Page 3 of Bears & Bakeries (Sweet & Stocky #2)

THREE

Stiff Batter

L ocky paced around his bedroom, weaving between piles of discarded clothes. Those piles only got bigger as he yanked out jackets and jeans, staring at himself in the dirty mirror before tossing them aside.

Why had he let Kai bully him into this meeting? He only had eleven weeks left of his exit bonus, and he had no idea when his stock option would come through. Yes, the takeover was agreed, but it would take months before the paperwork was settled.

Until then, Locky was on a countdown. Every day he wasted was another day he wasn’t searching for a real job—something to replace the stability that had been ripped from him.

And what if he couldn’t find anything? He’d only got the job at SunSpark because he’d met Evelyn at a group meeting, someone who’d taken pity on a wide-eyed college graduate who was new in town. And Locky had only been promoted because he had the rare trait among accountants of being able to talk with other humans.

But there’d be no kind strangers to help him out this time.

He was on his own.

And the clock was ticking.

“Kai?” he barked, wrestling the buttons on a polo shirt. “Does this look weird?”

His voice was raised, half so Kai could hear him from down the hall and half from the terror he was trying to ignore.

Locky wasn’t in denial about his charming collection of mental disorders —as his one-time psych had called them. But that didn’t mean he should fall to pieces over this stupid meeting. Because it didn’t mean anything. This Benedict guy would hear half a sentence of Locky’s pitch and declare it dead on the spot.

After all, a late-night bakery ? What kind of idea was that? It was something a kid might scribble on a fast-food napkin.

Kai’s voice echoed down the hall. “It looks great, babe. Proud of you.”

“You can’t even see it!”

Kai poked his head in. He was wearing a loose navy hoody, the UC Berkley logo emblazoned with gold. A heavy gym bag hung against his sweatpants. “Oh, you’re wearing that ? Not the black bow tie from the murder mystery party we hosted last year.”

“Wait, should I...?”

“That was a joke, moron!”

Locky grumbled as he followed Kai to the kitchen. “Why did you make me take this meeting?”

“Will you relax? You’re the potential client. It’s his job to impress you. Not the other way round.”

“Yeah, but?—”

“But nothing. Either he thinks the idea’s crap and you go back to your miserable office life. Or he thinks the idea’s great, and you explore it for a few months.” Kai gave him a kissy face as he reached for the door. “Play your cards right and you might even get a screw out of this. Seriously, how long has it been?”

Before he could answer, there was a knock at the door. Locky’s immediate instinct was to dive behind the kitchen counter. But there wasn’t enough time. Because Kai was already there, dutifully grabbing the handle.

The door swung open, revealing Benedict Owens.

And Locky had to bite back a gasp.

The man was even more stunning in person, tall and stocky and almost intimidatingly stylish. He wore a three-piece suit that highlighted every inch of his masculinity—and there were a lot of inches to highlight.

His hair was set in a twist out style with faded sides. A powerful brow gave way to full cheeks and a well-shaped beard. His earlobes were stretched to the size of pennies, with white-gold tunnels that glowed against his deep, chestnut skin.

Locky had always loved piercings on a man, and there was something about this combination in particular—the sharp suit and rebellious metal—that gave Locky some very unhelpful thoughts.

Locky tried to stop his gaze at chest level, but his eyes moved beyond his control. His mouth almost dropped when he saw the man’s suit pants. His thighs were so beefy, his ass so impossibly thick, that Locky immediately imagined the visitor flat on his back, with Locky holding one tree-trunk leg in each arm.

Shit! No! Bad thoughts!

Locky whimpered in awful realization, but it was too late to stop his bodily instinct. He slapped hands in front of his lap, hoping like hell he didn’t look too obvious.

Fortunately, the two other men were distracted.

“What’s up, Benny Boy?” said Kai.

“Kai? Oh my God! What are you doing here?”

Locky realized that he’d spent so long composing that initial email to Benedict, he’d forgotten to mention that Kai had referred him. This would be Benedict’s first time making the connection.

“Wow, thanks a lot,” said Kai in departure, but not before noticing Locky’s clasped hands. Kai smirked, waiting until he was just behind Benedict’s back before making a series of unhelpful grabby motions and exaggerated licks toward Benedict’s ass.

Then there was silence.

And Locky was left alone, trying to hide an infuriatingly sustained erection while staring at the single most beautiful man he’d ever seen in real life.

* * *

There were times when Benedict’s policy of not getting too close to his clients was easy. But this was not going to be one of them.

The first problem was that Mr. Sorenson was a friend of a fucking friend. Benedict wouldn’t have responded to the email if he’d known that. Because that meant trouble. There were too many connections and expectations of familiarity. Plus, the client might show up at some event down the line and want ongoing advice, which would only distract Benedict from his current client.

The second problem was that Mr. Sorenson was hot as hell.

Benedict had never had much of a type when it came to naked friends. Tris had once described him as a pansexual mega slut, which wasn’t far off. He was hot for cocks. He was hot for pussy. He was hot for curves and twinks and muscles. He was hot for asses and tits and lips and beards and clits and great screaming squirts and arching jets of cum and just all of it .

And for some reason he’d never been able to explain, there was nothing that turned him on more than social awkwardness. People who said the wrong thing or were really fucking adorkable always drove Benedict wild.

Given the choice, he’d always take the nerd in the Green Lantern shirt, breathlessly rambling about their favorite story arc, over the smoldering bad boy in the leather jacket.

And it was this impulse that Benedict really had to push down right now. Because in this moment, with Mr. Sorenson holding his hands over his crotch like some Victorian-era maid, Benedict wished he could give the poor guy a hug. He looked so nervous and so awkward and so fucking cuddly, with the V around his shirt collar revealing a tuft of golden fur so thick that Benedict could’ve used it as a pillow.

Not that he would, of course. He wouldn’t do any of that. Because sometimes clients got nervous. Sometimes they freaked out. But it wasn’t his job to comfort them. And it definitely wasn’t his job to hug them.

All he had to do today was get in, do the consult as quickly as possible, and hopefully not wind up with a friend of Kai’s as his client. Maybe he’d luck out and the idea would be terrible.

“Mr. Sorenson,” said Benedict, mustering his most professional voice. “Benedict Owens. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The hand that took his was burning hot. Mr. Sorenson’s other hand remained glued to his front. “Yes. You too. Hello.”

Benedict waited for a long beat before saying, “Should I come inside?”

“Yes! Sorry. Would you like some water? You look hot.” The man’s face flushed even redder. “Hot as in temperature! Not saying you aren’t hot in the other way. You are, obviously... I mean... Oh, fuck .”

“Water would be great,” said Benedict, having to suppress the unhelpful sparkles that radiated from the man’s nuclear awkwardness.

Mr. Sorenson scurried into the kitchen as Benedict took in the surrounds. He’d never visited Kai’s apartment—they’d gone their separate ways after college, only seeing each other incidentally at conferences.

Neat wasn’t a strong enough word to describe the decor. It was almost regimented in its tidiness. The kind of place where even the label-maker had a label.

And that was classic Kai. He certainly couldn’t imagine Mr. Sorenson, with his un-ironed polo shirt and frayed jeans, being responsible for it.

“What can I help you with?” said Benedict, sinking into a cognac-colored couch. He usually let the client choose where to sit, but if he didn’t make the first move they might conduct the whole meeting standing, like soldiers on parade. “You mentioned an idea you wanted to discuss?”

“I did, didn’t I?” he said, rushing back with brimming glasses. “And please, call me Locky. I’d say Mr. Sorenson was my father, but good luck finding him!”

Benedict laughed dutifully at the joke, trying to ignore how adorable Locky’s awkwardness was. Benedict wasn’t thrilled about using first names—not in the beginning anyway—but the last thing he needed was to make the man more nervous. “And what would this idea be... uh, Locky?”

Still standing, Locky gulped his water like a thirsty camel. His forehead was sweat-beaded. “It’s dumb. I know it’s dumb. But Kai’s forcing me to explore it.”

Benedict pulled out his tablet from a leather messenger bag. “Let’s not be hasty with those kinds of judgments. Why don’t you sit down and tell me all about it?”

Locky sat stiffly. There was a long pause before he finally spoke, fast but soft. “It’s a bakery. But one that only opens at night.”

Benedict paused the stylus.

He’d heard all kinds of business ideas over the last ten years, but it had been a long time since he’d heard something truly original. His mind drifted into a million curious thoughts. A bakery that only opened at night? What would that even look like? Who would the customer be? How would you market it?

It was a tantalizing thought, full of unexpected possibility.

“Interesting,” he muttered, tapping the stylus against his chin.

Locky shot up from the couch “I knew it! You’re right. It’s crazy and dumb and it would never work. I’m so sorry for wasting your time.”

“ Whoa . Don’t beat yourself up like that. That wasn’t a bad interesting . I was just surprised.”

“Surprised because it’s a stupid idea! Because it would never work! Because it’s the dumbest idea in the history of... history !”

Benedict froze, fighting two instincts.

The first was the obvious one, the one that rested deep in his bones. The one that said for God’s sake, give the poor guy a hug! That was the instinct carried by an eight-year-old boy who burst into tears whenever the news showed a video of a natural disaster. The kid who always asked his parents for spare change to put into every hat on the street. The instinct that didn’t care whether it was appropriate or socially acceptable or part of a wise business strategy—if you saw someone crying or freaked out or struggling, you gave them a fucking hug.

But the second instinct was newer, and all the stronger for it. It was the learned instinct of life. The instinct carried by a thirty-six-year-old man who knew the taste of reality, and the consequences of swallowing it. The instinct that said you couldn’t go around hugging clients. Because you had to keep that part of yourself separate. Safe .

For your protection.

And for theirs.

Locky was almost vibrating now. His breaths were short and stunted. Words were coming out in half-formed syllables.

It was a reaction that Benedict knew well. A reaction he’d seen in his own mirror—glassy-eyed and vacant and wishing it would all just fucking stop .

And that... that was too much for him. Against his better judgment—against everything he knew he shouldn’t do—Benedict dropped the tablet and came to Locky’s side, running a firm grip along each arm.

Locky shook under Benedict’s touch, like a frightened puppy in a storm. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

Throwing caution to the chaos, Benedict wrapped his arms over Locky’s shoulders, drawing him into his chest.

Locky didn’t return the hug, although he pressed ever so slightly into the warmth, causing the soft curls of Locky’s blond hair to run through Benedict’s beard. He smelled of green apple and woody spice.

But that moment didn’t last long. Because Locky let out a strangled squeak and pivoted suddenly from his hips, like a lounge chair halfway through unfolding. Now, Locky’s forehead and feet were touching Benedict, but his midsection was as far away as it could possibly be.

Benedict let go of Locky on instinct, but the man chose that moment to return the hug, stopping Benedict from stepping back.

Benedict blinked in confusion. “Are... you okay?”

“Yes!” said Locky, far too quickly. “Everything’s fine. Nothing’s the matter.”

Benedict looked around, wondering if Kai had set this whole thing up as an elaborate prank—some joke about the perils of working with small businesses? Something the rest of his old classmates could laugh at during their next reunion.

It was while looking around that Benedict finally saw the cause of the problem.

And it was a very big problem.

“ Whoa! ” said Benedict, snapping his gaze up from Locky’s crotch.

“Oh, God. Oh, God,” muttered Locky. “This isn’t happening.”

“I’m pretty sure it is,” said Benedict, biting his lip to stop himself laughing. He couldn’t see Locky’s face, but the embarrassment was radiating off the man’s head. “Should I... take it as a compliment?”

“This isn’t funny!”

“You’re hugging a stranger while trying to hide the biggest erection I’ve ever seen. It’s a little funny.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

As much as Benedict wanted to joke about offering Locky a hand—and as much as this moment would be taking top spot in Benedict’s awkwardness spank bank—he felt genuinely sorry for the guy. “Did you want me to get you a pillow? Or leave the room? Or... something?”

Locky whimpered. “Why don’t we just go our separate ways, and I can write today off as the biggest disaster of my fucking life?”

That offer hung in the silence that followed.

Because here was Benedict’s out. The one he’d wanted. Offered on a silver platter.

Benedict knew that he should take it. Friend of Kai’s or not, Locky was a walking disaster. And that was the opposite of what Benedict needed. He needed sensible, self-directed clients who took advice, opened their stores in an orderly fashion, and moved the hell on with their own lives.

And yet, something stopped him. Something he’d once believed a whole lifetime ago: that those with the biggest problems deserved the biggest help .

Even Benedict was surprised when he said. “If I left now, I’d never hear this bakery idea of yours.”

Locky glanced up, still holding the hug. Eyes as blue as the summer sky were set against cheeks so red he looked like he was wearing blush. It was such a bleak look, so small and so helpless, that Benedict almost broke in two. Because all he wanted to do was tell this poor guy that this wasn’t a big deal and that he didn’t need to look so devastated.

“You can’t be serious?” Locky squeaked.

Benedict shrugged, the movement lifting Locky momentarily to his tiptoes. “I’ve had worse. One guy got so worked up talking about custom picture frames that I had to call an ambulance.”

Locky at last shifted to a more regular posture, their bodies separating. Benedict resisted the urge to look down and see if there was any remaining evidence of the problem.

“Was he okay?” asked Locky.

“He was. But it proves that you shouldn’t feel bad. Some people get a business idea and rush it straight into production. For others, even talking about it can make their bodies do weird things. I’m guessing it took a lot of courage to tell me about that idea? To even contact me in the first place?”

“I... I suppose so.”

“Then let’s focus on that. Forget about everything else and celebrate that as a step forward.”

Locky looked him over, searching and curious.

After a long time, he finally nodded.

“So, baking, huh?” said Benedict, as though the last five minutes had never happened.

“Yeah, it’s how I wind down from... well, I supposed you’ve seen from what . ”

Benedict gestured toward the kitchen. “I think a wind down’s probably in order?”

“You mean bake ? Right now?”

“If you don’t mind? I find it useful to see the source of someone’s inspiration.”

There came another searching look.

And, eventually, another nod.

Locky shuffled into the kitchen, turning on the spot a few times. “Where should I start?”

“Wherever you’d like? Just pretend I’m not here.”

“I guess I’d usually put some music on? I don’t like cooking in silence. It reminds me of... well, I just don’t like it.”

“Fine by me,” said Benedict, taking a seat at the counter. An orange cat pawed into view, rubbing its cheeks against Benedict’s well-polished boots. “And who do we have here?”

Locky looked up from the most battered laptop Benedict had ever seen—held together with frayed silver tape. “Oh, that’s Apricot. Kai’s cat. I can put him away if you like?”

“Is he usually out here when you bake?”

“ Always . Usually hoping to get some cream. He normally sits on the stool next to you.”

Benedict pulled the neighboring stool back and Apricot leaped up, eyeing him with a cocked head.

At first, Benedict considered not engaging—getting close to a client’s pet could lead to accidentally getting too close to them as well. But he settled on this entire day being so screwed up that it hardly mattered.

He scratched under Apricot’s chin, eliciting a deep and contented purr.

Locky returned to the sound of brassy jazz—the last genre Benedict would have expected. “What should I bake?”

“Whatever you’d like. You’re the expert.”

“I just usually bake for other people, is all,” said Locky, pulling on a sturdy-looking apron. His expression was light and carried an adorable shyness, which somehow emphasized the way the apron wrapped around his frame, like a big caramel hug. “So it’s really whatever you’d like.”

Benedict thought about this for a moment. “It’s hard to go wrong with chocolate chip cookies?”

Locky’s face shifted in the most beautiful way, like clouds parting after a storm. “Oh, I make great chocolate chip cookies. Do you want them straight up or with a curveball?”

“Let’s have the curveball. That’s usually a good thing in business.”

Locky spun around, scanning the kitchen before grabbing a plump orange from a neat fruit bowl.

“A chocolate chip cookie with orange juice?” asked Benedict.

“ Zest ,” cautioned Locky, waggling the fruit in his direction. “You don’t want excess liquid in a cookie batter.”

Benedict chuckled as Locky rushed around the kitchen, grabbing bowls and pans and whole armful of ingredients. “My apologies, chef. Tell me more. I bet you know all the secret techniques?”

Locky took the bait, just like Benedict had hoped, launching into a passionate demonstration of egg temperature and sifting strategies and the ratios between white and brown sugar.

And, suddenly, the man was transformed. Gone were the nerves, and in their place was a keen-eyed nerd who’d been waiting hours for someone to ask about their special subject.

Benedict tried not to grin at his own tactics. He’d been through situations like this in the past. Well, not exactly like this —he’d never found himself in an accidental boner hug before. Some clients would barely let you through the door before they’d monologued their entire business idea. And then there were people like Locky, who needed a little time before they opened up.

He waited until Locky was spooning flour into a gleaming stand mixer before trying his luck. “So, a nighttime bakery? What inspired that?”

“It was an idea I had with Kai. I run a nightly meeting, and we were talking about how there’s nowhere good to go afterward. Well, nowhere that isn’t full of bad choices and temptation and...”

Locky gave Benedict a curious expression. Not scared exactly. But cautious maybe? Uncertain?

And then it hit him.

He hadn’t seen much of Kai in recent years, but there was one trait from their college days he’d always found admirable. “Sorry, I should have clicked. So you’re like Kai? You’re...”

“ Sober? ” said Locky, with a surprisingly warm laugh. “You can say the word. It’s not offensive. The first step is admitting you’ve got a problem. And I am well past the first step. I’m the meeting leader, I’ll have you know!” Locky flicked the mixer on, the hum low beneath the gentle flow of jazz. “It was an idea I had after one of our meetings. They finish at eight, and some of us like to head out afterward. We usually go to this diner nearby, which is fine, I guess. It’s just kind of soulless. Day-old drip coffee and cheesecake that’s been sitting there for weeks. The kind of place you visit because nowhere else is open.”

“You couldn’t go to a restaurant?” said Benedict, before quickly adding, “I’m not trying to shoot you down. Just focusing on market gaps. If that’s okay?”

Locky nodded. “Restaurants get weird if you don’t order a full meal. Besides, you’d never wander around and talk to new people at a restaurant, like you would at a bar.”

Locky filed that away—the desire to have a bakery with the characteristics of a bar. Not just a place to eat but a place to socialize.

It was fascinating, but too big to delve into now.

“A coffee shop then?”

“Good luck finding one. The whole coffee shop that’s open until midnight is a figment of 90’s sitcoms. They don’t exist anymore. Even the ones that stay open until nine have the same issues as the diner: coffee that’s been steaming all day, with tired staff mopping under your feet to clear you out.”

“Yes, I can see the problem,” said Benedict. “So what about your store? What kind of things would you serve?”

Locky’s easy expression stiffened. “I... I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about the menu.”

“Oh, well, that’s fine too. It’s what I’m here for. To help you explore all of that.”

Locky sighed. “Yeah, but what’s the point? None of this will ever happen.”

“Why not? It’s a very innovative idea.”

“I’ve been around enough marketing types to know that innovative is another way of saying risky .”

“ Ahhh . Let me guess. You’re thinking about five-year leases and ten-thousand-dollar fit-outs and being stuck with mountains of debt?”

“Isn’t that what a small business is? A massive money sink?”

Benedict collected his tablet from the couch. “What if you could test out your idea without any of that risk? Not just the plan, but actually opening a store?”

Locky scowled. “How?”

Benedict knew that he should pull back from the casualness of this conversation. That it was getting too familiar. And yet, he didn’t. “Trade secrets, Mr. Sorenson. Trade secrets.”

Locky drummed his fingers on the counter, clearly as confused as he was intrigued. “So... I wouldn’t need to sign any leases?”

“Nothing long term, no.”

“Or make any risky decisions?”

“Nope.”

“Or—”

“Locky,” Benedict chuckled. “I can take you all the way to the final decision, with everything ready to go. With a location lined up and a menu in place and a social media strategy primed. With a beautifully formatted business plan in place. And you won’t have to commit to a single thing before that moment. Or follow through if you don’t want to. We can explore all the different options without you spending a cent beyond my services—which, I might add, are very reasonably priced. There’s no risk here. Only reward.”

Locky rubbed his hands. “And... you really think it’s a good idea? You’re not just saying that?”

Benedict bit back a frown. “I would never, ever give a client false hope, Locky. If this idea didn’t have potential, I’d tell you. I promise.”

“So... God, how would this even work?”

“Well, I usually recommend location hunting first. Why don’t I line up some options that won’t break the bank?” Benedict glanced over at the stand mixer. “Also, I’m no expert, but shouldn’t that have stopped a while ago?”

“Oh, fuck!” said Locky, diving for the machine. A beige scoop of batter fell from his finger, almost bouncing off the rim of the mixing bowl. “Well, that’s ruined. Unless you want your cookies as tough as an old boot.”

“Let’s bake them anyway. No point wasting it.”

Locky looked horrified. “I couldn’t do that. They’re your cookies. They should be perfect.”

Benedict looked the man over. “Perfect is a good goal, Locky. But sometimes things are better when they’re a little messed up.”