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“Were you aware that there’s a three-foot penis in the corner of our showroom?”

Francine Hartley barely glanced at the woman who had eased open the swinging door just enough to poke her head through. Sasha’s words would have shocked Fran at one point in time, but no more. Desperate times. Desperate measures. Cliché, but oh-so-true.

“Is it in video form, or did our local girl-turned-sexpert bring visual aids, as well?” Fran asked, scooping one precise teaspoon of chocolate ganache into the palm of her cotton-gloved hand.

“Projected image. If she’s got oversized dildos, she hasn’t whipped them out yet,” Sasha replied with a snort.

Fran nodded, rolling the dark mass into a nearly perfect ball as she thought about the portable screen that had been set up in the corner of the confectionery shop she owned. Small café tables had been pushed out of the way, and extra folding chairs had been borrowed from the church across the street to accommodate the number of women who were in attendance to view Julia Remsford’s presentation on how to spice up a stagnant relationship. The twenty-two attendees didn’t seem to mind the cramped confines in the least, and unlike Fran, not a single one seemed to be considering how very wrong it might be watching what many could interpret as soft-core porn in the very chairs that had been used for St. Hippolyte’s weekly bingo blast less than twenty-four hours prior.

“The night’s still young. Give Julia time,” Fran said with a small smile. She placed the truffle on a parchment-lined cookie sheet and reached for another scoop, unable to contain the heavy sigh that escaped her lips.

“Hey, want some help?” Sasha asked, walking into the kitchen.

“No way. You’re off duty, woman. Go out there and enjoy the talk. Tell me if you learn anything new.”

“Are you sure you’re all right? You don’t have to do it all, Fran. You know that, don’t you? We’re all here for you in whatever way you need us. Including working a few extra hours so that you can have a life.”

Fran carefully set down the truffle and reined in her urge to snap at her well-meaning employee. Two of her three full-time staff were suddenly treating her as if she were as fragile as a piece of spun sugar. The third one, her business-manager-slash-confectionery-master, was equally aware of Creative Confections’ precarious financial status, but he hadn’t changed his demeanour towards her in the least. If he was overly worried about the fact they had six months of working capital left, no one could tell. Mitchell Stallworth was still his fun-loving, hard-working, way-too-handsome self.

“I’m fine, Sasha. Go on and keep an eye on Julia. Maybe you can step in and offer your personal expertise if she does a segment on backseat blowjobs.”

Fran cast a sidelong glance at the woman and watched her cheeks colour.

“You said you wouldn’t mention that again. I wasn’t in the shop, and I wasn’t on the clock.”

“I know. But it’s the easiest way to get you to drop this current topic and do my bidding,” Fran said, pleased to be firmly in control of the conversation once again.

“Fine. Whatever you want. Just make sure you take a break and have a little listen yourself. We both know there’s definitely someone you could try out all Julia’s suggestions with. Don’t you ever wonder if he has body parts similar to those fingers? Parts that are ridiculously long and able to work other things with great accuracy?”

“Sasha,” Fran said in a warning tone. The woman was pushing the boundary of acceptable chit chat, but Fran could hardly fault her. There were times, like now, when Fran really wished Mitchell possessed the visage of a troll. It would make her life so much easier. There wouldn’t be any lurid daydreams centred on his tall, lean form or his wide, full lips. No, if he were utterly unattractive, her pussy wouldn’t send out a S.O.S. every time he disengaged the paddle of one of their industrial mixers and licked it clean. Watching his precision tongue work shouldn’t bring a sane woman to the point of Led Zeppelin’s ‘til-the-juice-runs-down-my-leg-wetness’. But it did—more often than Fran cared to consider.

She looked up and found Sasha patiently staring her way, mouth twisted in a triumphant ‘I know what you were thinking’ smirk.

“There’s a good chance you don’t know everything there is to know about chocolate, Fran. Or about business, for that matter. Or about men. Definitely not about men! There’s more to life as we know it than pretty little packages with pretty little gold bows,” she said cockily, walking towards the front room. “Admitting that might make all the other shit going down a lot easier to accept.”

Fran grimaced. She didn’t need the hired help—even the highly insightful hired help—suggesting she needed to be a little more open minded. She picked up the scoop once more and pushed thoughts of Mitch’s inviting gaze out of her mind. “That’s doubtful, Sasha. Very, very doubtful.”

“Really?” the woman asked a second before a whispered ‘holy shit’ escaped her lips. She pushed open the kitchen door and stood in the archway.

A voice, devoid of any amplification, drifted through the room. “As you can see, any liquid or semi-soft based product that is easily malleable is the perfect conduit for adding another dimension to a couple’s sexual exploration.”

“Oh, wow! Gotta go.”

Sasha quickly disappeared, and Fran watched the door swing back and forth, snippets of gasps and giggles reaching her on each in-swing. Curiosity rose within her, and Fran quickly peeled off her gloves and made her way into her showroom, stopping dead in her steps when she saw the onscreen image of a stream of honey being drizzled around the crown of a Paul Bunyan-sized penis.

“The possibilities are limitless,” Julia said, offering Fran a quick wink. “And even if we weren’t all sitting in the middle of the finest candy store in the metropolitan area, I’m sure everyone realises the most frequently used edible medium for body play is indeed chocolate.”

Fran was well aware that Julia viewed fine chocolate not only as an aphrodisiac but also as a daily requirement, which proved extremely providential for a young woman with a fledgling candy shop. Fran knew she could never repay Julia for all the wonderful benefits that came with her patronage—especially one in particular. One with jet black hair and piercing green eyes who towered in around six foot four. One who had a great work ethic and kick-ass confectionery skills. One with whom Fran’s personal business credo demanded she never be involved.

Julia, temptress that she was, never hesitated to expound on how perfectly natural it would be to explore the unspoken bonds of attraction that grew from any healthy and productive working relationship, but Fran firmly believed sex and spreadsheets did not mix. Sex and sinfully rich, dark chocolate—maybe. Intra-business games of ‘hide the Napoleon’—not acceptable.

But there was no denying that if it hadn’t been for Julia’s intervention, Fran would have never found Mitchell. He had been one day from packing up his vintage Jaguar and heading to New Orleans. In retrospect, it was more than obvious their chance meeting at Julia’s favourite deli was anything but happenstance.

To this day, memories of the way his hot gaze had raked her from the top of her auburn head to the bottom of her splurge-of-a-lifetime Gucci flip flops made Fran’s heart lurch. She had had her fair share of flirtatious glances over the years, but none had even a smidgen of the effect a single swipe of Mitch’s emerald gaze had elicited. The fact that those smouldering eyes belonged to a man with brains and brawn and a great sense of humour was triply attractive.

She had thought the days of her stomach fluttering had ended shortly after she had hired him and promptly convinced herself he would have to be one of those goodies you simply look at from a distance and wish for. But lately, the tumbling roll of desire had begun again. This time, it had migrated southward, mutating into little clenching waves that had her dormant nether regions insisting she sit up and pay attention.

Use it or lose it, Cupcake.

Fran shifted, refusing to acknowledge that just the thought of his deep, teasing voice might be having a larger impact on her current state of arousal than the onscreen image. She snagged an inconspicuous spot near the kitchen entrance so she could hear the latest advice Julia had to offer. Not that she could put any of the super-secret tips to good use at this stage in her life. She had her principles and priorities. Work today—play tomorrow. It really didn’t matter that the ‘play’ part of the equation hadn’t taken a foothold as of yet. And with the failing economy, it wasn’t likely to change anytime soon. She had learned early on that life was all about sacrifices, and she was fine with that.

She glanced at the neatly aligned, plum-coloured boxes on the top of one display case—parting gifts for the women in attendance. Each one contained four cocoa-dusted truffles, a plastic soufflé cup of Cointreau-laced dark chocolate sauce and a mini inch-wide paintbrush. Mitch had packaged them earlier in the day, offering her a never-ending stream of ribald chatter while he’d worked. Each tiny gold chiffon bow was tied particular and perfect, which was astounding for a man who appeared to be able to crush large pieces of metal with his bare hands. Her thoughts immediately returned to Sasha’s less-than-thinly-veiled hint at what else his talented fingers could do, and Fran wiggled her hips against a little roll of lust.

Mitch’s attention to detail was unsurpassed, which made up for Fran’s numerous hands-on marketing shortcomings. At one point early in her career, she’d truly believed she could do it all, rule and control every aspect of her private confectionery world while mastering each and every facet of small business ownership. Six months of dwindling profits had been enough to have her swallowing her pride and hiring the man who seemed more than happy to overlook her oftentimes over-controlling nature.

Absently, she reached for her necklace, the familiar charm hanging from the gold chain one of her favourite gifts as well as a comfort. She had been shocked when Mitch had given it to her and had almost refused to accept it until he’d pointed out that the working environment at her store was lax enough that the boss could accept a gift every now and then from a grateful employee.

Fran sighed, silently admitting she was the thankful one. The business gods had blessed her with a man who had sharp acumen as well as a healthy dose of drive, despite his pampered upbringing. One who was proud of his accomplishments and wasn’t afraid to jump in and help with the grunt work now and again. One who could have been making a hell of a lot more money in the corporate realm. She knew for a fact he had refused offers within the last few months from two candy conglomerates. And she knew why he did so—he’d made it clear from day one. Mitchell Stallworth wanted to be her partner. He believed in her dream enough that he wanted a small piece of her business, but she continued to refuse his offer. The influx of money would be a godsend in the abysmal economy, but she truly hated the thought of losing even a little control. Even to a man she knew wouldn’t destroy all that she had built.

You have severe issues, woman.

Ha! She’d known that forever. She’d heard it time and again from family, friends and the occasional lover. Despite what Julia—Knower-Of-All-Things-Relationship-Related—had to say, there was no way Fran would allow feelings that vacillated between unparalleled respect to abject horniness to sabotage the perfection of their working relationship. She and Mitch were a great team, and she had no intention of mucking that up.

Fran pulled another pair of cotton gloves from the pocket of her chef’s jacket and turned towards the kitchen, sneaking one more glimpse at the screen before admitting she had more productive things to focus on than the fact her manager, along with being the smartest man she knew, was one of the sexiest men on the planet. Or how his probably-impressively-built penis would look drizzled with dark chocolate Ghirardelli and covered with rainbow nonpareils.