Sugaring Ben Page 2

  My gaze caught Ben Cutter’s. The connection caused me to smile and warmed my chest. My God, he was a beautiful man. Handsome in every way imaginable. Somewhat pretty. I couldn’t believe how good-looking he was in person, raw. His shoulders were massive in size and his chest bulky. I fell into his grin, enjoying the one dimple in his left cheek. His eyes twinkled a green hue that just about melted me, and his ginger eyebrows were minimal in length and delicately trimmed.

  Bottom line: I became a puddle in front of him.

  Wasn’t I too old for that nonsense? Didn’t it come across as childish, immature? What I did know seemed rational: Ben Cutter caused an earthquake inside my chest and rocked my world just by his greeting stare.

  We shook hands, and he came in for a hug, which just about blew my world apart. Of course, it was a man-hug: masculine, chests unable to bump together because of our arms between us, a pat to my back with his free hand, his head pulled and positioned ever so slightly away from my own.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said, grainy and deep.

  “Kat has told me a lot about you.”

  “All good things, I hope?”

  “Of course.”

  We sat down across from each other. My water glass was filled by another penguin. Seconds later, a different penguin arrived to take our drink orders. Ben ordered a light beer. I ordered a Seven and Seven, one my favorite cocktails.

  “Remind me how you know Kat,” I said.

  He chuckled. “She hired me for a catering job in Miami some nine years ago, before I became a full-time pastry chef. We became friends. Kat has seen me as a poor man and mouse without any food to eat and no place to live. She’s also seen my life change for the better and keeps me grounded.” He reached for his water, took a sip, and placed the drink back on the table. “Speaking of Kat, where is that woman?”

  I told him about the call Kat had received from her boyfriend, Dr. Brent’s cat Binky, a broken leg, and about Rosdel Animal Clinic.

  He chuckled again. “Let me tell you a little secret, Sandford.”

  “Sand,” I corrected him. “Everyone just calls me Sand.”

  “Sand it is then.” He took another sip of his water. “Years ago, I would have chosen Kat to be my wife if I weren’t into men. She’s a lovely woman, strong, beautiful, confident, and fun. I can’t say one thing bad about her.”

  “You haven’t seen her on a Saturday morning without her coffee,” I joked.

  He laughed. “I’m sure she’s just as stunning.”

  “Don’t risk finding out.”

  Our drinks arrived. Then we reviewed our menus. I decided on a salmon salad, and Ben chose a dish called Sabzi Korma: Indian cauliflower, eggplant, and potato curry.

  After our orders were taken, he said, “I see you on WRDR almost every day.”

  “I’m a horrible sight. You should stop watching.”

  “Trust me when I say this, you’re the sexiest weatherman I have ever seen.”

  I wanted to tell him that I had a second degree in climatology, but didn’t want to bore him. Instead, I said, “Zeb Outlander isn’t bad to look at on WFEO. His blond hair and blue eyes are on point.”

  Zeb was my nemesis, or so everyone at WRDR told me and reminded me on a regular basis. The two of us were the same age and had worked at our companies for the same amount of time. If you didn’t watch Zeb forecast the weather, you watched me.

  He shook his head and admitted, “I don’t like to talk bad about people, and usually don’t, but I met Zeb. He’s a pompous ass. WFEO can keep him. I’d rather go to bed with you every night.”

  Those were nice words to hear, ambiguous in nature, and a little shocking.

  He chuckled another time.

  I chuckled.

  Then he said, “You’re blushing.”

  “I never blush”

  “Oh, but you are.” He retrieved his beer from the table and took a chug. “And let me tell you, you’re adorable when you blush. Not many men can pull that look off, but you’ve mastered it with those red cheeks.”

  Being sharp and to the point, I asked, “Don’t you have a boyfriend to flirt with, Mr. Cutter?”

  “I’ve been single for the last year. A Spanish guy broke my heart.”

  “What Spanish guy?”

  He told me a story about traveling to Madrid approximately eighteen months ago for his show, Sugaring Ben. He dated Franco Paliz, became his boyfriend, and brought Paliz back to the United States with him.

  Ben told me, “Paliz loved American dick. He couldn’t get enough of it. Every time I turned my back away from him, he was riding another cock. After dumping him, I learned that he never really cared about me, that he had purposely made me fall for him just to get into the United States so he could eventually become a citizen.” Ben rolled his eyes and took another chug of his beer, which was almost empty. “It was a sad time for me. I felt used and broken, especially since I loved him.”

  “Have you dated any men since?”

  “A few. None of them were special, though. They didn’t do anything at all to my heart.” Our meals were served, and he ordered something strong to drink, whiskey over ice. After the waitperson left our table, he said, “What about cute you? Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “I’m not at all cute. Just average.”

  “Stop,” he said, grinning. “You’re adorable and should be told that every day.”

  I shook my head and teased. “You’re drunk. Lay off the booze.”

  He laughed.

  I laughed.

  “Why are you single, Mr. Oliver? Tell me. I want to know. You come across to me as a sweetheart, a super nice guy, and easy to chat it up with.”

  “Sweet as sugar,” I said.

  He chuckled. “I hear that every day.”

  “Which means I’m a cliché.”

  “But a very cute cliché, none the less.”

  While eating, making sure that I hadn’t talked with my mouth full, I decided it was safe to tell him about Bentley Daye. “Bentley was three years older than me and had a cushy accounting job with the city of Radar. He made over one hundred grand a year, which was above the average pay scale in northwestern Pennsylvania, lived comfortably next to the lake, and…

  “Coke ruined us. More so him, of course. The stuff is cheap, and he was an addict. I blamed his closest buddies for that. Bentley played amateur football with his buds on the weekends. After their play, they all got high on heroin. Two of them died from overdoses, one attempted to commit suicide, and the others are currently trying to keep their fucked up lives together.”

  “Which group does Bentley fall in?”

  “Overdose,” I said, but not weakly, staying strong.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. You play with the devil, he’ll take your soul. There are delicate rules when doing drugs, and Bentley didn’t follow those rules.”

  “Did you love him?”

  I shrugged. “That’s a tough question. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure. Maybe. Maybe not.”

  He looked at his drink and eventually took a sip. “Would you still be with him if he hadn’t passed?”

  “Probably,” I replied. “I believe in sticking beside a man when he’s down. Bentley was pretty down, and I was there for him. He went to rehab twice, and I was there at his side for both visits. His addiction was maddening, though, and he couldn’t pull himself away from it, nor could anyone else help him.”

  “Do you think an overdose was his destiny?” Ben looked intrigued with our conversation, making heavy eye contact with me, drawn to me for some reason, and everything I had to say.

  I nodded. “Yes and no.”

  “Tell me about the yes first.”

  “Well, he did a lot of heroin. You do too much of that shit, and destiny is right there in your face.”

  “And no?”

  “To be honest, I don’t think I believe in destiny.”

  He sat back in his chair. “I believe in destiny with all my heart and soul. No one can convince me otherwise.”

  “How so, Ben?”

  “Because I just do. Like us, for instance.”

  He had all of my attention.

  “What about us?”

  “Our destiny is telling me that we should go on a date.”

  I laughed. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “What kind of date?”

  “Something original and personal.”

  “I’m listening,” I said, enjoying his company, unwavering conversation, and his melting looks.

  “You give me a little tour of your newsroom at WRDR, and I will make you something sweet to eat in my kitchen.”

  “How do you know I’m not a diabetic?”

  He became serious and wide-eyed, leaning forward. “Are you?”

  I laughed. “I’m not. Although it does run in my family’s genes.”

  “God forbid that happens to you.”

  “Yes. I agree,” I said.

  “Do you agree to the date or that God prevents you from becoming a diabetic?”

  “Both, Ben. Both. Show up tomorrow evening at the studio. After the six o’clock news.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “It should be fun.”

  “Likewise.” He lifted his tumbler of whiskey and ice to me. “To destiny.”

  “To destiny.” I clinked my Seven and Seven against the side of his whiskey beverage, smiling from ear to ear, happy to have met him, thanks to Kat and her emergency with Dr. Brent.

  Chapter 3: Addie’s Game

  “You two are doing what?” Kat called me from Dr. Brent’s condo on the other side of town, in a ritzy and gated community of Radar where lowbrow climatologists/weathermen like me weren’t allowed.

&nb
sp; “We have a date tonight,” I told her. “He’s meeting me at the station at six-thirty. I’m going to show him around the set. Then we’re going to his kitchen, wherever that is, and he’s going to make me something sweet.”

  “Well, good for you then. My plan worked.”

  “What do you mean by your plan?”

  She became quiet on the phone. Crickets.

  “Kat, did Binky fall out of the window at Dr. Brent’s or not?”

  More crickets.

  “Kat, talk to me.”

  “Binky did not fall out of the widow. Nothing like that happened. The cat is perfectly fine.”

  I shook my head, although she couldn’t see me, and sighed. “You never intended to come to brunch, did you? You were trying to set me up with the pastry chef, weren’t you?”

  “Ahhh, the magical wisdom of friends who hook up other friends with her friends. How friendly I can be.”

  “You’re insane,” I whispered, perturbed, feeling confused, but in a good way.

  “And you’re perfect for the pastry chef, but you just don’t know it yet.”

  “He’s gorgeous, Kat.”

  “I know. And you’re not bad to look at either.”

  “The brunch was charming, and he was a complete gentleman. We learned a lot about each other in a short period of time. The guy is so easy to talk to.”

  She giggled. “My spell is working.”

  “You’re a witch.”

  “And a catty one,” she admitted, purring.

  * * * *

  I had an hour before being on air and presenting the weather (clear skies with a high of sixty-two, above-average temperatures, and a low of forty-one for the night; curl up with a blanket and a good book) and decided to creep Benjamin Nicholas Cutter.

  Didn’t everyone creep each other these days? I was pretty sure they did, including me. If you wanted to learn anything about anyone, creeping on the Internet was necessary. I keyed in Ben’s full name into Google and watched a number of sites appear. Hundreds of articles stared at me, numerous dessert recipes were available to click on, and a lot of sites wanted to send me to online bookstores where I could buy his cookbooks, both in electronic format and hardback.

  One site drew my attention. It was destiny at play again without me even realizing. I clicked on the site that read Top Pastry Chef Comes Out and started to read a conversation between Addaline “Addie” Davidson, a beautiful food critic from the New York Caller Times, and Ben when he was twenty-four, four years ago:

  Addie asked, “What dessert would best describe your current relationship?”

  “Lemon Squares sprinkled with old powdered sugar.”

  “So it’s sour and uneventful?”

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  Addie cut to the chase during the interview and asked, “Rumors in the sweets world imply that you’re gay. Is this true?”

  “I won’t deny that, but I feel that being gay doesn’t define who I am. My composition is made up of confectionary sugar, eggs, and a lot of flour.”

  “The gay man doesn’t precede the pastry chef, correct?”

  “It never has and never will. Who I sleep with is my business. I bake for the world, but never kiss and tell.”

  “You have dated world-known models, though. Cindy Martino. Gwennith Bardou. Ashley Amstead. Tell me why you would date those beautiful women if you’re into men.”

  “Both women and men find me attractive.”

  “What about your proposal to Danielle Lithe?”

  “I never proposed to her. The media came up with that all on their own.”

  “Was it a scam to hide your sexuality?”

  “I wasn’t hiding anything. I’ve been honest with everyone and myself. I’ve never told anyone that I’m straight or gay.”

  “Is it true that Danielle was pregnant with your child?”

  “It wasn’t my child. We never slept together. You can discuss Danielle with her.”

  “Fair is fair, Mr. Cutter. Tell me about your education.”

  The article provided Ben’s history. Born and raised in Miami. The spitting image of his father. No siblings. No aunt and uncle. Attended Julian de Floure Culinary Institute for two years, obtained his culinary degree at Merachi Tu Manbarre in Paris, and opened his first Sugaring Ben Pastry House at the age of twenty-two in downtown Miami, which was funded by his grandmother, Louise Anne Cutter, who had died the previous winter from a heart attack and then pneumonia.

  “How many Sugaring Ben’s would you like to open?”

  “Seven: Chicago, New York City, Dallas, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Seattle, and Washington D.C..”

  “So across the nation.”

  “As many as I can produce, without being mundane.”

  “Do you hate being mundane?”

  “I loathe the word hate. But, yes, I don’t like being mundane. That scares me. I’ve never been mundane in my life and don’t want to start now.”

  Addie then asked personal questions that she wanted one-word answers in response, sort of like a game between the pair. Ben was happy to play.

  “What is your favorite color?”

  “Royal Blue.”

  “Do you see yourself marrying a man?”

  “Yes. Someday. I just haven’t met the right guy as of yet.”

  “Do you see yourself marrying a woman?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Do you see yourself having children?”

  “Three. No more. No less. Three is a nice number.”

  “You’re using too many words for my game, Mr. Cutter.”

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s how you play. Now, tell me, vanilla or chocolate?”

  “Raspberry.”

  “Donuts or strudel?”

  “Strudel.”

  “Boxers or briefs?”

  “Briefs.”

  “Cars or trucks?”

  “Trucks.”

  “Top or bottom?”

  “I won’t answer that. You’re classier than that, Miss Davidson.”

  “Good answer.”

  The article ended there. Addie thanked Ben for his time. Ben told the woman that he was glad to be part of the interview.

  Addie said, “Until we meet again.”

  “Or sooner.”

  Chapter 4: Kent Karson and a Big Dick

  I had a salad for lunch and a small cup of minestrone soup. I gave three brief weather reports on the hour that afternoon, analyzed a cold front and snowstorm coming in from Chicago, and caught up on some paperwork.

  I had four more hours until my day was finished at the station. Then I had my date with Prince Charming. Before my six o’clock pony show of the weather, I had two meetings scheduled, one with Natalie Barker, my immediate supervisor, and the other with Kent Karson, my assistant and handsome minion.

  The conference room could seat twenty executives. A round table with a raised center decorated the room. Uncomfortable Plexiglas chairs sat around the table. The room overlooked Dawson Street. The street was four floors down, littered with a few businesspeople, taxis, and city commuters.

  I sat near the floor-to-ceiling windows, noticed that a storm was moving in from the west, and predicted snow. When hadn’t I analyzed the weather? Never. How couldn’t I since that’s exactly what I did for a living? Not possible. Predicting sunny days and storms was my livelihood. Most people liked me for it, and some hated me for it. Their opinions didn’t prevent me from doing my job, though. I loved the team I worked with, and I enjoyed presenting the weather to the community and its sister towns.

  Natalie Barker walked into the room and sat across from me at the table. Frankly, she loved my work and good looks. I couldn’t count on two hands the number of times she had sexually harassed me. Of course, I could have turned to human resources, but she was harmless, calling me her sexy pet. Such details of her filthy behavior entailed cupping my ass once with both hands, stripping me out of my shirt during a Christmas work party, walking in on me while I took a piss in the men’s room. Truth known, the woman wasn’t discreet, attempted to turn me straight on a daily basis, and was half out of her mind, like all others in management positions at WRDR.

  She wore a short navy skirt, while silk blouse, and a navy blazer, and the fresh water pearls gleamed around her neck and on her earlobes. Married for fifteen years, divorced for the last three because of her infidelity, Natalie looked exactly like Jessica Rabbit: bright green beautiful eyes, a shapely figure, and bouncing red hair that sometimes covered half of her elegant face. At forty-three, she ran her newsroom tight, called everyone babe, and drank a little much in the evenings and sometimes during her mornings at the station.