Chapter One #2
“I’ll get on the phone and see if we can get someone to run out and check the dark chocolate enrobing unit,” Crocus said as I rose from my seat, tiny little silver wrappers fluttering to the floor.
The guys—Tim, Mike, and Dupont—all wearing white aprons, poofy hair nets, and disposable latex gloves, looked at me with concern.
Crocus had no hair but he still wore the netting, citing if his men had to wear them then so should he.
“Great, thanks. Tim, you can have my seat.” I plucked a silver foil wrapper from my cheek, blushing hotly, then exited the production area, passing the conveyer sitting silently at the moment.
Shades of I Love Lucy flickered inside my groggy head.
The room was small, but then again the shop itself was not large.
I’d dreamed of buying the old record store beside me for years to open up the production room, as well as the gift shop, but the cost of prime real estate on Main Street kept me in perpetual dream mode.
Also, I couldn’t handle another loan. I was barely paying my workers and the suppliers.
Mamie was in the front of the shop, chatting away with a customer who was perusing the mint chocolate fudge.
Petite, silver curls, and perfect skin, she gave me a look over the top of her little square glasses, her bright blue eyes—so much like my mother’s —ran over me from head to toe.
She pointed to the office. I nodded, slipped around the display cases, and ducked into the rectangular space where I had stuffed a desk, a chair, and a filing cabinet.
The color scheme from the front—ivory and sky blue—continued into the office with white wainscoting meeting blue-painted walls.
The shop was so small. The displays filled with sweet treats were packed in tightly, making passing through them almost impossible.
There was always candy on the floor that someone’s sleeve or purse knocked off the display.
We needed room. But room would cost money…
The coffee pot sat atop the filing cabinet covered with Tigger stickers.
I poured myself a cup and took a seat at my desk.
Mamie had brought in the mail so I rifled through it, sorting the junk from the bills.
When I came to the thick ivory vellum envelope with the famous gold B for Brauning Chocolates I scowled.
Did these people never give up? I’d trashed a dozen emails from them after reading the first. As if I was going to sell out the shop that Mamie had opened back when the Beatles were releasing the White Album .
Please, mega-corporate chocolate conglomerate.
Fuck right off with that. I’d sleep on the conveyer belt before that happened.
So when their emails went unanswered—I guess a line of shit emojis as a reply was probably considered rather rude by the German employees in acquisitions at Brauning who handled emails, sorry poor working peeps—they began sending letters.
Fancy ones in thick envelopes. I’d tossed each one into the trash can beside my desk.
Which, with a snarl, was where this last one went.
I wished I had the money they’d spent on sending me propositions to sell.
I could have paid to get the enrobing machine fixed.
Well, maybe not, but the sharks sent a lot of letters.
Dozens. All reminding me I was failing to keep Mamie’s dream alive.
I was a loser in love and business. With god as my witness if I had to sell out to survive it would not be to this Phillip Brauning, VP and Head of Acquisitions.
That old German dude could sit on top of the Alps and blow his big cough drop horn.
Were the Alps in Germany? I Googled. Yay me, they were!
Oh crap, the cough drops were Swiss though.
Well, he could sit atop the Alps and do something German.
Drink beer. Eat sauerkraut. Pull on those fancy shorts that German dudes wear to dance German dances.
God, I was so American. I really needed to learn more about other countries.
Maybe when I lost the shop I would have lots of time to educate myself about Germany as I would be unemployed and living with my grandmother.
Or worse, moving to Florida to live with my parents.
I shuddered. Nope. Nope. No alligators for me.
My head met my desk as a whimper escaped me.
Feeling as low as a man could feel I stepped out back for some fresh air.
With a Harmony Chocolates mug in hand I snuck around to the front of the store to see how things were on Main Street.
Traffic was light. Very few people were out today which, sure, it was midweek but I needed to see some foot traffic.
“Hey,” a deep voice called. Conor Holliston, aka the sexiest firefighter in fifteen counties, aka one of my closest friends, aka Jedi as he was born on May 4 th ambled toward me.
We all had goofy nicknames based on our birth dates.
Ryan was Paddy because he was hatched on March 17 th , Sam was Joker due to his April 1 st birthday, and I was Cupid.
Yep, because I was a Valentine’s Day baby.
Perfect name for a chocolatier. If only I had little arrows I could dip into a bottle of love-me juice.
Sadly, no matter how many men I dated, and yes I dated frequently when I could locate a queer man within a hundred miles, none of them were right.
Mamie, the romantic Frenchwoman, insisted my special man was out there searching for me.
When I would question why it was taking him so long she would shrug, as the French do, and say sometimes one had to be patient in love.
“I see you’re working hard.”
I flipped him off as I leaned against the front of the shop. “I’m taking a brain break.” God knows my freaking head needed a breather. Sometimes it felt like it was going to pop like an overinflated water balloon. “What are you doing out of the firehouse?”
“We were called out to the Parker Trail. Some ass tossed a lit cigarette into a dumpster,” he growled. Conor was not a fan of stupid people. Mamie would say he did not suffer fools lightly. Both were apt descriptors.
“Oh, so a dumpster fire. Also known as my life,” I mumbled into my coffee. Conor, a brute of a man who stood several inches taller than me—what else is news—studied me with that piercing look of his. “I’m kidding. My life is great.”
“You look like shit.”
“Tell me what you really think,” I snarled skyward. I wasn’t scared.
None of my closest friends would ever hurt me.
Hell, Conor had been the one to punch Marcus Spinner in the nose back in seventh grade for calling me a flouncy fruitcake.
Which was pretty much true. I was flouncy, and bouncy, and all kinds of fun.
Like my main man Tigger. I also enjoyed fruitcake so Marcus had been on the nose with that but Conor, Sam, and Ryan were not having it.
It was nice having buddies who were bigger than you to defend your twinky ass.
“I really think you look like hell. Maybe you need to cut back on that coffee?” He waved a large hand at my mug.
I curled over it like a mama badger protecting her cubs.
“This is my precious!” I hissed in my best Gollum voice.
Conor rolled his eyes at the weak impersonation.
“I’m good. Really. Totally fine. I just had a bad night.
Trying to balance the bills and come up with something new and exciting for Founder’s Day.
Did you stop by for truffles?” He blushed slightly.
I snickered. “Mamie is inside. She’s hoping to talk to you anyway. ”
“About what?” He leaned back to peek through the front windows. I needed to revamp the window dressings as well, but had zero clue what to do. Add that to the list of things that needed done. Owning a small business never stopped. No wonder I couldn’t sleep.
“I think about the bachelor auction,” I replied as I smirked into my coffee. Mamie was part of the planning committee for our big event every year.
Adam Leeters drove past in his old Studebaker. Conor and I both waved at the retired railway man after he honked at us.
“Shit.” He crinkled his nose. “I’m out. Send Crocus over with some truffles on his way home. I really don’t want to have to wear a tux and—”
“Conor!” Con-Air when it fell from my grandmother’s lips.
“There you are. The most kissable man in Caldwell Crossing.” What was I?
Chopped liver? “Come inside, I need to speak to you about the auction, yes?” Mamie called as she followed the lady with a big bag of mint chocolate fudge out of the shop.
We were out of dark chocolate until the enrobing unit was back up.
Which sucked and would cost all kinds of money I didn’t have to get fixed. My sigh was legendary.
Conor froze like a deer in the headlights at the sound of that lilting but heavy French accent.
“Oh, Mamie, bon jour,” he said with a forced smile.
He was then snatched up like the last chocolate-covered cherry in the box and led inside the shop.
I leaned on the wall, sipping my coffee, and watching the big bad fireman being wrangled into a bachelor auction.
All to benefit the local animal shelter, a very worthy cause indeed.
I bet Harriet, the librarian, would be tickled pink to hear they’d lassoed Conor.
Now if I could come up with a draw to the Harmony Chocolates booth to rival a peck from a hot firefighter.
Shame we didn’t have a sexy stud of a candy man to bring the men and/or women running…