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Thank God the cheesecakes are no-bake since we’re at capacity.
One of my many alarms beeps.
I look around frantically for a tea towel so I can get the old-fashioned chocolate cake out of the oven before it burns.
“Junie?”
“Not right now. Hang on, Sarah,” I say, finally finding that damn tea towel and almost burning my fingers off as I pull the cake from the oven. I think it’s not quite finished, though, so I reset the timer and shove it back in again.
“Junie,” Sarah repeats, tapping on the kitchen door to get my attention. “There’s someone here to see you.”
Ugh. Of all possible times, this is the worst.
“Let me guess, Big Fish?” I ask, throwing the tea towel over my shoulder and rummaging around in my pocket for the ring that still drives me insane. No one at the store knows we’re engaged yet and I don’t want to tell them unless it’s totally necessary.
The fewer people who know before the inevitable ‘breakup,’ the better.
“No,” Sarah says with a frown. “It’s a lady. Kind of older. But she looks intense. You’ll want to come and see.”
Huh.
Probably an actual customer. It almost feels like a relief to have a boring old, disgruntled customer to set right.
At least if she starts hurling complaints, I’m emotionally secure enough to handle it with the store doing well. I can actually offer small store credits in the cases where we screw up, on top of making their order right.
I shove the little box back in my pocket, telling Sarah to get the cake out of the oven when it’s ready, and head to the register.
Sure enough, there’s a woman waiting like Sarah promised.
My first thought is that she’s beautiful, tall and striking with a certain regal vibe swirling around her.
Older, yes, but she carries herself with a grace makeup alone can’t give.
Oh, and herstyle. She’s wearing a breezy white dress with a red scarf that matches her lipstick for pops of color.
Her blonde hair is almost platinum and exquisitely maintained.
My hair frizzes like a scared cat, feeling inferior.
“Hi,” the woman says, extending a hand. “You must be Juniper.”
I look down, surprised she knows my name even though my nametag isn’t attached, and wipe my hands on my pants before shaking.
“At your service. What can I do for you?”
“I’m Delly,” she says like that should mean something. “Delly Rory. I’m terribly sorry to barge in like this, dear, but I just couldn’t wait another minute to meet you.”
Delly Rory.
Oh, God.
She speaks with the kind of rare old Midland accent and a Southern twang that still screams old money in this city.
I guess that explains a lot.
She’s his mother, after all.
Dexter’s flipping mom is standing here in the store, drinking in her first impression of the woman her son is engaged to and I’m—oh, shit, I’m panicking.
