Sugar Baby

Title Page

SUGAR BABY

Erin Pim

Publisher Information

Sugar Baby

published in 2015 by House of Erotica

an imprint of Andrews UK Limited

www.houseoferoticabooks.com

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Copyright © Erin Pim 2015

The right of Erin Pim has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Chapter One

“I'm sorry, Miss McClaire. The bank is unable to offer you a loan at this time.”

“Really?” I reply, disbelieving. “But, I have perfect credit. And a full business plan. And I've literally been with this bank over twenty years.”

“Yes, we've reviewed your application. I'm sorry, Miss McClaire.”

“But...” I say, legitimately not understanding how I could not be eligible. “It's not a huge loan. It's only a small part of what I've saved up already...”

“Well, it is a considerable amount, considering you don't have any equity in a home, or a partner's income to support debt repayment.” He shuffles in his chair, perhaps not used to being grilled like this. “Do you perhaps have a family member, or a friend that could help you out, instead?”

“There's really no way that I could obtain this loan? What about a smaller amount?” I ask, ignoring his question.

“It's possible you would be eligible for a smaller loan, if you would like to go through the process again. But, if you would need to supplement that amount anyway, you may just want to consider asking a family member or...”

“Alright. Thanks.” I say sharply, standing. Then, realizing my rudeness, I add a softer, “Thank you. Thanks for your time.”

“You're welcome, Miss McClaire.” He rises to shake my hand. I take it, forcing a defeated smile.

I walk against an unseasonably cool fall wind, towards
Rigatoni's.
I have to grip a ponytail of my dyed auburn hair in my hand to deter it from slashing about my face, and grip my light jacket tighter. When I arrive, I see in a mirror by the door, that my usually fair complexion has turned rosy at the nose and cheeks. I feel the warmth of the heater as I enter the bistro, and pause briefly to shake off the chill. The independently owned restaurant has a welcoming atmosphere featuring rustic wood paneling, traditional Italian music, and a red tin ceiling. A very similar feeling to the cafe I would like to own.

“Cool one, today!” A gentlemen already sitting at the bar with an espresso says to me, and I nod curtly, quickly walking past him. I recognize his striking jawline and attractively greying temples as someone who comes in fairly often, but I'm not employed in the front of house for a reason. I'm a young, good looking woman, yes, but I have little patience for drooling male regulars. In fact, I long for my chef's jacket and cap, where I feel I have the best chance of being taken seriously. Especially with the events of today, I wouldn't know where to begin, in hiding my annoyance in front of customers. I push through the homey dining room and fireplace, past the swinging doors, and into the kitchen. The stainless steel of my pastry station glistens, momentarily reflecting the florescent light back to me, almost as if winking. Instantly, I feel better. I place my things in the change room, button up a freshly laundered white chef's coat, and take extra care pinning my hair under my chef's cap. I grab an apron, and head back out to the kitchen.

Only then, do the other cooks begin to arrive. Jeremy, the tall and lanky sous chef, spouts a casual, “Hey, Kat,” as he walks past in his civvies. He's a really nice guy, and handsome in his own way, but has a much more casual approach to this job than I do. He has a lot of natural ability, and often coasts on it. In fact, he looks a little stoned this morning, perhaps from a wake and bake.

“Hey Jer.” I make a point of arriving early, not only to get a good start on my prep, but also to avoid changing in front of the guys, as there is no female washroom for the kitchen staff. I'm already kneading the breads for the day, when the head chef walks in. He's a harsh looking man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, with a closely cropped haircut. I wish I could say that we get along, but the truth is, our strong wills often clash. I get the feeling he resents a woman asserting herself in front of him. Despite that, I try to remain professional. “Morning, Chef.”

“Morning. Did you get the extra prep list?”

“Yes, Chef.”

“The guys got slammed last night. Couldn't be helped.”

“Already working on it.”

“Good.” You're welcome, I think to myself. But instead, I decide to take the high road and use the opportunity to show him that I'm not afraid of a little extra work and responsibility. Our Sous Chef has left, and Chef Daniel hasn't yet declared who will fill the position. I talked to Daniel months before about my desire to move up, but maybe I should have another talk with him. It seems like I would be the obvious choice, but I can't take any chances. Jeremy may very well get it, even with showing absolutely no desire to take on more responsibility. And this promotion may be my last chance to save up the extra money I need for my cafe.

“Not a problem,” I add, as sincerely as possible, even trying to offer a humble smile.

“It shouldn't be.” He says, continuing towards the change room. I take a deep breath, shaking of the comment. Take it easy, Kat. You'll only have to do this a while longer. I cut the dough, forming the pieces into four loaves, then brush them with oil, scattering them with herbs. I throw them in the proofing oven, and check off
bread
from the prep list.

I begin forming the shells for the
cannoli
, and dunking them into the deep fryer. They cool on a rack, before I fill each one with cream, and garnish them with berries and sifted icing sugar. The rest of the front of house team arrives as I'm dusting them, and one of the waitress comes into the kitchen, excitedly.

“Kat! Do you want to play
Date, or Dad
?”

“Sorry?”

“Date, or Dad? At the bar. What do you think?” I glance out towards the bar, and see the forty-something fellow that greeted me when I came in. He's usually alone, but an attractive, European young woman has joined him now, and seems very interested in what he is saying. She laughs, and touches his arm. I wouldn't say that she is any more good looking than I am, but is all done up, wearing a smart dress and heels, and I can see her designer purse from here.

“That's a date. Definitely.”

“I know! Gross!” I look again. The man, despite being a little older, is actually quite handsome. I've been with my share of misguided boys to see the attraction in someone that has established a life for himself. And, he probably bought her that Louis Vuitton. If you care about stuff like that.

“Well, whatever floats your boat,” I say, going back to my station.

At home, I make myself some 99 cent Asian noodles, and sit at the small kitchen table in my bachelor apartment. I'm going to talk to Chef Daniel again tomorrow. He's got to see it coming. I obviously want the position. He hasn't hired anyone, so maybe he's already counting on promoting me. I know he doesn't like me, but that shouldn't matter. I've been at Rigatoni's for over a year. And if I haven't shown by now that I deserve to be promoted, then... then what? I have to be careful I don't do something rash.

I arrive early, as usual, tying back my hair inside my cap, and making sure my uniform is impeccable. There are many things I can't control, but at least I have power over this. I take a breath, and start with the simple, classic recipes of
biscotti
and
bruttiboni
. I bend to put the cookies in the oven, when I see the chef arrive.

“Morning, Chef!” I chirp, as he passes through the threshold of the kitchen. But, directly on his tail, is someone I don't recognize. A brown guy, with a young looking face. They both pause, upon entering the kitchen. Chef takes an awkward breath.

“Kat, this is your new sous chef, Zachariah. Zach, this is pastry chef Kat McClaire.”

“Nice to meet you,” he nods. I feel my jaw hang open, and a tingling sensation accumulates in my chest. Chef raises his eyebrows and gestures towards the change room, intent on continuing their tour. And then, they're gone.

I go through the rest of my shift with a mix of barely contained anger and hopelessness, then dart into the change room, hoping to get out of there as fast as possible.

“Hey, Kat?” Jeremy peeks his head of shaggy hair.

“Geez! You scared me,” I say, holding my shirt in front of my chest, barely contained by a worn sports bra. I turn around to finish putting it on. “I can't stay late. I'm already changed.”

“No, I just wanted to say, I'm sorry you didn't get the job.”

“Oh. Well, yeah. Me too. I guess I shouldn't be surprised.”

“Yeah, I guess. Hey, since you and I won't be working together anymore.”

“Yes?” I say, intimidatingly.

“Well... aww, never mind.”

“What, Jer?” I say impatiently.

“Oh, just... maybe you and I could hang out sometime?”

“Hang out? Listen, Jer. The only way I would get involved with someone right now, is if they had some major money. Seriously.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Sorry, that sounded harsh. It's just that my dreams have basically been crushed in the past few days. I'm just not in the right head space.”

“Oh,” he says awkwardly. “Uh...”

“It's okay. Never mind. I've got to go, anyway.”

“Okay, well. Sorry. See ya.”

“See ya, Jer.”

On the way out, that older gentlemen is back at the bar, but without accompaniment. “Hard day?” He asks, as I'm almost out the door. Usually, I wouldn't give a customer of any kind the time of day, but something stops me this time. Perhaps the familiarity of this particular regular, or the desperate need for help. Or, maybe it's his caring eyes.

“That's an understatement.”

“Hmm. I'm sorry to hear that. You're the pastry chef, aren't you? I love your
Sfogliatelle
.”

“Yes, I am. Thank you. But, I may not be for long. Maybe, I don't know.” I laugh, distressfully.

“Sounds like you did have a hard day. Would a drink take the edge off?”

“Oh, no. Really, I need to be saving up my money.”

“Of course, I meant that it would be my treat, but I understand. Doesn't kitchen work pay the bills?”

“It does, but I'm trying to save up. Spend as little as possible.”

“I see. A woman with a plan. Good! May I ask what are you saving up for?”

“I want to start my own business. A restaurant. Just a small cafe, really.”

“Hmm, an entrepreneur! Having trouble with loans, if you don't mind my asking? I'm in finance.”

“Yes! I am. Really. I didn't realize it would be so difficult to get that last little bit.”

“You have the majority saved up, then?”

“I do. I work like a dog.”

“Tsk. Good for you. It's reflects on positively on your character. You shouldn't have to, though.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card.
Stephano
, but he introduces himself with his English name. “Stephen. Maybe I could help. Give me a call sometime.”

“Uh. Alright. Maybe. Thank you.”

“My pleasure. I didn't catch your name.”

“Kat.”

“Kat. Lovely. I'm serious. Think about it. I may be able to help you.”

At home, I turn his card over in my hand, but as a last ditch effort, decide to make another phone call. As someone who takes a lot of pride in hard work and independence, I really hoped it wouldn't have to come to this. “Mom?”

“Yes, dear. Haven't heard from you in a while. How are you doing?”

“Fine, I...”

“How is Jeffrey?”

“Mom, I haven't dated him for a while, now...”

“Really? You move so fast. What was the last one's name?”

“Tyson. I wanted to talk to you about something else, though.”

“He was a sweet boy. Now, that one, you should have hung on to.”

“He was a lump, Mom. Listen, I was wondering. You know that I've been saving up?”

“Yes, I think I knew that. Yes.”

“For the cafe.”

“Yes, yes, for the cafe.”

“Well, the loan doesn't look good. I mean, I haven't been rejected or anything, but I just wanted to know, that if, in the end, I couldn't get it, that I could borrow...”

“Oh, we can't help you right now, dear. Between the three houses, I mean. We're simply drowning.”

“I know. But, I was just looking for the last little amount. And I would pay it back in a year or so...”

“Oh, dear. What you need is a rich boyfriend.”

“Right. Okay. Well, I guess I'll let you go.”

“Alright. Good to hear from you, dear.”

“You, too. Bye.”

“Bye for now.”

The next day, I push open the big wooden doors of Rigatoni's, and feel disappointed to see an empty bar. I didn't realize that I was hoping to see Stephen there, until I saw the stool without him in it. I decide that he isn't at all creepy or weird like some of the waitresses might imagine. I enjoyed our conversation, and found him quite charismatic; not to mention, handsome. That, and I feel like he can help me. If only I could follow up with him right now. It makes me feel anxious that I can't take care of this right now.

I remain in a sour mood, despite preparing my favourite cream based desserts.
Semifreddo, tiramusu, ricotta cheesecake, panna cotta
...

I have to do something about my work situation. I need to work smarter, not harder. Maybe Stephen can connect me to someone. Make some wise investments. Maybe he can invest in me. Yes, maybe he's looking to invest in my idea somehow. He obviously has money. I think of the woman he entertained the other day. Her hair, make-up, nails, dress...

“Kat! Hello! Kat!” I shake off the daydream. “You're over mixing that batter.”

“Yes, Chef. Sorry, Chef.”

“Start again. You should know better.”

“Yes, Chef.”

I run home, through the crisp dusk air, with an idea in my head. I take out a fresh piece of paper, and start from scratch, re-evaluating my entire business plan. If I'm going to attract Stephen as an investor, I've got to think big. Take a risk. Come at this a different way. I can't be seen as an overworked pastry chef stuffing her hair into a cap, anymore. I'm an entrepreneur. A business woman.