Stud Muffin Read online

  Stud Muffin

  Donner Bakery Book #2

  Jiffy Kate

  www.smartypantsromance.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.

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  Copyright © 2019 by Smartypants Romance; All rights reserved.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.

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  Made in the United States of America

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  eBook Edition

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek: No Whisk No Reward, Book #3 in the Donner Bakery Series

  Also by Jiffy Kate

  Prologue

  Tempest

  I’m getting really good at peeing on sticks.

  Setting the small white tester on the counter, I stand, flush, zip up my jeans and thoroughly wash my hands. After drying them and applying enough hand sanitizer to kill a small infestation of small pox, I begin to pace the bathroom. Counting off my steps as I go, I try to keep from watching the stick.

  It’s kind of like a pot of water. If you watch it, it’ll never boil, or turn blue… or say YES. Whatever.

  One, two, three, four … pivot … one, two, three, four … pivot … one, two, three—

  “Em?”

  “Two more minutes,” I call back through the closed door, biting at the cuticle on my thumbnail.

  “I’m sending all the good juju your way,” Jenn replies and I can hear the smile in her voice.

  It’s no secret I’m trying to get pregnant.

  My husband, Asher, and I have been trying for quite a while, but I had a miscarriage six months ago, so this is the first cycle we’ll be actively trying to conceive again. My hands are starting to sweat a little as I continue to pace.

  I want a baby so badly—more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.

  I’ve done all the tricks. Pomegranate juice is my new drink du jour. It’s supposed to increase blood flow to the uterus. Prenatal vitamins are my new best friend. I kicked my coffee habit, which was no small feat, and I’m completely avoiding alcohol. Of course, I exercise and eat healthy. Not to mention, there aren’t a pair of tighty whities to be seen in my house.

  Asher is freeballing twenty-four-seven.

  “Any results yet?” Jenn’s voice startles me this time. I assumed she’d be back to baking. There are over a dozen custom cake orders and she is the queen… the Banana Cake Queen and absolute ruler of Donner Bakery. She and I are often the only workers this early in the morning at the newer location, downtown Green Valley. It’s a satellite location, but fully equipped with the best kitchen equipment available. I love it here. I love the original location too, but this place is a bit less hectic and allows me time to feel inspired and create.

  Glancing over at the stick, I notice the screen is still flashing, which means it’s still thinking… or testing… or whatever the little contraption does. It’s kind of inconvenient taking this at work, but when you have to report to your place of employment before the butt-crack of dawn, you make it work.

  “Not yet,” I call back, opening the door to see Jenn standing there with a bright smile and violet-blue eyes staring back at me, hopeful.

  She peeks around my shoulder and then steps back, a sly smile creeping up on her beautiful face. “Looks like someone’s gonna need an early lunch.”

  “What?” I ask, whipping my head around. My heart chooses that time to kick into an even higher gear, skipping a beat on its way to overdrive—blood pumping so fast, I feel a little woozy. The smiley face blinking back at me brings immediate tears to my eyes.

  “I’m ovulating,” I whisper, to myself… to Jenn… to the universe as a silent prayer of thanks.

  “Yep,” Jenn says with an even wider smile and a quirk of an eyebrow.

  “Asher works from home today,” I add absentmindedly as I think out loud and try to get my head on straight. My ovulation is a bit unpredictable, so I have to act fast. “I’ve already prepped the batter for the Muffin of the Day—Back in Baby’s Arms. The Sweet Dreams and Tennessee Waltzes are already in the oven. South of the Borders are on deck,” I gush out, grabbing the test and tossing the test strip. It’s been a Patsy Cline kind of week, what can I say? Waving the still-blinking smiley face at Jenn, I finally take a breath. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

  I’m already halfway out the back door when Jenn calls out, “Take your time! Oh, and make sure you have an orgasm! I heard that helps!”

  Laughing to myself, I jump in my car and start it up as another rush of excitement floods my body.

  We’re gonna make a baby.

  Driving as fast as I can without drawing the attention of local law enforcement, I make my way across town. Even though I’m in a hurry, I still abide by the laws. I’m looking to get knocked-up not booked-up in the county jail. Although my daddy is the local bail bondsman and he’s in pretty tight with Sheriff James, I’ve never been one to make a scene or abuse my privileges.

  When I approach my house, I note that Asher’s truck is still in the driveway, right where it was when I left a couple hours ago. If I’m lucky, he’s still in bed and I can wake him up with a nice surprise to get things cooking. His morning wood will be working in my favor this morning. He’s always been frisky when he first wakes up and finds it annoying that my first thought has always been coffee instead of sex.

  Well, Asher Williams, today is your lucky day.

  As I’m unlocking the front door, a wicked thought comes to mind and I start shedding my clothes before I’ve even approached the landing of the stairs that lead to our bedroom. Sex and orgasms and sperm making their way to an egg are my only thoughts as I balance against the doorway of our room, just long enough to kick off my shoes.

  And I freeze.

  Curled up in my bed—in my fluffy white comforter I picked out at Dillard’s on my last shopping trip with my mama in Nashville and my most-favorite one thousand thread count sheets—is my husband of eight years, sleeping soundly… and right beside him is another head of brown hair that looks suspiciously like Mindy Mitchell.

  Been around the block more times than the ice cream truck on a hot July day… Mindy Mitchell.

  Screwed the entire football team back in 2009… Mindy Mitchell.

  Naked as the day she was born and curled up next to my husband… Mindy Mitchell.

  Standing in the middle of my bedroom
in my bra and unzipped jeans with one shoe on and the other in my hand, I feel something snap on a cellular level.

  I’ve always been a relatively calm person.

  But in this moment, as red clouds my vision, consuming my mind, I lose control over everything.

  I feel as if I’m hovering above my body, watching it all play out like a scene from a movie.

  The shoe in my hand flies across the room, making direct contact with Asher’s head, waking him abruptly. When his eyes meet mine, he looks sleepy and confused. Then he turns to look at the sleeping body beside him. I watch as everything registers, just how bad this is. His eyes grow wide and his mouth gapes like a fish as he scrambles for words—an excuse, a plea, an apology? I don’t know, but I don’t allow him the luxury of figuring it out.

  Blindly, I begin to grasp for something… anything. Whatever my hands find becomes my next weapon as I begin launching objects across the room. Anything I can lift becomes airborne.

  Glass breaks, things shatter into a million pieces—picture frames, the vase my mama bought us for our wedding flowers, the lamp on the dresser… my heart, my past, my present, my future.

  Everything splinters into a before and after.

  My throat burns and it’s then I realize I’ve been screaming. Coughing, I brace my hands on my knees and try to take a breath, but it gets lodged in my throat on a sob.

  “Tempest!” Asher yells, taking advantage of the pause in action to get off the bed. Hands raised, he looks at me like I’m a stranger, not his wife of eight fucking years. “Get a damn grip on yourself. What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?”

  A harsh bark comes out—deep from the pit of my stomach. “Me?” I yell back. “I think the better question, Asher Williams, is have you lost your goddamn mind? What is she doing here? What have you done?” I scream. My voice sounding foreign, like it’s sourced from the pits of hell—torn and feral. “How could you do this?”

  “I can explain—”

  I don’t let him finish that sentence, instead, I pull a dresser drawer open and start throwing clothes at him. “Get dressed and get the hell out of my house!”

  “Em,” he says, pleading as he eases toward me like I’m a caged animal. Maybe I am, because right now I feel like I could chew off his right arm and shove it up his ass… and then… I finally allow myself to look over at Mindy who’s standing on the other side of the bed with the sheet covering her naked body.

  My fucking sheets.

  My fucking husband.

  “You,” I say, voice trembling as I redirect my ire. I begin to take a step toward her, but Asher tries to intercept, so I turn back to him. “Get. Out.” It’s half cry, half plea, all demand. I need them both out of my house right this second. I need space. I need air. I need … I don’t even know.

  I came home to make a baby … to make love to my husband.

  And this ...

  “Maybe you should …” He starts to suggest something, bringing my gaze back up to him, and his expression changes—self-preservation, regret, resignation… I don’t know. But he thinks better of whatever he was going to say. “Okay. We’ll go,” he says, climbing onto the bed to make his way over to her … to Mindy. The way he slips an arm around her waist, protectively, like he’s done to me so many times, it makes me lose what tiny grip on sanity I have left.

  When the dresser hits the ground, my eyes go wide.

  I didn’t even know I could do that.

  As I’m inspecting my work, the door to the bathroom that’s attached to our bedroom shuts behind me and I hear the lock slide into place.

  My head whips around as I glare at the closed door.

  Oh, that’s rich.

  “Are you seriously locking yourself in the bathroom?” I scoff. “Are you scared, Asher? Not man enough to face me?” A humorless laugh escapes and I begin to pace around the room and that action brings me back to the reason I’m here in the first place. Pacing … Ovulating … Happy …

  When the lump in my throat becomes too much to bear, I finally let the tears fall.

  My insides begin to rip in two, part of me wanting to stay angry—fired up, and downright pissed the hell off—while the other part wants to crumble into the used sheets and fall apart.

  When I open my mouth to speak this time, it’s broken and small. “How could you…” About the time I let the tears break free and collapse to the floor in front of the bathroom door, I hear sirens from a distance.

  They get closer and closer until they’re right outside the window.

  The next thing I hear is the front door open and my daddy’s voice coming from downstairs. “Em,” he calls out. “Em, it’s Dad. I’m gonna need you to come down here, honey.”

  I shake my head as the lump is back and it begins to squeeze, making me unable to speak.

  “Emmie,” he says a second time, firmer, but I can’t talk. I don’t budge. I can’t. I won’t.

  This is my house.

  Asher is my husband.

  I came home to make a baby.

  How did this happen?

  “Tempest?”

  This time it’s Sheriff James’s voice that’s carrying up the stairs. “Honey, can you please come down here so we can talk this out like adults? I don’t want to have to take you in.”

  “Did you seriously call the cops on me?” I ask quietly, banging my head against the bathroom door.

  Asher’s sigh is muffled, yet audible, and I can only assume he’s mimicking my position on the other side of the door. “You were acting crazy,” he says. “Mindy was scared.”

  Bolting up at the mention of her name, my anger fueled anew, I bang my fist against the door.

  “Are you fucking kidding me, Asher?” Next it’s my foot that kicks the door and then I’m using the piece of wood like a punching bag. “How long, Asher? How many times?” I scream, letting out all the hurt I’m feeling on the sad excuse for a door. When I kick it again, my foot makes contact with the knob and I hear Mindy scream when it breaks off and falls to the floor.

  “EM!”

  A second later, my dad and Sheriff James are standing in my bedroom, surveying the damage. “What in the—” My daddy’s words break off and he looks over at me with wide, shocked eyes. “Are you okay?”

  I finally step away from the door and let my back thud against the bedroom wall, shaking my head, I begin to sob.

  Sheriff James walks to the bathroom door and gives it a quick knock. “Asher.”

  “Uh, yes, sir.”

  “Gonna need you to step out, son.”

  “Uh,” Asher opens the door, but only exposes his head. “Do, uh… do you think you could hand us some clothes?”

  At least he has the decency to sound embarrassed.

  Good, I hope he’s ashamed of himself.

  I hope he’s fucking humiliated.

  Most of all, I hope he’s fucking happy.

  “Could you—” Sheriff James looks to me for some assistance, but quickly changes his mind, obviously deciding that’s a bad idea and goes about collecting articles of clothing from around the room. “Make it quick,” he says, handing them to Asher through the partially open, mostly broken door.

  “You know I’m gonna need to take her in,” Sheriff James says to my dad in a hushed whisper. I see my dad give a resigned nod. Closing his eyes, he breathes deeply and then walks toward me. I pretend I didn’t overhear their conversation and cross my arms as I stare out the window. It’s now light outside and I realize I have no idea what time it is or how long I’ve been gone from work.

  “I need to call Jenn,” I say biting on my bottom lip to keep myself from crying. The pain is a good deterrent.

  My dad sighs and walks to stand in front of me. “Sheriff James—”

  “Needs to take me in,” I finish for him, kicking off the wall just as the bathroom door creaks open and a clothed Asher and Mindy walk out, still looking at me like I’m their mortal enemy. I glare at Asher and turn the rage up a notch as I let my eye
s slide to Mindy.

  This bitch is in my house.

  In my bed.

  With my husband.

  My stare intensifies and she flinches.

  Good.

  I hope she’s scared.

  I also have no clue what’s gotten into me, but there’s no turning it off now.

  “I’m gonna need all three of you to come down to the station,” Sheriff James begins, addressing the room. “Since this has been logged as a domestic disturbance call, we’ll need to take statements from the three of you.

  He gives me a tight-lipped, apologetic smile. Then he lets out a huff and steps back so Asher and Mindy can walk out ahead of him, obviously putting a barrier between them and me. The absurdity of this entire situation settles in my chest and I can’t help the incredulous laugh that erupts.

  “Em?” my dad asks from somewhere behind me. “You okay?”

  “Fine, Daddy.”

  Except for the fact I still want to rip Asher limb from limb.

  And Mindy too.

  And maybe break some more shit.

  And burn some shit.

  My mama and daddy named me Tempest not because of my red hair, but because I was born on a stormy night. According to my mother, I was howling like the wind. The nurses and doctor even joked about my lungs being overly developed and that maybe I’d be an opera singer when I grew up … an auctioneer … pig caller.

  However, for the majority of my life, I’ve been quite the opposite—calm, cool, collected. I was born in October and am a true Libra, quite often the peacemaker, never making waves. Sure, I’ve been known as a bit of a spitfire, my red hair mirroring my tenacity and determination, but that’s where it stopped. The cliché of a redhead having a fiery temperament has always been lost on me.