Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
She answers, and I dive right in as I drive. “The banker wants to meet with me today,” I tell her. “He needs me to sign one last piece of paperwork I must have forgotten to sign. This has to be good news, right? It has to mean he saw my frosting fiasco and it’s going viral. Is it going viral? I haven’t had a chance to look.”
“Tell me what to search for,” she says, and I rattle off some terms as I zip through surprisingly light traffic. I’m hitting every green. Nothing can stop me. That kiss was the start of my luck turning around.
Remy clucks her tongue. “I’m checking, I’m checking.” Before she can render a verdict, I’m at the bank, snagging a spot by the curb. More good luck.
“Yes, it looks like…yes, you got some hits,” Remy says, as I turn off the car.
“Are they good?”
She hums. “They’re…not bad, per se.”
My hackles rise as she goes glass-half-full on me. “Why do I feel like the per se is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence?”
“It often does. It’s Latin and means by itself, and it’s often mis—”
“Oh my god, I love you, but I don’t have time for a lesson, grammar girl.” It’s four-thirty. “Gotta go.”
“You’ve got this,” she says, and that’s better.
I utter a hasty goodbye and rush inside the bank, asking the greeter where Jonas Gideon’s office is. “Right this way,” she tells me, then guides me past the tellers, back to the banker’s office, where I expect to be greeted by a pasty man in a navy-blue suit crunching numbers.
Instead, the guy strums an acoustic guitar, and a shark’s tooth hangs on a rope necklace against his tanned throat. He wears a bright white Henley and mauve pants, and I can seriously appreciate the way he’s paired the two shades, as well as the rocking-it vibe.
“Mabel, how the heck are you?” he asks, still plucking out some notes. It’s a Hozier tune, I think.
“Good song. And I’m well.” I glance down, and…okaaaay. I’m still in my apron. I untie it and fold it hastily. “Sorry about the apron.”
“No worries. Authenticity matters to us.” He sets down the guitar, leaning it against the desk, and shoots me a gleaming white smile. He must own stock in Crest Whitestrips. “Thanks again for meeting me today. I had to move up the meeting because it’s gonna dump in Tahoe tonight.”
Wait. What? “You mean snow?”
“Yep,” he says, eyes sparkling. “Climate change sucks, but you have to grab the chances when you can to hit the slopes.”
Did I get the chillest banker ever or what? “Then let’s get down to business so you can hit the road,” I say.
“Aww, thanks,” he says, then nods to a stack of papers on the corner of his desk. The proof of income, I presume. He blows out a long breath and strokes his chin. “And listen, trust me when I say I love your bakery concept. The idea of being open in the afternoon and early evening is brill. I mean, who isn’t jonesing for a cookie or a cinnamon bun after work, right?”
“Exactly,” I say, relieved he understands and appreciates that not all bakeries need to keep early-bird hours.
“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how important social media marketing is.”
“So important. But all marketing is good marketing, right?” I ask, upbeat and peppy. That’s good for a baker, right? The peppy baker. That can be my online persona.
He hums thoughtfully. “A strong online presence is vital. We need our businesses to talk up their offerings and so on. We need good press. Social media marketing is part of what we evaluate when we consider the financing.”
“Terrific! Even as a pop-up bakery, I’ve tripled my following in two years. My engagement is up fifty-five percent year over year. I’ve done collabs with a local animal rescue for cakes with dog designs, with a romance bookstore for a Sweets and Spice night—even with Elodie’s Chocolates for a Tempting Treats evening. And I’ll work on growing my social media presence even more. I can add the smash cake to the menu now that it’s gone viral. To get out ahead of it. Own the narrative and all. Would that help?”
He’s quiet for a long beat, then reaches for the papers on the corner of his desk, pulling them toward him with one long finger. “Mabel, I don’t need you to sign these.”
My brow knits. “You don’t?”
“Like I said, social media is super important. And right after I called you, one of my colleagues sent along some viral footage. Of you smashing into a cake.”
His heavy pause is a little concerning though.
News of my bake fail traveled even faster than I’d thought possible, but the local station was streaming the contest. Still, “That was less than an hour ago,” I say.