Chapter SEVEN-PENELOPE

I was frozen in place. My long neglected libido flared to life.

Holy. Fuck.

Did real men have voices like that? Voices that sounded like they were dipped in chocolate sauce or honey.

“That would be me, Sugarplum.”

Oh. My. Ovaries.

Now, in northwestern New Jersey, we were no strangers to cowboys.

In fact, Barren County hosted rodeos every couple of months at the fairgrounds. But inside of town, I hardly ever ran into a man who looked like him.

And Devil’s Food Bakery was smack dab in the center of Dry Creek. Right on the corner of 3rd Avenue and Main Street.

I had a fairly decent sized storefront. The walls were painted brilliant white, semi-gloss for easy cleaning. But the accents were all black-stained wood and dark red.

The colors complemented my bakery’s custom logo, which featured my cutesy little she-Devil that I’d had designed by a local artist.

People told me black and red were not the right colors for a bakery, but even my haters had to admit my place looked good.