Sweet Curves (Sweet Enough to Eat #2) - Mila Crawford ,Aria Cole

Sweet Curves

Aria Cole


Sugary sweet and sinfully delicious.

Those are the words running on repeat in Sawyer Dixon’s head when he sees Katie Wilder for the first time in five years.

As the owner of Sweet Curves Bakery, Katie spends her days making other people’s big days perfect with zero time leftover for a life of her own. When she wanders through the doors of Rise Fitness after-hours one night, she’s only looking to shed a few pounds before her sister’s wedding day--what she finds though--is a face she could never forget.

Sawyer Dixon: former high school heartthrob, owner or RISE fitness, and determined to ruin her life, one squat at a time. For him, Katie’s always been the girl that got away and now that little miss sweet, and curvy just walked back into his life, he cares less about keeping his cool and more about keeping her in his life--forever.


“These fancy balls are going to be the death of me.” I dotted a tiny pearl of creamy white confection next to its neighbor--perfectly round, perfectly formed, perfectly sweet.

I sighed, my mouth watering as I thought about the special recipe I’d used to create this masterpiece. It took talent to make tiny pearls of white sugar hold their form, look good in photos, and taste amazing.

But these sugar pearls, I knew they tasted good. They were just a bitch to line up in a perfect little row.

My relationship with food could be summed up in two words: permanently complicated.

And then everything changed with one phone call.

“Katie, you have a call.” Laura, my hostess, poked her head in. I peeked mineup to look at her, my hair tied back and a net in place to protect the current masterpiece I was working on. A seven-tier cake for Kovington McMaster, a senator. It was for his daughter’s sweet sixteen and it had to be perfect. Every single pearl of sugar. That family did not look very forgiving, especially the high-maintenance wife that reminded me of my own mother dearest.

“Can you take a message? I need to finish this up.” I added some fall leaves, making the cake a vision of perfection. Shades of white with autumn marzipan leaves, hand-shaped and decorated in detail.

“I would, but… she sounds like a deranged Scarlett O’Hara. I’m actually a little scared of her.” I froze and felt my nerves go on high alert, something that I’d been familiar with my entire life. Something that always happened right before I spoke to my mother.

“Fine. Can you just bring me the phone?” Laura cradled the phone in between my ear and shoulder as I continued to work, knowing that the only thing I could do to maintain my calm was to have my hands working on something I loved while my ears were forced to listen to her shrill, judgmental voice.

“Katherine! Hello, it’s your mother.”

“I know.” I deadpanned.

“Did you hear from your sister? Well, I’m sure you will if you haven’t already, but she’s getting married and wants you to make the cake. I mean, I wanted Paterson’s, they’ve been doing the wedding cakes in these parts for generations, but she said she wants one of your modern designs.”

Modern designs. She talks about my work like I’m some girl making pastries for her school dance fundraiser. I’ve made cakes for the White House, but whatever.

“So the wedding is June 25th. She wants a marble cake with a white icing, and please don’t add any of those tacky designs to it. Simple and elegant. We aren’t like those actors you make cakes for. Those are so gaudy.”

My brain hurt so badly that I thought my head might actually explode...

“Ok, that’s it, dear. Oh wait, one more thing. Please make sure you lose a few pounds for the pictures. It’s not very flattering when we all look so slim and you look like, well you. Kiss, kiss. Talk soon. Bye.” She hung up and I looked down, a smushed leaf bleeding through my fingers, a victim of my rage. The woman was fucking unbelievable.

“Mike, I need you to take over!” I yelled for my assistant before I stormed into my office, slamming the door violently behind me. Pacing up and down the floor, trying to let my rage boil off but instead I found myself getting more and more irate. It was sad that still, after all this time, the women could make me feel like a fat, insecure fifteen-year-old.

I picked up the phone and dialed my sister.

“Hello?” she answered, her voice