Page 21 of Beaches, Bagels & Babes

The bread-stravaganza was impressive. Candace counted ten trays with at least twelve different flavors. That, however, was not what she stared at. Once her eyes found Daisy, she could not look away.

And not just because the woman was half-naked.

Daisy was like some kind of bagel gladiator, chopping, slinging, and gliding her way through the kitchen like she was grand champion.

Lean muscles rippling, she whisked a perfect roux, kneaded a tough-looking glob of dough, and retrieved a pan from the oven in the space of a minute with expert precision.

All while wearing nothing but a gray cotton bralette and matching bikini bottoms. Her short hair was pulled up into a top tail that stuck up like a horn, with some spilling out in a spiky mane around her face.

A face that was drawn tight with concentration, focused and set with self-assurance that was so damn sexy.

Holy bread babe, Candace thought. She watched, slack-jawed and embarrassed by the needful pulse between her legs.

Then, by being caught.

Daisy saw Candace. Her curse was muted, but the crash of her dropping the pan she held was thunderous. An avalanche of bagels spilled all over the floor.

After a stunned moment, Candace snapped from her stupor. Thankfully, the sliding door was unlatched. She rushed through, greeted by Daisy’s yelling.

“The FUCK, Perry?!”

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!! Shoot—!”

Candace scrambled to join Daisy picking up bagels and forgot about the coffee caddy she was holding.

She caught the tipping cups right as they were about to slosh hot liquid all over herself and the classic black and white linoleum floor.

Setting it aside, she did her best to corral the rolling balls while Daisy continued railing at her.

“Candace! What the hell are you doing? Why are you in my house?!”

“I promised I would help! I thought you might need an extra pair of hands for bagel prep, and— Oh…! ”

Candace’s attention shot from the bagels to Daisy, who was still half-naked.

And, now, that nakedness was a lot closer.

After she turned off the stove burners and muted the TV, she moved to tower over Candace.

Once again, the woman was an imposing gladiator with her arms crossed beneath her bralette.

Candace could not help noticing the way her piqued nipples poked through the sheer material, or the under-view of soft swells from the slightly-too-small garment.

Her gaze plunged lower, past abs that her fingers wanted to spend days climbing, before settling on the valley between Daisy’s thighs.

They were parted by her strong stance, just enough that Candace could see a few ghosting curls and the barest definition of her—

All at once, Candace realized how much of a creep she was being. She covered her eyes and blurted out another emphatic “Sorry!”

Long, agonizing seconds passed. Candace’s entire body radiated so hot she thought she might burn a hole through the floor.

She could not see Daisy’s face, but eventually heard her snort.

There was the sound of movement, and she felt Daisy’s soft mouth press against her ear.

A shiver coursed down her spine as the woman spoke in a hot, heavy puff of breath.

“Out.”

Startled, Candace fell back onto her butt with a yip. She found Daisy’s face once more to discover a wry expression. Her tone was a mix of exasperation and smugness.

“You really are something else, you know that? Let’s try this again.”

“W-what?”

“Get out and go knock at the front door like a normal, not privileged princess. I’ll put some clothes on. If you’re going to help, I can’t have you drooling like an idiot the entire time.”

A few minutes later, Daisy let Candace into her home through the proper entryway. She wore a fresh pair of navy blue joggers and a black T-shirt. It was not much more than her usual tank top and shorts, but it seemed like a pointed shift.

Candace felt like she’d been caught with a hand in a cookie jar… A tall, tanned jar that she’d love to lick the inside clean and—

Clearing her throat along with the lecherous thoughts, Candace coughed out a good morning.

One of Daisy’s dirty blonde brows cocked as she surveyed Candace. She took a sip of coffee—the coffee Candace had brought—and stepped back.

“Mm-hm. Good morning for Peeping Toms.”

“I tried knocking! You didn’t hear me over Homer Simpson.”

The dubiousness of Daisy’s expression was broken by her smirk. She apparently liked to see Candace squirm, which was a frustrating find. At least she was not angry. Daisy led Candace to the kitchen.

Like other bay cottages, it was not a large space.

They passed a narrow stairway that appeared to lead to a single room upstairs, and a short hallway with two ajar doors.

She got a peek of a retro pink tile bathroom and a bedroom strewn with clothes.

When Daisy saw Candace’s eyes linger on her bedroom, she shut it from view.

“I wasn’t expecting company,” Daisy grumbled.

“It’s homey. And I guarantee my place at the Comfort Clam is no showroom.”

Overall, the thing that stuck out most to Candace was how dated the place felt.

Like the outside, it was maintained and clean, but worn.

Daisy’s house reminded Candace of the set for an old sitcom.

With its fully carpeted living spaces dominated by caramel tones, wood paneling on the lower half of the walls accented by squiggly line wallpaper overtop, and chunky, faded furniture, the place was straight out of Malcom in the Middle .

But this was not a TV set. This was where Daisy lived, where she grew up, and the evidence was all around.

Candace spotted a hand-knitted throw blanket with loops loosened by years of use; interesting shells and sea glass tossed in a bowl by the door; tons of hanging family pictures that showed a completely different Daisy from the one Candace knew today.

Ones that showed the Daisy she remembered from their teens, from before the hurt and distance filled up an ocean between them.

Candace forced herself not to look overlong. She could not bear to, despite how adorable little-Daisy was. She stuck to the present.

The only modern items were the appliances. Now that she was not focused on bagel retrieval or ogling a nearly-naked woman, she saw high end brands like Kitchenaid and Bosch wedged among old, natural oak cabinets and butcher’s block countertops.

An array of stand mixers were arranged in a row along one section of the counter, and all of the pans were shiny stainless steel.

She supposed a baker needed proper tools to produce on the scale that Daisy did.

That massive table with its bagely bounty took up most of the floor space, extending right to where the kitchen linoleum and den carpet met.

Like a well-oiled machine, Daisy set back to what she was doing before Candace interrupted.

The woman had so many metaphorical plates spinning (and some burning), it was clear that she could not afford to stop.

She knew what she was doing, though. Despite being thrown off her game, the experienced baker adjusted her timers and set to task again .

Candace was totally out of her element. She could read directions and assemble food, but this was really cooking. Trying to take initiative, she started to finish cutting up a half-chopped onion, but dropped it as Daisy said it was the wrong type of cut.

Standing there, Candace felt an overwhelming surge of shame. Why did she always complicate things? She kept trying and trying, but maybe she was as incompetent as everyone thought. This was her fault to begin with, and now—

“Dish duty!”

“Excuse me?”

Brushing past Candace to grab a big pair of yellow rubber gloves, Daisy lightly whapped her arm with them and pointed to the sink. “I have too much going on to teach you how to make the bombs now, but you can do the dishes. That would help me out.”

“Right!”

Out of every household task, Candace honestly liked doing dishes.

Growing up, after her mom died but before she was shuffled from her grandparents to her uncle, most of the household tasks fell to her.

They had to, since her father had other priorities.

Candace was rarely, and then never, included in his plans for a happy home.

Even so, he did thank her for keeping their place clean in the brief, dark period before he was able to find a new woman to take care of it.

In the vague recesses of her childhood memory, Candace recalled how the trash and bottles piled up. Her grandparents on her mother’s side would come to check on them (her), and Candace did not want her father to get in trouble. So, she would clean up the evidence of his drinking and neglect.

Afterwards, her father would praise her and promise to do better. She lived for those slivers of attention. It was the only time she felt wanted. But it was not enough for him to keep her when she did not fit into his new family.

Candace frowned as a sudsy frying pan slipped from her grasp.

It had been years since she thought of her absentee father.

Of all the stressors and pain points in her life, he was a trauma she’d long packed away into a neat little box.

Or, at least, she thought she had. She supposed seeing all the pictures of Daisy’s happy family sparked it.

Trips to the beach where they posed with melty ice cream cones; Daisy, with the most bashful grin on her face, holding up some kind of driftwood sculpture; all three of them standing proudly before Bagel Bombs!

. She looked like a complete mix of the two, having inherited her mother’s kind brown eyes and her father’s impressive height.

They were the perfect family.

The kind of family Candace always wished she had. Daisy’s parents seemed to genuinely love her. No wonder she was reluctant to give up on the business they worked so hard to build.

If the napkin numbers Candace ran last night were right, they were on track.

Not the best one, but one that might mean surviving the season.

Provided she could build significant momentum with a few more promotions, and her uncle did not pull any more dubious legal moves, they had… not a chance, but a chance of a chance.

Candace finished washing the frying pan and moved onto a proving container crusted with old dough. As she scrubbed and scrubbed, bubbly water sloshed dangerously high. It was under control—

—until Candace happened to catch sight of Daisy videoing her. In her surprise, she leaped and the water came too, splashing all down her front.

“Shit!”

Candace let out an unusual-for-her curse and rushed to dab the material with a nearby rag. If she didn’t dry it fast, she would never get the watermarks out.

For her part, Daisy burst out laughing.

“I’m glad you find this so funny! My favorite outfit is ruined!”

“Consider it payback for you paparazzi-ing me all over social media. And it’s what you get for always dressing like you’re going to a client meeting. Do you even own a pair of sweatpants?”

“What’s wrong with a little style? Besides—” Candace clamped her mouth closed. Daisy didn’t ask for an explanation, and she probably would not care for one either. “It doesn’t matter. You just go ahead and keep laughing it up.”

With an annoyed grunt, Daisy set her phone on the table. She left for a beat, then returned with a tank top and shorts.

“Here. Minus some boobage, we’re about the same size. Give me those and we’ll see if the dryer can salvage things.”

“Permanent press setting,” Candace confirmed. “No fabric softener.” She finally stopped her anxious patting, though her heart still hammered as she took Daisy’s clothes into her arms. With a shake of her head, the woman laughed again.

“Of course, m’lady.” Daisy pointed, saying, “I’m not undressing you, too. Bathroom’s over there.”

Red-faced, Candace bolted.

Her life continued to run from one humiliation to the next. But, she thought as she closed the door behind her, it was nice to see Daisy smile. Unconsciously, she held the bundle close. The summer scent of beaches and bagels filled her soul.