Dessert Flirt Repeat Novel – When I start to undo his belt, he grips my shoulder. “Wait.” I take in the worried look on his face, how he’s gone pale. “What’s wrong?” He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Then he shakes his head. His expression turns pained. I hop to my feet and grab his hand in both of mine. “Honey, what’s going on? Are you okay?” Eyes pressed shut, he shakes his head. A beat later he opens his eyes. “I can’t do this.” “Do what?” He pulls his hand out of my grip and gestures between us. “This. Us. I can’t do this anymore.” “Wh-what do you mean?” His mouth turns into a straight line at the exact same moment the look in his hazel eyes shifts. He no longer looks confused; he looks guilty. “There’s someone else.” My ears ring. No way. This…this can’t be happening. “Becca baby, I’m sorry. I—” “No,” I croak out. “You don’t get to call me baby.” I stand there, practically n-ked, and glare at my boyfriend as I struggle to process what’s happening right now. My boyfriend of three years is cheating on me.
Becca “Becca baby, what in the world are you doing?” I take in the expression on my boyfriend’s face, how his gaze is fixated on my whipped cream–covered breasts. Except instead of the hungry look I expected, he looks…confused? Wow, yeah. Confused. I push aside the doubt and flash what I hope is a s-xy grin. I can understand the momentary confusion. Ben isn’t used to seeing me like this, all sexed up. I’m standing in our living room, buck n-ked save for the dollops of whipped cream on my boobs and my hoo-ha. “What does it look like I’m doing?” I take a step toward him, shimmying my hips a little. A tiny teardrop of whipped cream falls to the dingy hardwood floor of our apartment. His eyebrows crash together as he gazes between my legs. A hard swallow moves down his throat. He blinks furiously, like he’s still trying to make sense of why I’m standing there covered in Reddi-wip. I’m not normally a doll-myself-up-in-whipped-cream kind of girl. That’s something a s-xy, super confident vixen would do. Me? I’m pretty much the exact opposite of that. I’m as “girl next door” as they come.
Yoga pants, hoodies, sneakers, and other comfort wear are my uniform. And as much as I wish I could prowl around with the unflappable confidence of a s-x goddess, that’s not me. Save for tonight, the sexiest thing I’ve ever done is surprise Ben with a few matching lace bra and thong sets for his birthday, Valentine’s Day, and our anniversary. If vanilla were a person, it would be me. Even my blonde hair and light skin denote simplicity. One-note. Bland. But I’ve had enough of being vanilla. Vanilla is exactly what our life has been the past few months, and I’m tired of it. It’s summertime, which means I’ve been slammed at Sweet Cheeks, the ice cream shop I own in the LoHi neighborhood of Denver. For the past nearly three months I’ve been working fourteen-hour days making ice cream, serving customers, marketing my business, and doing all the behind-the-scenes stuff, like paying bills and fixing whatever equipment craps out in the shop.
My life has been a nonstop stream of cream, sugar, and waffle cones, and as a result, I haven’t been the most attentive girlfriend. Our romantic life has been hurried I love you’s and quick k-sses in passing while Ben is on a work call or before I run to the shop, which is located on the first floor of our apartment building. That’s why, tonight, I wanted to surprise Ben, to be the exact opposite of the sweet and sensible woman he’s been with for the past almost three years. He’s mentioned to me before that nothing is sexier than when I’m n-ked, so that’s what I want to deliver: nudity with a bit of whipped cream as a fun little cherry on top. That’s the ice cream part of me coming out. I can’t help it. When I think about how we’ve gone from getting kicked out of movie theaters for making out in the early days of our relationship to two workaholic thirty-year-olds who barely peck on the mouth before passing out due to exhaustion in bed, there’s a stinging in my chest.
This isn’t the life I want. This isn’t the kind of girlfriend I want to be. I’m on a mission to change that. I’m determined to go all out, to show Ben that I can be a s-x kitten who can’t get enough of him, that I’m still thoughtful and romantic and wild for him. I step up to him and slide my palms against his chest. I’m careful to keep a couple inches of space between us. He’s wearing a suit, and I know that even the tiniest smidge of whipped cream on the fabric will result in a trip to the dry cleaners. “Do you know what today is?” I tiptoe up and gaze into Ben’s gold-green eyes. The furrow in his brow eases. He swallows again. “Um, no…” “It’s N-ked Saturday,” I say, my voice raspy and low. I start to unbutton his dress shirt. “Oh. Is that, like, an official holiday?” I smile up at him. “I know I haven’t been the most attentive girlfriend lately, so I want to make it up to you with something spontaneous. And s-xy.” His shirt falls open, revealing an expanse of peaches and cream skin.
I lean down and press a soft k-ss to his chest. I take my time, trailing slow, soft k-sses down his stomach. “Happy N-ked Saturday,” I whisper between k-sses. Ben hisses out a breath. “God, Becca…” His ab muscles flex under my k-ss. I smile to myself as I plant another k-ss right above the waistband of his pants and reposition so I’m on my knees. That ragged breath means he’s turned on. When I start to undo his belt, he grips my shoulder. “Wait.” I take in the worried look on his face, how he’s gone pale. “What’s wrong?” He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Then he shakes his head. His expression turns pained. I hop to my feet and grab his hand in both of mine. “Honey, what’s going on? Are you okay?” Eyes pressed shut, he shakes his head.
A beat later he opens his eyes. “I can’t do this.” “Do what?” He pulls his hand out of my grip and gestures between us. “This. Us. I can’t do this anymore.” “Wh-what do you mean?” His mouth turns into a straight line at the exact same moment the look in his hazel eyes shifts. He no longer looks confused; he looks guilty. “There’s someone else.” My ears ring. No way. This…this can’t be happening. “There’s someone else?” I finally squeak out after a long stretch of silence. His shoulders hunch, and his head hangs. He nods. He doesn’t even look at me. The dread inside of me flips. It turns into something hot, something angry. “Becca baby, I’m sorry. I—” “No,” I croak out. “You don’t get to call me baby.” I stand there, practically n-ked, and glare at my boyfriend as I struggle to process what’s happening right now. My boyfriend of three years is cheating on me. I swallow past the lump in my throat. “How could you do this?” He tugs a hand through his sandy blond hair. He exhales, his jaw hard set like he’s irritated. “Come on, Becca. Don’t act like this is shocking news.” “What the—are you saying that I should have expected you to cheat on me?” He presses his eyes shut once more and shakes his head. “No, that’s not…Look, things between us haven’t been all that great lately. You’ve been working such long hours.
I have too. We’ve been growing apart. You can’t say that you haven’t felt things between us changing.” I stand there, mouth agape. “Ben, are you serious right now? Of course I’ve felt the disconnect between us due to how crazy work has been. But it’s been, like, three months. You cheated on me because we’ve both been busy with work for three months?” He winces when my voice turns pitchy at the end, but I can’t help it. Is he seriously saying this justifies him cheating on me? There’s another shift in his expression. That guilty look again. “I’m sorry, Becca. Someone else came along, and it just feels different this time. It feels…right.” I stumble back a step. He starts to reach for me, but I hold up my hand. “Don’t you f-cking touch me.” I don’t miss the way his eyes go wide. I hardly ever swear, so when I do, it’s a bad, bad sign. “Becca, I’m sorry. I didn’t plan for this to happen. It just did.” His tired gaze turns pitying as he glances up and down my body. A hot flash of embarrassment travels across my skin. God, I’m pathetic. And clueless. I’m a pathetic, clueless loser covered in whipped cream who just got dumped by her cheating boyfriend. Tears prick my eyes. I try to blink them away, but they tumble down my cheeks anyway in hot streams. Through my blurry vision, I can still make out Ben’s pitying stare.
“Becca. Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.” I press my eyes shut. “Stop. I don’t want to hear your apology.” He starts to speak again, but I stop him. “Get out.” He hesitates for a second. “Can I at least pack a bag?” “No,” I blurt. He babbles something about not having enough clothes for tomorrow. “Have your new girlfriend get you some clothes.” I sniffle. “Come on, Becca. I know this situation isn’t ideal, but there’s no need to be cruel.” I almost laugh, I’m so blown away by the entitlement in his words. “You cheated on me, and I’m the one being cruel?” He throws his arms up, clearly frustrated. “God. At least be reasonable. I’ll come by some other day and get the rest of my stuff. Right now all I’m asking for are my clothes.” I don’t know if it’s the impatience in his tone or the annoyed look on his face or the fact that I’m still processing being cheated on and broken up with, but something inside of me snaps. I dart to the bedroom, yank open the closet door, and randomly grab at his suits. I march back to the living room and chuck them out the open window, leaving a trail of whipped cream behind me. “Becca, what the he-l!” Ben runs over and hangs his head out the open window of our fourth-floor apartment.
He pivots back to me, his eyes wide and unblinking. “You threw my clothes onto the street!” My heart is pounding so hard, I can feel it in my throat. “I did,” I manage to say in a weirdly calm voice. “Wow…I…really did that.” This is so un-vanilla of me. Vanilla girls are sweet and calm and accommodating and predictable…until you cheat on us, I guess. I stare at Ben’s clothes scattered across the sidewalk, a strange mix of shocked, confused, and heartbroken. He leaves in a huff of muttered curse words, slamming the door behind him. The clap of sound snaps me out of my haze. I rush over, lock the deadbolt, spin around, and fall back against the door. My brain feels like it’s on an out-of-control Tilt-A-Whirl. My thoughts are fuzzy and muddled.
How could this have happened? Ben is my dream guy—was my dream guy. I think back to how he’d surprise me with breakfast in bed on weekend mornings, how he’d gas up my car whenever he noticed it was nearing empty, how he’d surprise me by stocking up on my favorite coffee when he saw I was about to run out. How he cheered me on as I opened my ice cream shop just over a year ago. How, in the first six months that Sweet Cheeks was open, he spent his weekends and evenings working alongside me, refusing whenever I tried to pay him so I could save money instead of hiring help. How is this guy the same guy who cheated on me? Soon I’m crying so hard that I slide down to the floor. The dingy hardwood is cold on my b-re butt, but I don’t bother to get dressed. I don’t have the energy to walk or even crawl to my bedroom closet to dress myself. I stay slumped on the floor of my apartment, a pathetic n-ked pile of snot and whipped cream, and cry until I pass out.
Becca Istare at my computer screen, too shocked to formulate words. “Ms. Briarwood? Ms. Briarwood, are you still there?” The customer service rep’s insistent tone jerks me out of my stupor. “Um, yes. Sorry.” I press my eyes shut in an attempt to refocus, but as soon as I open my eyes and see my bank account balance, I’m rattled all over again. “As I said before, there was a withdrawal made last night from the other name on this account. A Mr. Ben Holt.” Just hearing him say those words out loud sends a wave of panic and fury through me. I had twenty thousand dollars in this account yesterday. But when I went to pay my bills this morning, I nearly vomited when I saw that my account had just $111 left in it. Which meant only one thing: Ben emptied the account. He and I opened this bank account together two years ago when we moved into this apartment to pay bills together. But when I started my business last year, I began using the account to save money to pay my ice cream shop bills too. Because of that, I was contributing the bulk of my earnings to that account.
Ben hardly ever deposited money into it anymore. We even talked about taking his name off the account, but we were always too busy and never got around to it. “I understand that, but I didn’t authorize him to make withdrawals from my account,” I say. “It wasn’t even his money in the account. It was all my money.” A heavy sigh echoes from the other line. “As I explained before, Ms. Briarwood, this is a joint account. Both of your names are on it, so that means you’re both authorized to make withdrawals and deposits. Neither of you needs permission from the other to access this account to withdraw or deposit money.” My throat tightens with the urge to sob. “Of course, I know that, but this is an extenuating circumstance. We’ve just recently ended our relationship—the other night, actually.” I think back to yesterday when I came home from work and saw that Ben had been by to get the rest of his stuff. He had taken the zebra plant next to the fireplace and the vacuum cleaner—both items I’d paid for. I was too exhausted and sad to do anything about it though.
I figured if he wanted them that bad, he could have them. But for him to steal my money? How could he be so selfish and greedy? “I hadn’t gotten around to dividing our assets, so I’m just really shocked and frustrated to find out that all of the money—all of my money is gone.” I speak so quickly and frantically that I wonder if the bank customer service rep can even understand me. But if I slow down, the urge to cry hits, and the last thing I want is to break down sobbing to a complete stranger. “I understand, Ms. Briarwood. And I’m very sorry to hear about your breakup. But there’s nothing I can do. Mr. Holt has the right to access this account.” I’m sputtering until my throat aches. And then a sob hits. “Okay,” I manage to mumble before I start to cry. My screen goes blurry as tears flood my waterlines. I’m screwed. Actually, I’m beyond screwed. That was rent money for the ice cream shop for the next six months. And just like that, it’s gone. My head aches at the thought of how cruel Ben was to do such a thing—to outright steal from me days after he confessed to cheating on me. “I’m sorry I can’t help you, Ms. Briarwood,” the customer service rep says in a gentle voice.
“Your best bet at this point would be to reach out to Mr. Holt and ask him to return the money.” I’d laugh if I weren’t currently using all the energy in my body to keep from ugly sobbing. If Ben was bold enough to take my money without asking me, no way he’s going to give it back, even if I ask. But as I rack my brain to figure out what my other options are, I come up empty. “Okay, maybe I’ll do that. Thank you.” I sniffle and hang up, take a breath, then call Ben. It goes straight to voicemail. “Ben, how dare you,” I say. “You stole my money. How could you? How could you think that was an okay thing to do? You knew that was my money in that account.” I force myself to take another breath. “You know how hard I’ve worked to build my savings. That money was for my business—to pay the rent, to pay for repairs, to pay my suppliers—and you just steal it right out from under me?” I’m shaking as I speak. “I can’t believe I ever loved you. I can’t believe I ever thought you were a good, decent—” The voicemail cuts me off. I throw my head back and growl. I squeeze my phone in my hand so hard, it’s a wonder it doesn’t shatter.
Anger and frustration collide in the center of my chest. I want to scream and punch a hole in the wall and chuck a rock through a window and— My phone buzzes with a text. Ben: You know I had just as much claim to that money as you. Remember all those hours I worked at the ice cream shop? You never paid me. Me: I offered to pay you and you refused! Ben: Well, I changed my mind. Me: God, you’re the lowest of the low. Ben: What I’ve done is perfectly legal. Me: Legal but unethical. Gross. Immoral. Disgusting. You know it’s not right, Ben. I wait for a response, but a minute passes and nothing. I toss my phone onto the kitchen counter and slump on the floor. That’s it. There’s nothing I can do. Legally, I have no recourse. I just lost twenty grand of my life savings. And now my business is in jeopardy. For the second time in three days, I end up a sobbing pile on the floor, except this time I’m clothed.
Two bottles of w-ne later I’m comfortably drunk and lying on my couch. Tori left to go home so now I’m scrolling TikTok to distract myself from my dumpster fire life. God, I love the randomness of this app. On my FYP, I watch some dude pull off what seems like a complicated dance routine effortlessly. Then I watch a group of drunk partygoers group-hug, then fall into a nearby pool, then laugh hysterically. Then I watch a woman lip-sync a scene from a Disney movie while cuddling her cat. And then I see my favorite TikTok account has just posted a new video. His name is Gage Grant, and he posts videos of himself cooking and plating elaborate dishes with a s-xy twist: he’s usually shirtless and performs suggestive movements with the ingredients.
I think back to the video he filmed of himself leaning over a metal bowl, whisking heavy cream into stiff peaks, all the while flicking his impressively long tongue. He never speaks. And he always kicks off his videos with a sultry scowl or cheeky smirk, then gets right into the cooking and plating. He’s pretty much everyone’s fantasy come to life: a hot, ripped guy who lives to pleasure you…with food. I tap on his video and watch with wide eyes as he plates what looks like a fancy deconstructed ice cream sundae. Two oval scoops of vanilla ice cream rest on one side of the plate. On the other is a pool of hot fudge, poured into a perfect circle. In the middle is a delicate cloud of whipped cream. Around it is a thin ring of finely ground peanuts. As Gage works his expert hands around the dish, he displays that insanely s-xy scowl. He’s shirtless, as usual.
God, even in the dim lighting of his kitchen, he looks incredible. His tan skin practically glows. There’s lean muscle everywhere—neck, shoulders, arms, forearms, chest, stomach… I shake my head, mesmerized and mystified. How is this guy ripped when all he does is whip up rich, calorie-laden dishes day after day? He sprinkles edible gold flakes on the plate. The video ends with him running a hand through his short-cropped jet-black hair. Then he looks at the camera and winks. I swallow back the saliva that’s pooled in my mouth. I skim the caption. I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream…and then we head to bed and I make you scream even louder #wet #dripping #yum #melt #sosweet #sweetcheeks I can feel my cheeks heating. I wonder if he’s as good in bed as his food and his captions make him out to be… Judging by the thousands of comments his video already has, everyone is convinced he is. I skim the comments.
There are endless flame and mind-blown emojis, proclamations of love, and even a few “will you marry me?” requests. I laugh to myself. This guy probably doesn’t even read the comments. I’ve noticed he hardly ever replies. My phone buzzes with a text from Tori. Tori: Tell me you’ve seen Gage Grant’s latest TikTok?? Me: Obviously lol Tori: Ice cream this time! And the hashtag #sweetcheeks! Can you believe it? It’s like he’s channeling you lol Me: Haha I wish Tori: You should slide into his DMs. He lives here in Denver. Bet he’d make a he-l of a rebound 😉 I zero in on Tori’s text. You should slide into his DMs. Maybe it’s the a-cohol infiltrating my brain, but this actually seems like a good idea. Not the rebound part.
God, I could never in a million years proposition a guy for s-x via DM, let alone a total stranger. But I could ask Gage for help. Actually, guidance is a better word. Before I know it, I’m tapping out a message to Gage. My drunken, fuzzy brain can manage a pretty quick typing speed. Wow. When I finish, I do a quick skim of my message. Whoa. I sound so ballsy. And confident. I send it, then hop off the couch and head to the refrigerator for more w-ne. I don’t bother with a glass. I just down the last half-bottle of pinot noir Tori left me in a few long gulps. And then I pass out.