Tuesday in the shop went by without a glitch. Brooke showed up on time, surprisingly, and was proving herself to be a good addition to Dylan’s Sweet Tooth. She was great with customers, her bubbly personality winning over several of our regulars, and she and Joey were even getting along. For the most part. They were by no means besties, but they were at least tolerating each other and keeping their bickering to a minimum.
I stayed in the back all day, whipping up two special orders getting picked up on Wednesday. One was for Mr. and Mrs. Crisp who were celebrating their anniversary this week. They were my longest-standing customers, stopping in practically every morning for two of my famous banana nut muffins. I adored them and insisted on not charging for their cake. They’ve given me so much business over the last three and a half years, and this is my way of thanking them. Of course, the two of them argued with me until they were blue in the face about it, but I refused to take their money. I wanted to do this for them. Sixty-five years of marriage was definitely something to celebrate, and I felt honored to be a part of that.
Staying away from the foods I was told to avoid was becoming increasingly difficult. I’m sure there is no baker in the history of bakers who has gone on this strict of a diet before. I’ve never deprived myself of food; I’m not one of those girls. I eat. A lot. And this low-carb shit was seriously getting to me by mid-day on Wednesday. Not only did I not taste-test the German chocolate cake with extra coconut in the frosting I made yesterday, but I also steered clear of the red velvet cupcakes I whipped up for the other special order. And I don’t say ‘no’ to cupcakes. Ever. They are my go-to treat, the thing I’d request as my last meal if I were on death row. The one dessert I’d cut a bitch for, and they were off-limits. I was eating like a damn rabbit and hating every second of it. I’ve never been on a diet a day in my life and for the first time in the three-and-a-half years of owning my bakery, I was finding myself wishing I would’ve picked a different career path.
I’m pushing the pieces of lettuce around in my to-go container, hungry but not hungry enough to swallow another bite of this garbage while my dear assistant scarfs down a cheesesteak sub next to me. I’ve been giving him dirty looks since he returned with our lunches fifteen minutes ago, and he’s been doing his best to avoid my judging stare.
“I should fire you for eating that shit in front of me. As my Man of Honor, you should be suffering right along with me.” I shove my container away down the counter and flick my disapproving stare between his sub and his face. “Give me a bite of that.”
“Hell, no.” He turns his body so his back is to me, keeping his sandwich out of my reach. “You only have three more days and if you don’t fit into that dress, you’ll be pissed at me for giving you a bite.” Spinning around, he holds up his empty hands and chews animatedly. “This is so disgusting. You’d hate it,” he says through tight lips, his voice thick with sarcasm.
I scowl at his obvious lie as the shop door dings, gaining mine and Joey’s attention. Freddy comes walking into the bakery, the familiar white box in his hands. My chest tightens at the sight of it.
“Freddy! Perfect timing. This one is in a mood and could use something from her man.” Joey nudges me with his shoulder and steps up to the counter.
I pout at him playfully before I reach out for the white box Fred has placed on the counter. “Pick something out from the display case, Fred. You know the drill.” He bends down, his eyes lighting up as he surveys his choices. I quickly sign the clipboard as Joey pulls out a chocolate cupcake, slipping it into a bag and handing it to Fred.
Fucking cupcakes. I should just give him the whole tray and get them out of my sight.
“Thanks, Ms. Dylan. Enjoy your delivery,” he says cheerfully, taking his clipboard and his cupcake before exiting the shop.
I pull the white ribbon, lifting the sides of the box and flipping the lid. Joey moves closer to me as I pick out the dark brown card, opening it and feeling that same nervous energy I always get when I’m about to read one of Reese’s notes.
Dylan,
Don’t give me a hard time about this. This is long overdue.