Did I really have to say that? Seriously, Zo?
Stenton issued a wry chuckle that exposed his teeth as he backed away, making his way to the door.
“I came to tell you Paul has resigned. I have a new assistant, Srey, who will be contacting you to introduce herself.”
My neck jerked.
“What happened to Paul? And what type of name is Srey?”
Paul annoyed me with his snippy attitude, and after I’d falsely accused him of tipping off Stenton about Jordan’s christening, our relationship had improved. He explained that Stenton walked past his open laptop, saw my name, and scrolled up our thread of email exchange. When Stenton called him on the carpet over it, Paul tried to argue breach of privacy, all for Stenton to remind him the laptop belonged to him.
“Paul is finally prepared to pursue his career in fashion,” he supplied stoically. “Srey is Cambodian.”
“Oh,” I breathed, still disoriented by his presence.
“My best in all your endeavors, Zoey,” were his last words.
I observed his easy gait out the door. Confident, impassive. Then the ruckus he ran into the moment he hit the cement at my door: There were cameras flashing and urgent shouts demanding his attention. When I expected him to bolt, Stenton stood on my mat, opened one of the boxes and pulled out a cupcake. From the back of him I was able to make out him taking a bite out of it. He stood out there for several minutes, taking questions—about what, I didn’t know.
Later on that evening, while I was soothing Jordan, who had caught some sort of bug, I scanned the news and caught coverage of Stenton Rogers’ latest obsession with cupcakes. He stood at the door of the bakery and I could quickly deduce it was from his earlier visit. They played a sound bite where, while chewing a mouthful of cupcake, Stenton declared, “There’s no cake like Ni?a’s. I can eat it all day. Mmmmm! The best sweets.”
I busted out laughing so hard, my poor baby jolted in my arms. Was that his plan? Is that why he stopped through? Not to inform me of the change in staff?
The coverage included the address of the bakery and somehow our very amateur and underdeveloped menu.
Proving Stenton Rogers was, in fact, more influential than the mayor of Philadelphia, the tiny bakery was flooded the following morning with customers. It was so overwhelming we had to close before noon for a few hours to replenish our inventory. Minutes before we were ready, there was a medley at the door, drawing our attention.
It was Tynisha, full-faced with makeup and donning a complete designer ensemble, including her shoes, demanding to be let through. Just beyond her were struggling cameramen and women, pushing through the crowd. I rushed to open the door.
“What are you doing? And why do you have your crew of producers with you?” It had to be a total of ten of them in all. There was hardly space for everyone.
Tynisha’s eyes roamed behind me then locked into a scowl. I turned, wondering what could have affected her that perceptively. With collapsed lids, I sighed.
“I’m working,” she grated, rolling her eyes from Angela to me.
“Working?”