Risqué Business
Poppy
The Mischievous Mavens’ Baking Bloghas been invited to the prestigious Denver Bun in the Oven Bake Off. With such distinguished accolades in the bounds, of course, both Jax and I accepted their offer to join in on the festivities. Besides the fact that eating all the fresh baked cookies we could stuff our faces with, we appreciate that this will be our final foray into usury, trickery, and the like.
The clock is ticking on our little mama-inspired love-fest, and if we really want to stick it to those two biddies, we need to put on a show like no other. When you think about it, the big birthday bash itself will be the dismantling of all our hard work, so this is the big buildup before we walk the two of them over the landmine where our true gift lies in wait. I’m pretty sure my own heart will blow to smithereens at that moment, too. How in the hell I ever thought this was a good idea is beyond me.
Startlingly true to its name, the Bun in the Oven Bake Off features a bevy of women with, in fact, a bun in the oven. I’m not sure how featuring women who ovulated and fertilized at about the same time antes up their baking skills, but it’s clear they’ve been given preferential treatment when juxtaposed against the menopause set comprised of those mischievous mavens. There’s no way it’s a coincidence all the best bakers got knocked up at once. I’m betting that having all of these preggos running around is what brought the national media to the semen-infested yard.
Mom and Deb walk Jax and me proudly through the convention hall, introducing us to the who’s who in the baking world, and with each introduction, they not only beam with a little more pride, they flare with a little more embellishments.
Deb clasps her hands as we come upon a stately looking gentleman with a tag around his neck that readsJudge.
“Reginald O’Keefe!” Deb squawks. “You must meet my son and his darlingfiancée.”
Jax and I exchange a quick glance. I have to pause for a moment to add that Jax Stade looks phenomenal in a three-piece suit, which leaves me breathless and wetter than a slip and slide. I’m not at all offended to be called his plus one even if it is just a big put-on.
“A Stade in the making!” Judge O’Keefe offers me a congratulatory handshake as if I just won the fiancé lottery, and in a lot of ways, including fiscally, it does. “And what a lucky man!” And he is wise. He slaps Jax over the back. “She’s a beauty. I always say why start with the house frau when you can skip right to the trophy wife? So they work for purses. So what?” He shrugs off the disgusting suggestion. “At least she’ll keep you happy where it counts most.”
And he is an asshole.
Jax looks over to me. “Poppy is the most intelligent, bravest, kindest woman I know. I truly do feel lucky.” He presses his mesmerizing gaze into mine while kissing the back of my hand.
Mom and Deb explode with sighs while the jaded judge takes the opportunity to make a run for it.
It happens again and again—Mom and Deb introduce us freely as fiancés. Soon, they have me relocating back to Oak Grove where a rug rat’s empire is coming soon to a vagina near me.
A buzzer goes off overhead, and all of the contestants waddle to their posts. Deb and Jax make a beeline for a stack of brownies, but I take the opportunity to pull my dear old delusional mother to the side.
“What is that all about?” I hiss. A psychotically ecstatic part of me is elated to have the title of Future Mrs. Stade, but the logical, bare-fingered, far more rooted in reality version of myself is fighting mad that my mother the loon is feeding into this nonsense.
“Oh, honey, it’s bound to happen.” She offers me a kiss to each cheek as if in her descent into madness she’s suddenly morphed into a European socialite. “I’ve always thought you’d make a beautiful bride.” She wags an unsteady finger at me. “Don’t tell your sister, but you have the boobs to wear a sweetheart neckline like nobody’s business. Way back when, I suggested that she opt for the turtleneck, but you—youcan plunge straight to your belly if you wanted. We’ll get the girls together and head to Kleinfeld Bridal in New York.” Her hands rise over her head as if she were doing the wave. “We’ll have lunch in Manhattan!” She does a little reindeer prance.
Oh holy hell. I do a quick glance back at Jax who’s frowning over the two of us in judgment. I can’t blame him. I’m judging us, and I’m very much a part of the madness.
“You’re delusional,” I quip, trying to subdue the bizarre flailing of limbs on her part. “Who are you, and why are you dissing my sister’s rack?”
“Oh, hush.” She comes close to smacking me while pawing at the air. “You’ve always been so crude. You get that from your father’s side of the family.” She gives my cheek a quick pinch. “Mingle—have some fun. I’ve got an award to win. If you think I’m letting any of these millennial mamas walk away with my trophy, you’re the delusional one.”
Mom takes off, and Jax comes and offers me a brownie as if it were a peace offering.
“Sorry.” I wrinkle my nose at the most handsome man in the room. There are only about three men in a six-mile radius of this place, but Jax qualifies as the most handsome man just this side of heaven.
“I feel like I’m the one who should apologize. Here I’m engaged to the most beautiful woman in the world, and I have no ring.” He pulls my hand up and lands a kiss where a theoretical diamond should be.
My heart melts seeing my longtime friend so achingly sweet and romantic with all of the right words at the ready. Who knew that the boy I made mud pies with would grow up to be a crowned prince? Me. That’s who.
“I’m sure when the time is right, you’ll have something spectacular planned for the lucky girl.” My throat rubs dry at the thought of his future hussy.
Jax steadies his watery blues over mine. “I guess I should start thinking about it.”
“Really?” My heart thuds and drops to my feet in a cartoon-worthy maneuver. “I mean, of course, you should. If you keep sleeping around, your nads are going to turn into two giant blisters from the antibiotic resistant rash you’re sure to contract.”
“What about you?” He gives a slight wink as if calling me out on my own path down a blistering rash alley.
“Are you kidding? I’m chaste in comparison. If anything, my vagina will reseal itself from lack of use. It’s safe to say I can start on my vast collection of fickle felines once I get back home. Of course, they’ll be the exotic Bengal variety. If I’m going to be the requisite crazy cat lady, I’m going down in style.”
His dimples ignite at the thought of my furry harem. “And what about marriage?”
