Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
“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. Even today.” 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 to gab.” 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 home after we 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 are not screwing this up.”
The engine whines 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 nothing else goes wrong and the late rush hour traffic is kind to me.
Flipping caramel apple tortes.
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 was close.
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 to live on 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.