

  Pamela DuMond

  Cupcakes, Pies, and Hot Guys

  Copyright 2012 © Pamela DuMond

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Art Design: Michael James Canales

  www.michaeljamescanales.com

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any other means, without written permission of the author, except in the use of brief quotations used in articles or reviews.

  Digital editions produced by: Booknook.biz

  Also by the Author

  Cupcakes, Lies, and Dead Guys (Annie Graceland Mystery #1)

  Cupcakes, Sales, and Cocktails – A Novella

  The Messenger’s Handbook

  DEDICATION:

  To Cheree Dussair Plank

  You are a force of nature and a fierce friend.

  I’m honored. All my gratitude and love, forever.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  HOT GUYS RECIPES!

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Cupcakes, Pies, and Hot Guys

  One

  Bliss

  “Mmm. You’re killing me, baby. Whatever we’re doing right now is probably outlawed in eight states,” Detective Raphael Campillio said as he lay back on Annie Rose Graceland’s sofa. He was shirtless, totally buff and wore an “I Heart Cupcakes!” blindfold while he nibbled on Annie’s index finger.

  Annie, straddling him, wore her typical baking attire—yoga capris and a lacy cami top. Not so typical: The cami’s straps dangled down past her shoulders courtesy of the very fine Detective Rafe—her new boyfriend.

  She smiled and tossed her long auburn ponytail over one shoulder. Despite the fact that her marriage tanked and she was almost divorced (Hallelujah, she’d welcome that day), she’d managed to score the most smokin’, sweet, honest, available man in all of Los Angeles.

  “You might be a hot shot detective in the City of Angels,” Annie said. “But I am still bound by my code of ethics (Ethics/shmethics—she’d just made that up) to put your detecting skills to the test.”

  Rafe slowly pulled her finger from his mouth. “I detect fresh butter cream frosting,” he said. “While I’ll happily endure all of your tests and quizzes, please share the name of the board whose standards you are holding me to?”

  Annie got the shivers. This man could quite possibly stop her heart from his sheer yummy factor. “The Board of Super Important People located in an ultra secret underground location. Probably close to Dick Cheney and Beyonce’s bunkers,” she said.

  “Dick Cheney and Beyonce have adjoining underground bunkers? Fascinating. Next test, please.”

  She dipped her middle finger in a bowl of frosting that sat on the couch and dragged it across his lips.

  He circled his tongue around her middle finger.

  Maybe she’d died and gone to heaven. “Absolutely. Important people have underground bunkers for nuclear events, obnoxious behavior, or even bad hair days,” Annie said. “Get real, Rafe. We’re living in L.A. One minute you’re a smart detective who solved a celebrity murder. The next, someone’s snapped a photo of you in your boxers and posted it on Twitter.”

  He frowned and bit down on her finger.

  Oh dang. Trouble. Time for damage control. “What are you going to do? Confront the media hoopla? If you’re a celebrity, you hide in your underground bunker while your people deal with the firestorm.”

  Rafe frowned. “You did not take a photo of me in my boxers. And you definitely did not post it on the Internet. I am not going to be the next Weiner-Gate.”

  Annie leaned back and checked that her cell phone was still safely hidden under the couch. “Getting back to the matter at hand,” she said. “Identify the two most delicious ingredients that you’re currently tasting.”

  Rafe nibbled on her middle finger. “You. And let me think. You.”

  “Wrong!” Oh jeez, he was frickin’ killing her. “Oreos and Kahlua are the main ingredients in that frosting. But I’ll give you another shot, ’cause I appreciate the fact you are here to serve and protect.” As well as the fact that he was spicier than Wisconsin cheese fondue spiked with jalapeños.

  “Yes, ma’am. But I have other jobs I’m very good at.” Rafe tickled her waist, and when she giggled, seized the opportunity to tug her cami higher, run his fingers up her back and caress it. Repeatedly.

  “I sense you are not taking this detecting test seriously.”

  “You’re wrong. LAPD’s detectives are the finest officers in all of the country. Produce the evidence immediately.”

  Annie tapped her frosting-swathed finger on his lips.

  He wrapped a muscular arm around her back and pulled her smack dab on top of him. “Mmm.”

  With her remaining ounce of willpower, she pulled her other hand off him. “Report of findings, please.”

  “White chocolate frosting with tiny bits of fresh raspberries,” he said. “Almost better than sex.”

  “Wow. You’re good. Good at anything else? Three, two, one…?” Who would have guessed getting divorced could be this much fun?

  “I thought you’d never ask.” He ripped off the blindfold and flipped her beneath him.

  “Whoa!” She stared up into his dark dreamy eyes just two inches away from hers. “I like that move. Where’d you learn a move like that?”

  Rafe pulled her cami bra straps further down her arms with his teeth. “I’m sworn to secrecy.”

  Brinnnng! Brinnnng! Annie’s land-line phone rang on the bookcase, two feet away from her head. Yes, she lived in the smallest, grungiest apartment in Venice Beach, California. And unless you were a famous artist or a zillionaire actor, small and grungy was normal for Venice. “Ignore that call,” Annie said. “It’s probably Nordstrom’s Rack with another sales announcement.” Or another bill collector.

  “Ignored.” Rafe trailed his kisses down her throat and headed south.

  Brinnnng! Brinnnng!

  “Changed my mind. Answer it,” he mumbled somewhere in the vicinity of her belly button.

  She stretched her arm off the couch, snagged her phone’s receiver and slammed it back down.

  Rafe lifted his head off her stomach. “Are you the only woman on the Westside of L.A. who doesn’t have a fancy ring tone? No Pink. No Fergie. Not even Avril Lavigne?”

  “Just a ten-year-old phone-answering machine combo with a speaker button. Return to more important matters, please.”

  He shook his head. “That phone’s going to ring again in four seconds. One, two, three….”

  Brinnng! Rafe pressed his face against her belly and laughed.

  “Fine, you’re right. You detected. Just stay there and enjoy the two hundred crunches I did this morni
ng as well as the chocolate cupcake I ate for breakfast.” She reached behind her and punched the speaker button. “Who is this and what do you want? And it better be important.”

  “Is this the way you speak to the woman who nearly died from eighteen hours of excruciating contractions before she gave birth to you?” Nancy Graceland, Annie’s mom, hissed through the phone’s speaker.

  “Sorry, Mom,” Annie said.

  “You had a big head. If I knew beforehand that you had such a big head, I would have let Doctor Know-it-All schedule his CD selection,” Nancy said.

  “C-Section, Mom.” Rafe smothered laughter into her stomach. “You’ve caught me at an inconvenient time. Can we talk later?”

  “Before you moved to L.A., my calls caught you at inconvenient times. After you moved to L.A., my calls still catch you at inconvenient times. Will there ever be a convenient time to talk to your mother?”

  Good old-fashioned Midwestern guilt. “I’m sorry, Mom.” She wriggled from underneath Rafe and plunked down on the floor. “What’s up?”

  Rafe grabbed his shirt from the back of the couch, pulled it on and buttoned it.

  Annie mouthed, “No,” and shook her head.

  He pointed to his watch and resumed buttoning.

  “I know you’ve been dying to come back and visit Wisconsin. Me. Your brother, Carson. Your auntie. Your grandpa.”

  Annie knew she had to visit her mom, but also knew she hated traveling. She loved her family, but would rather shove pins under her fingernails than go back to the Midwest, especially in the humid, hot summer. Or the cold, frigid winter. That left about a three-month window that was relatively safe to venture back to the Midwest. If you didn’t count the tornadoes.

  “Yes. Definitely planning a trip soon. Completely looking forward to it.” She was not planning a trip back to Wisconsin in the near future.

  “Well, my darling daughter, you might as well thank me now.”

  Rafe grabbed her around the waist. “I’ll call you later.” He kissed her on the lips. For a second she forgot she was on the phone.

  “Annie,” Nancy said, “I hear heavy breathing. Are you all right? You had a bout of asthma when you were ten. Is it the asthma?”

  Rafe pulled away, smiled, and gave her cat, Theodore von Pumpernickel, a scratch on his enormous white fuzzy head before he exited her front door.

  “Just allergies, Mom. What am I thanking you for?”

  “I have not only handled all your travel plans, I got you a one hundred percent free, all expenses paid, luxury trip back to Wisconsin.”

  A red alert button fired in Annie’s brain and she broke out into a drenching sweat. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Even though it was summertime, it was seventy-four degrees on the temperate Westside of Los Angeles. Annie’s forehead was suddenly so damp she had to wipe the moisture away with the hem of her top. Was it her hormones? Was it a dreadful disease? Or was it another of her stupid psychic reactions? Because Annie was psychic—kind of.

  Technically, she was empathic. She could feel in her body and brain the thoughts and feelings that belonged to other people. “Mom, you’re at home right?”

  “No. I’m lounging on the Lido deck on a Regis and Kelly cruise in the Caribbean. Of course I’m home. Might I remind you that Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, is also your hometown.”

  “I know that. What’s the temperature in Oconomowoc right now?”

  “A mere ninety-nine degrees.”

  Annie walked into the kitchen, grabbed a towel and mopped her forehead. “What’s the humidity?”

  “Do I look like The Weather Channel? I’d venture a guess and estimate ninety-five percent.”

  “Do you have the AC on, Mom?” Annie asked.

  “I bought one of those cute little hand fans when I visited Chinatown in Chicago, last year. It saves on the electric bill, big time,” Nancy said. “And I recently read that sweating is healthy. It opens the pores. Releases toxins. Keeps one youthful.”

  “So that means no on the AC.” Annie dabbed the rivulets of sweat that pored down her cleavage. Thank God, Rafe had left. Thank God he didn’t witness this. She hadn’t been dating him forever, and she hadn’t shared her deepest secret with him. This profusion of sweat wasn’t a hot flash, or an allergy. Technically this sweat didn’t even belong to her. It was an empathic reaction. Annie’s body was picking up on the fact her mom was drowning in perspiration back in the scorching hot and humid Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, in June.

  “I didn’t call to discuss the weather,” Nancy said.

  And just as fast as the heat wave started within Annie, the sensation disappeared. That’s what being empathic was about. The feelings showed up. They created havoc. They left. And Annie dealt with the fall-out. “What’s up, Mom?” She asked.

  “Oconomowoc is having an extra special Fourth of July celebration. The town is hosting a statewide baking contest. They were looking for celebrity judges and, of course, I thought of you. Almost famous after your recent brush with the law.”

  Oh, that was what “heavy petting” was called these days. “That’s nice of you.” Annie threw the kitchen towel into a laundry hamper in the corner of the room.

  “I called all my friends. We voted for you. I just got word—Wisconsin’s first annual Hot Pie Contest picked you to be a celebrity judge! Can you believe your good fortune?”

  Alert! Abort mission! Danger, stranger! The warnings bounced off each other as they rattled around Annie’s brain. Traveling back to Oconomowoc during tornadoes, ninety-nine degree weather with ninety-nine percent humidity on a national holiday weekend did not seem like good luck. More like a recipe for disaster.

  “That’s four days away, Mom. I can’t just pick up and leave L.A. for a week. I have work. A life. A cat. I have… (A sizzling new boyfriend who needs a little, um, nurturing…) I have important things in L.A. I must attend to.”

  Theodore, Annie’s long-haired, blue-eyed Himalayan wound around her legs, meowing loudly. Annie stepped into her kitchen, cracked open a can of cat food. She emptied it into his bowl and placed it on the floor. He pounced on it.

  “Lost Angeles will always be there. Unfortunately. You need to come home and reconnect with your roots. The contest guaranteed first-class travel accommodations and tons of media coverage. Maybe this will help you break out of that deli you’re slaving in. You could start your own business again. And bonus, you can bring one friend for free. As long as it’s not She-Who-Cannot-Keep-Her-Legs-Together.”

  “Mom, be nice. Julia’s completely changed since high school.”

  “And I’ve got beachfront property on sale for pennies on the dollar. You haven’t been home in almost a year. I could die tonight and you would never forgive yourself.”

  How bad could a trip back home to judge a baking contest be? “Okay, Mom. I’ll do it. Tell the Wisconsin Hot Pies Contest people I’ll do it. Send me the info, the tickets and the itinerary.”

  “I already accepted on your behalf. The package should be on your doorstep tomorrow. This will be your best trip back home ev—” Nancy said.

  Annie picked up the phone from the machine and put it to her ear. “Mom?” She smacked the phone with the heel of her hand. “Mom?” But the line was dead.

  Two

  Already Blew It

  It was nighttime in Venice, California. Annie’s place was smack dab in the ’hood. A woman screamed loud and long. A grisly murder? A drug deal gone bad? Or simply an average Jane who couldn’t deal with the traffic or gas prices in Los Angeles one second longer?

  Annie voted for the latter as she chopped limes on a wooden block and poked the wedges into the open tops of cervezas frias. She walked the few feet into her living room and handed them to her best friends, Julia and Grady. They sprawled on her couch and watched TV.

  “Share the remote, please,” Julia said, a curvaceous late thirties blonde. She snapped her fingers at Grady. “If I see one more ep of Nancy Grace, I swear I’ll put a fork in someone’s eye. P
robably yours.”

  Grady held the remote up high in the air past Julia’s reach. “Promise that I don’t have to watch a Housewife, a Kardashian or one of those fake blondes with the fish lips who slept with Hefner.”

  Julia pouted. “But I heart Holly.”

  “Promise,” Grady insisted.

  “Fine,” she grumbled.

  He handed Julia the remote. She flipped to The Bachelorette.

  “Nooo!”

  “What kind of sicko doesn’t believe in true love?” Julia huffed.

  Grady sighed and his shoulders dropped. “You have anything to eat around here?”

  “I’m perfecting margarita-inspired cupcakes.” Annie swirled the frosting on the cupcakes so there were little dips and swells. She knew they tasted great. She wanted them to look gorgeous as well. She winked at Grady. He was handsome and smart in a film geek kind of way. But he batted for the other team and she was more than fine with that. “Feedback, please.”

  She handed them cupcakes. They noshed enthusiastically.

  “Outstanding,” Grady said.

  “1800 Tequila?” Julia asked.

  Annie knew Julia had met many “friends” and experienced too-many-to-count, let-alone-remember fun make-out sessions, all thanks to 1800 Tequila.

  “You inspired me,” Annie said. “I might even name this cupcake, The Julia 1800 Smooch. Hey, I’m headed back home for a dealie on the Fourth. I’ve got one extra ticket.” She waved the official “Friends of Oconomowoc” eight by ten envelope in front of them.

  Grady waved back at her. Annie tossed him the envelope. He caught it. Opened and perused its contents.

  “What’s the dealie that could force you to go back to Wisconsin in the summer?” Julia asked. “Your hair frizzes, your skin breaks out. I’ve never seen you crabbier than when it’s ninety-nine degrees out with ninety-nine percent humidity.”

  “Mom signed me up as a judge in Wisconsin’s first annual Hot Pies Contest,” Annie said. “Sweet, huh? Apparently she thinks that after my “brush with the law” I’m a local celeb.”

  “Did you share what your “brush with the law” really entails?” Julia asked.