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Not to talk to her, of course.
Clearly, she isn’t into that.
If she’ll just take the money and buy her store some help, we’ll all be better off.
I pull up outside the Sugar Bowl and kill the engine.
Five minutes to six p.m., which means I shouldn’t miss her.
She’s not the type to leave early. It’s too easy to imagine her cleaning or hunched over an ancient computer in the back office or maybe a battered old stack of recipe books, combing their pages like a proper ice witch looking for lost culinary magic.
She has a work ethic, at least.
When six o’clock hits, I see a shadowy figure approach the glass door, swinging the Open sign to Closed. The neon lights flicker off.
Just like I thought.
Now I just need to wait for her to leave, either through the front door or the little side door that leads down the alley to the back of the building.
A couple minutes later, as I’m settling in for the long haul, an older woman stops in front of the store and glances up at the sign. The lady squints at it like she’s trying to decide if this is the right address.
I sit up straight.
If she even thinks about—
Without even a second’s hesitation, she pushes her way through the door and heads inside.
Fuck, that does it.
I donothave time for this.
If Sweet Stuff has time for a casual visitor or some Jenny-come-lately picking up a cake, then she absolutely has time for a giant idiot who’s busting his balls to pay for her products just to jack up his employees’ A1C scores and pray for an audience with her highness.
“Ready or not,” I mutter, “here the fuck I come.”
5
SWEET TALKER (JUNIPER)
Inever knew the true meaning of hard work until I took over this store and added an evening cup of coffee to my routine.
It’s this special blend from a place called The Nest in a small Montana town named Heart’s Edge. The owner, Felicity Charter, had a cool puff piece in a women’s business mag last winter about her tiny coffee shop expanding into a proper roastery just to keep up with surging national demand.
And the crazy stuff that went down in her life on the way to fame and big bucks—holy hell. I thought I had it bad.
I thought pulling fourteen-hour shifts without much to show for my work and living in Nana’s shadow was as rough as it could get.
But I don’t have Felicity Charter problems.
I don’t have a mafia princess breathing down my neck or kids to raise or a ginormous husband who looks like a movie star to keep happy.
More importantly, knowing Felicity didn’t quit when the going got tough, how could I?
How could I ever walk away?
At least the shop’s closed for now. I’m into the quiet hours. I stretch my arms out and get ready for another long evening working my way out of this mess.
I can put on a little classic rock and let myself have a good time while I’m cleaning and preparing for tomorrow. If there’s time, I might even log on and review the store’s insurance policy renewal for next year, praying the premiums haven’t doubled.
