Me: BITCH. (love you too)
“Is this all fresh? When were these pastries made?” The woman taps two fingers aggressively on top of the glass. “They don’t look as moist as they should.”
I breathe in deeply through my nose, feeling the veins in my neck bulging, reminding myself again how much I love this job and the woman upstairs I don’t want to piss off by murdering someone in the middle of her shop.
The woman sighs exhaustedly. “Do you offer any beverages here? Coffee, at least? Most upscale bakeries do nowadays.”
That’s it. Fuck her and the stick up her ass. I am done.
Forcing the fakest smile I’ve ever worn, I put my phone away and gesture at the case. “No, no coffee. This is a bakery, not a Starbucks. And everything in front of you is fresh and made daily. We here at Dylan’s Sweet Tooth are all big fans of moist things. I myself am like a ripe peach, if you know what I’m saying.”
Her overly plucked eyebrows pull together. “Excuse me?”
I glance at the clock on the wall. “A peach. You know, the fruit. I’m sure you’ve noticed the tarts on the middle tray in the case you’ve been staring at for the past forty-five minutes. Those are indeed peaches right there. Now, if I can interest you in a cupcake or anything today, please let me know. Otherwise, I’m going to have to ask you to take your fresh little attitude and that knock-off Coach . . .”
She gasps.
“Yeah, I see you . . . and head on down the street. This here is an establishment where people come in and purchase things. I know, I am stunning, but unfortunately I am not an exhibit, and neither are the treats in front of me.”
The woman blinks rapidly, looking affronted.
I feel like I just came.
“Well.” She tightens her grip on her handbag and glares at me, her nostrils flaring with her breathing. “I suppose if I’m being rushed, I’ll take three of the mocha chocolate cupcakes,” she huffs, tipping her chin. “Those look the most appealing.”
Grinning, I grab a box. “Excellent.”
After taking her money and walking her to the door, just to make sure she gets the fuck out, I spin around and head for the kitchen.
Brooke is sitting on a stool, her head lowered and her fingers rubbing in slow circles against her temple. The sheet tray I thought I heard is on the floor near the supply shelf. As for the rest of the kitchen, it’s a mess. The worktop is covered in baking materials. Flour is spilled. A stool is turned over. Brooke’s practice wedding cake, which looked pretty damn perfect yesterday, now has a chunk missing out of the top tier.
Did she eat some of it? I wouldn’t be surprised.
I notice as I move further into the room the tiny flower petals made out of gum paste dropped on the floor near the tray. A few are still on it. She must’ve been trying to construct the gardenias again. Each attempt she makes leaves her more and more frustrated and doubtful of herself.
Her head isn’t in this. That’s the problem. It’s across the street.
“Hey. You need me to help with anything back here?” I ask, picking up the stool and righting it. I brush some flour off the wood and scoop it into my hand, dumping it in the nearby trash bin.
Brooke shakes her head. She lowers her hands to her lap and looks down. “How are we doing on treats? Do I need to make more?”
“Not right now. We’re good.”
“And they’re . . . people are buying them? They want what I made?”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t just hear you say that.”
She slowly looks up at me.
Sighing, I move around the worktop and stand beside her. “Everything out there is fabulous. Including me. We are selling as good as we always sell, because you are an exceptional baker. In fact, don’t tell Dylan this, but I actually think your red velvet icing tastes a little better than hers.”