Sweet Temptation
Author
Merra Gischan
Reads
8.4M
Chapters
112
This stunning woman with her mesmerizing eyes. She’s lucky her friend arrived, or else I might have taken her straight to bed, making her moan and plead. A not so gentle reminder for her to lock her door, especially when she is planning on baking barely dressed.
Without a doubt, she's what I'd desirably refer to as my sweet temptation.
Age Rating: 18+
Flour, Fire, And Shattered Dreams
CHLOE
The bakery exploded at 11:47 p.m., and my sister was inside.
I didn't know that yet. Not when the phone rang.
I was curled on my couch in sweatpants and an old T-shirt, flour still under my fingernails, chamomile tea cooling beside me. My body ached the way it always did after a double shift—early morning prep, nonstop orders, cleaning until my shoulders screamed. But I loved it. Every exhausted, flour-dusted second of it.
This little life I'd built. Mine.
Then my phone lit up with an unknown number.
"Hello?"
"Miss Chloe Sweets?" A woman's voice. Clinical. Careful.
My stomach dropped. "Yes, this is she."
"I'm calling from Stanton Hospital. Your sister, Melanie Sweets, has been in an accident. You need to come now."
The world tilted.
Accident. Hospital. Now.
I barely remembered changing clothes. Grabbing my keys. Racing down to the street, my breath coming in short gasps as I flagged down a cab. My hands shook so hard I could barely unlock my phone to text someone—anyone.
My heart slammed against my ribs louder than the sirens screaming past.
Melanie. Please be okay. Please.
***
The ER was chaos.
Beeping machines. Hurried voices calling codes I didn't understand. The squeak of rubber shoes on linolean. A child crying somewhere down the hall. Fluorescent lights burned too bright, sterile and unforgiving, turning everyone's skin the color of corpses.
I stumbled to the desk, breathless, my voice cracking. "I'm here for Melanie Sweets. I'm her sister. Chloe."
The nurse looked up, her expression softening. "Room 520. I'll take you."
"Is she okay?" The words tumbled out too fast. "Please—just tell me she's okay."
"She's stable," the nurse said gently as we walked. "Just some scrapes and bruising. She's going to be fine."
Relief hit so hard my knees almost gave out. I pressed a hand against the wall to steady myself, blinking back tears.
She's okay. She's alive.
Until we turned the corner and I saw the two uniformed police officers waiting outside her room.
My stomach twisted into knots.
***
They introduced themselves—Officer Tate, tall and grim-faced, and Officer Brandon, younger but no less serious. The hallway suddenly felt too small, the air too thin.
"Miss Sweets," Tate said carefully, "your sister and her boyfriend, Scott Kingston, were involved in a crash earlier tonight."
I nodded, my throat tight. "Okay. Where? Is Scott—is he alright?"
The officers exchanged a look. Something passed between them that made my pulse spike.
"At your bakery," Brandon said quietly.
The words didn't make sense. I blinked at him.
"I—I don't understand." My voice came out barely above a whisper. "At Sweets Cakeshop?"
"Yes, ma'am," Tate confirmed. "They were both intoxicated. Mr. Kingston was driving the van. He lost control and hit the storefront."
The air left my lungs.
No. No, no, no.
I'd signed the lease eighteen months ago with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. Spent coffee-fueled nights teaching myself bookkeeping from YouTube videos. Took out a bank loan that still made my palms sweat when I thought about the monthly payments.
My dream. Built from nothing. From flour and hope and sleepless nights.
"Upon impact," Brandon continued, and I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, "a fire ignited near the main gas line."
Oh God.
"It escalated quickly. There was a full explosion."
The word landed like a fist to my chest.
Explosion.
My vision blurred. I grabbed the wall, my knees threatening to buckle.
"Both of them were pulled from the vehicle before it blew," Tate added quickly. "No fatalities. Your sister's injuries are minor, all things considered. Mr. Kingston is in ICU but stable."
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't process the words coming out of their mouths.
The bakery. My bakery.
Gone.
"Someone from the court will be in touch when they've recovered," Tate said. "But for now, you don't need to worry about the legal steps. We just wanted to make sure you understood what happened."
I nodded numbly, my throat too tight to speak.
The officers stepped aside, and the nurse touched my elbow gently. "Take your time. She's awake if you want to see her."
***
When I pushed open the door to Room 520, Melanie looked so small.
She was propped up in the hospital bed, scraped and bruised, a bandage on her forehead. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying. When she saw me, her face crumpled.
"Chloe…" Her voice broke. "I'm so sorry."
I stood there, frozen in the doorway. A thousand things clawed up my throat.
Anger. Fear. Grief. The urge to scream, to cry, to shake her and demand to know why.
But what came out was: "What matters is that you're alive."
Melanie burst into fresh tears. "The shop—I ruined it. We worked so hard—"
"Don't." I held up a hand, my voice firmer than I felt. "Not now. Don't talk about the shop."
She wiped her face with shaking hands, her breath hitching. "I didn't mean—we were just—"
"Mel." I crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, my legs unsteady. "Just… are you hurt? Really hurt?"
"No. Just scrapes. They said I was lucky." Her voice was small, childlike.
I nodded slowly, my jaw tight.
Lucky. She was lucky.
While my entire life went up in flames.
I looked at her—really looked—and saw our mother. The same recklessness. The same impulsive streak. The same wide eyes that believed the world would catch her when she fell.
And it always left me to do the catching.
"Did Scott know where he was driving?" I asked quietly.
She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. "We were just—we'd been drinking, and he said he wanted to see the shop, and I thought—I don't know what I thought. I'm so sorry, Chloe. I'm so, so sorry."
The apology hung in the air between us.
I wanted to forgive her. I wanted to rage at her. I wanted to rewind time and never answer that phone call.
Instead, I just sat there, numb.
"How many second chances do you think we get, Mel?" The words came out sharper than I meant them to. Colder.
Her eyes flicked to mine, guilt and fear twisting her face.
"Do you even remember what it was like, that night they died?"
She flinched.
"Our parents didn't die in their sleep," I said, my voice low and tight. "It wasn't peaceful. It was some idiot running a red light and not thinking it through. One second. That's all it took. One moment of not caring enough."
I swallowed hard, forcing the heat in my throat back down.
"And you're doing the same thing. Crashing through life like it'll all just catch you."
"I know," she whispered. "I know, and I'm sorry, I—"
"You could have died tonight." My voice cracked. "Both of you could have died."
"I know."
Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating.
I looked down at my hands—still dusted with flour from this morning. A lifetime ago.
When I'd been kneading brioche dough, the morning sunlight pouring through the bakery windows, everything golden and warm and exactly where it should be.
Now it was ash.
"I'll change," Melanie said, her voice desperate. "I swear, Chloe. I'll fix this. I'll do better."
I wanted to believe her.
God, I wanted to.
Instead, I just squeezed her hand gently. "Rest. We'll… we'll figure it out."
I stood before I could say something I couldn't take back. Before the tears I'd been holding broke free.
"I'm going to check on things," I said quietly. "See what's left."
Melanie nodded, her face pale and streaked with tears.
I walked to the door, my chest tight, my hands trembling.
I didn't look back.
***
Outside, the hallway was too bright. Too loud. Too much.
I leaned against the wall, pressing my palms against my eyes, trying to breathe through the pressure building in my chest.
The bakery was gone.
Everything I'd worked for. Everything I'd built.
Gone.
And Melanie—reckless, impulsive Melanie—had a million apologies and no way to fix it.
Of course.
Once again, I—the younger one—was left to pick up the pieces.
I heard footsteps and looked up. The nurse from earlier approached, her expression gentle but serious.
"Miss Sweets? There's one more thing."
My stomach dropped. What now?
"During intake, your sister mentioned that her period was late. With her consent, we ran a pregnancy test."
The world slowed.
"Ms. Melanie Sweets is seven weeks pregnant," the nurse said—and the hallway tipped sideways.
