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But I’m the genius who decided to break out the sweetest treat in Nana’s old recipe arsenal. It took three batches to get them just right.
I was almost forced to leave without them to meet Mr. Sweet Tooth’s life-or-death deadline. Luckily, they came out and passed a quick taste test just before the deadline, but it wasclose.
So much for the promise I’d be early.
Even now, I’m pushing it, grinding through the bustling traffic of a summer evening. I swear the humid nights bring people out like bees.
I really can’t afford to be waiting at the intersection, though.
To my eternal relief, I only whack the wheel once before the light turns green, and then I head down by the Riverwalk, passing the Winthrope KC hotel on the way.
The engine’s whine morphs into a rattle.
“Oh, no, are you joking? Not now!” I grimace at the windshield. Just another big ugly repair bill I’ll need to scrounge up money for. “Come on, baby. You can make it. I’ll let you rest as soon as we get there…”
The rattle shakes through the seat as I stomp the gas and ease off it again.
Ugh.
I’ve never been much of a praying type, but I will sell my soul to any deity right now just as long as I make it to this stupid hotel.
This dude’s order is big enough to cover several big car repairs and then some. It’s so huge that if he didn’t reek like money, I’d have worried whether he could pay it.
And if he isn’t a total scrooge when he tips…
Ohhh, if he tips, I might actually be able toliveon more than home-baked banana bread and frozen burritos for a few weeks.
But I try not to get my hopes up.
Hefty tips are never guaranteed, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned about jackass customers, it’s that they’re often halfway decent tippers. Almost like they’re trying to buy off their guilty conscience when nobody’s looking.
Of course, that hinges on everything going right, and Ihaveto make this deadline.
Miraculously, I swerve into the hotel parking lot without the van breaking down.
No time for celebration.
After a quick chat with reception, I grab the first set of boxes and haul them into the conference room. Thankfully, it isn’t far from the main door.
To my surprise, Mr. Sweet Tooth stands in the conference room alone, leering over everything like a general surveying a battlefield.
He leans on the ginormous walnut table with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his lips slightly tilted and those cutting blue eyes ready to flay me open for the slightest error.
But I don’t think he sees me at first.
He doesn’t seem to hear the door or my panicked footsteps; he just stares out of the long, wall-length window overlooking the city basking in the sunset.
“Nobody else coming to the party yet? This is a lot for one guy,” I joke as I set down the first box.
He starts, whipping toward me with that familiar stormy scowl.
“Unbelievable. You’re five minutes late.” He taps his watch in case I’ve forgotten the concept of time. “Your desserts better be goddamned ambrosia. Where’s the rest?”
“Um, coming right up!” I say nervously, biting my tongue on addingyou absolute jackwagon.
It takes him two seconds to realize it’s just me unloading the stuff.
To my surprise, he follows me outside to the van and helps grab the remaining boxes, stacking them high in his arms.
