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Oh, boy.
My hair’s probably a worn red ball in this humidity plus the back office turning into a sauna.
But why does he look so skeptical?
“Sir, trust me, you’ve come to the right place. This place lives up to its name,” I tell him, gesturing to a few framed thirty-year-old newspaper reviews behind me. “Whatever you need, you can count on us. Cakes, éclairs, apple turnovers, honey-olive tortes, or anything you can imagine. Custom orders, bulk orders, samplers, the lot. You tell us what and when and we’ll deliver. Eventoday.” Oh hell, I’m rambling. But that’s not a bad slogan. “Whatever you need, we’ve got you covered.”
“Right.” One dark eyebrow rises and he rakes me over with a look.
It isn’t fair.
No grouchy customer barging in has any business making me feel this vulnerable.
“Would you like a few samples to give us your feedback?” I ask brightly. “It’ll put a smile on your face, guaranteed.”
Somehow, his mouth turns down even more.
“I don’t do sweets and I don’t have time togab.” He spits the word like it’s dirty. “Can you have this order ready for six o’clock?”
Eep.
My eyebrows almost fly off my head.
But fine, fine.
If he wants to play bad cop and put us under the gun for turnaround, I’m more than happy dropping the cutesy act and getting to work.
“The Sugar Bowl isn’t a Kansas City institution for nothing,” I tell him in the same hard-edged tone he just used on me. “We’ll get it done. Early.”
“I hope to fuck that reputation is as sterling as you claim. Here’s the delivery address,” he mutters, pulling out a small Post-it note and slamming it on the counter with enough force to rattle the display cabinets. “Six o’clock sharp. Don’t even think about being late.”
Then, with one last frigid scowl worthy of a mafia don, he storms away from the store, the bell tinkling behind him like it’s glad to send Satan back to hell.
Emmy and Jake immediately start snickering behind me.
“What a dick!” Emmy whispers, and Jake bursts into more giggles. “Way to go, Junie. You’re a lion tamer today.”
I don’t acknowledge that.
Let them be kids.
I’ll be the grown-up professional owner who keeps her shit together, even if I’m inwardly turning into a basket case. I can always beat my pillows at homeafterwe get paid.
I tense my shoulders, just for a second, and inhale sharply.
The address he left is a fancy-ass hotel a few miles away. The kind that only lets people in if they smell like money.
Figures.
“Okay, team,” I say, turning to the two laughing teenagers behind me with my best boss face. “We have two hours to buckle down and get this done. And the man said extra sweet for—everything, I guess. I’m calling in backup. No matter what happens, we arenotscrewing this up.”
* * *
The enginewhines as I ease my foot on the gas, hoping the lights at the intersection don’t go red.
I’m making beautiful time, just as long as nothingelsegoes wrong and the late rush hour traffic is kind to me.
Flipping caramel apple tortes.
