“Nothing in this bakery is dry, I assure you.”
Except for your vagina. When was the last time that thing saw any action? Prohibition?
I watch her walk along the counter. Back and forth. Back and forth. She leans in close, admires a treat or two while pinching the side of her glasses, then pulls back and resumes her leisurely as fuck perusal.
Breathe, Joey. Keep your fabulous shit together. No mauling the customers. They pay you. You love them.
Stopping directly across from me, the woman glances up. She looks bored out of her mind. “I don’t see any gluten free options available. That’s a shame. You know, Whipped over on Madison offers an alternative menu for people who have digestive troubles.”
I tilt my head. “Whipped also caters to rodents. They were busted two weeks ago by the health department for a rat infestation.”
Her eyes flicker a hair wider. “Oh, I . . . wasn’t aware of that.” She clears her throat, studying the case again.
Tension builds in my shoulders. I close my eyes and think of my happy place.
Billy on his knees, his finger probing my ass and his sweet mouth wrapped around my . . .
A loud clanging noise arises from the kitchen.
My head snaps in the direction of the doorway, then back at the woman who startles, a little too dramatically even for my taste, slapping a hand to her heaving chest as her eyes shift frantically around the room.
“What in the world was that?”
I grit my teeth.
Brooke. Poor thing is on the verge of a complete, epic meltdown back there. She has three modes I’ve seen her in the past three days—hysterically crying, angrier than my mother when she doesn’t get a drink by noon, and so utterly stressed she paces around the kitchen, shaking and talking to herself.
Christ, it’s only Monday. Between the Mason incident and this goddamn wedding, Brooke might need serious therapy by the end of the week.
I also might need some serious therapy by the end of the week.
Laughing off the disruption from the kitchen, I wave my hand in the air. “By the sound of it, I’m going to guess a sheet tray hitting the floor. I apologize for that. We’re just so busy back there making things that aren’t dry.”
The woman adjusts her glasses, cutting a look at me.
I flick a few strands of hair off my forehead.
Bitch.
My phone beeps in my pocket. I tug it out as the woman continues wasting my time.
Dylan: What was that? Is Brooke breaking shit now? I know she’s upset but she needs to remember where she is, Joey. HANDLE IT.
Sweet Christ. Why couldn’t she be on bed rest at her mother’s?
Me: Ease up on the shouty caps, cupcake. Everything is under control.
Dylan: BETTER BE. (I love you)
Me: BITCH. (love you too)
“Is this all fresh? When were these pastries made?” The woman taps two fingers aggressively on top of the glass. “They don’t look as moist as they should.”
I breathe in deeply through my nose, feeling the veins in my neck bulging, reminding myself again how much I love this job and the woman upstairs I don’t want to piss off by murdering someone in the middle of her shop.
The woman sighs exhaustedly. “Do you offer any beverages here? Coffee, at least? Most upscale bakeries do nowadays.”
That’s it. Fuck her and the stick up her ass. I am done.
Forcing the fakest smile I’ve ever worn, I put my phone away and gesture at the case. “No, no coffee. This is a bakery, not a Starbucks. And everything in front of you is fresh and made daily. We here at Dylan’s Sweet Tooth are all big fans of moist things. I myself am like a ripe peach, if you know what I’m saying.”
Her overly plucked eyebrows pull together. “Excuse me?”
I glance at the clock on the wall. “A peach. You know, the fruit. I’m sure you’ve noticed the tarts on the middle tray in the case you’ve been staring at for the past forty-five minutes. Those are indeed peaches right there. Now, if I can interest you in a cupcake or anything today, please let me know. Otherwise, I’m going to have to ask you to take your fresh little attitude and that knock-off Coach . . .”
She gasps.
“Yeah, I see you . . . and head on down the street. This here is an establishment where people come in and purchase things. I know, I am stunning, but unfortunately I am not an exhibit, and neither are the treats in front of me.”
The woman blinks rapidly, looking affronted.
I feel like I just came.
“Well.” She tightens her grip on her handbag and glares at me, her nostrils flaring with her breathing. “I suppose if I’m being rushed, I’ll take three of the mocha chocolate cupcakes,” she huffs, tipping her chin. “Those look the most appealing.”
Grinning, I grab a box. “Excellent.”
After taking her money and walking her to the door, just to make sure she gets the fuck out, I spin around and head for the kitchen.
Brooke is sitting on a stool, her head lowered and her fingers rubbing in slow circles against her temple. The sheet tray I thought I heard is on the floor near the supply shelf. As for the rest of the kitchen, it’s a mess. The worktop is covered in baking materials. Flour is spilled. A stool is turned over. Brooke’s practice wedding cake, which looked pretty damn perfect yesterday, now has a chunk missing out of the top tier.
Did she eat some of it? I wouldn’t be surprised.
I notice as I move further into the room the tiny flower petals made out of gum paste dropped on the floor near the tray. A few are still on it. She must’ve been trying to construct the gardenias again. Each attempt she makes leaves her more and more frustrated and doubtful of herself.