Two Truths And A Marriage Preview
Sweet Relief (Juniper)
There are days when I wish I was a college girl.
Not often, mind you. And not because I love the thought of having a gazillion dollars in debt on my shoulders, either. Because with the Sugar Bowl creaking along on its last legs, the very last thing we need is more debt.
But a few more math classes would sure as hell help my brain hurt less with these numbers.
“That can’t be right,” I spit.
I rub my eyes, squinting at the spreadsheet for the fifth time.
Nobody warned me that inheriting a business means spending more time hunched in front of a computer screen than actually working. My already pale skin practically glows white. I’m ninety percent sure the blue light from the screen is making my hair frizz.
Numbers.
Ugly money numbers.
Numbers with sharp teeth and a ferocious appetite for chewing up my dreams.
Yeah, things aren’t looking good.
I take a break from the nightmare on the screen and glance around. The back office looks about like it did in Nana’s time.
Same old tall metal filing cabinets propped up against the dusty wallpaper—probably less dusty when Nana ran the shop with an iron fist, of course—and the old faded photos hanging everywhere.
Same awards plastered to the wall. Newspapers and cards and bronze plaques proclaiming some version of best in Kansas City! for more years than I can count.
As I always do when I need a moment to get my wits, I stand up, push my chair back—ignoring that one squeaky wheel that cuts my ears—and pace the room, slowly taking in the wall of photos.
There’s Nana, young and bright, standing by the shop with her parents on its opening day in June, 1955. The date is recorded at the bottom of the photo, taken at a time when the world would shine in black and white with a certain charm no Instagram filter will ever match.
My gaze flicks to photos of the interior renovation in the late fifties. And again right around 1970. Before 2000, the Sugar Bowl had a stunning redesign every decade or two, and each one generated a flurry of news and happy, hungry customers pouring in for the grand reopening.
Unimaginable now.
I’m surrounded by an entire gallery of reasons to succeed, to keep going, to remember this bakery’s greatness. But I’m also buried in the fact that those fond memories and fabulous accolades come to a screeching halt in 2021—the year Nana stepped down.
Glaring evidence of my failure to take flight.
This is my family’s legacy, all wrapped up in a store that used to soar.
With me at the helm, it’s struggling to even crawl.
It’s enough to make my throat close up.
If I was the woe-is-me type, I’d have thrown in the towel a year ago. Instead, I put my hands on my hips and look around. My eyes stop on another photo, Nana and my mother when she was a little girl.
“You better not be watching, Mom,” I warn. “This isn’t my finest hour. I mean… neither was last year or the year before that. Come back in a few. The store will be hopping again or the sign will be swinging in the wind.”
I wince at another possibility—we’ll keep stumbling along, just like we have been since I took over the place, twenty-two and fresh-faced. Back when I still had a boyfriend and sky-high hopes for the future.
Better times.
Easier times.
I take one last melancholy look around at every sharp reminder of why I need to step it up—and why I suck—before turning back to my computer.
“Hunk of crap,” I whisper. The ancient thing was probably on the Titanic with its boxy monitor that’s big enough to fit Nana’s flower garden inside.
One day, it’ll give up the ghost, just like everything else here, but I don’t dare replace it.
Not when revenue looks so thin I’ll be lucky to buy an ink cartridge for the printer next quarter.
My chest swells as I sigh and melt into my chair.
The spring menu’s pushing new coffees and light pastries, but they’re lower ticket items for a fast-casual customer base.
Two weeks ago, the ovens randomly stopped firing and our accountant retired, meaning we had to shell out big bucks for a new guy with triple the fees.
Not to mention the payroll needed to run this place, cutting deeper and deeper into my skeletal profits.
My projected turnover, if these damn numbers are to be trusted, looks like—
Well, let’s just say it’s litterbox territory.
Instead of pressing my face into my hands and screaming until my throat rips—totally reasonable under the circumstances—I lean forward until my forehead thunks against the screen.
The very hot screen.
Which almost certainly shouldn’t be hot enough to slow cook an egg.
“Oh, no. Oh, shit,” I hiss, shoving back and almost knocking the giant machine off the creaking desk.
That’s when Emmy pokes her head in. Perfect timing. “Hey, Junie!” she says, tucking her static curls back with one hand. “There’s a guy waiting at the register.”
I rub the sore spot on my forehead, grinding my teeth.
A guy? What guy?
The only kind I meet.
Another rude prick expecting the red-carpet treatment and a lifelong discount because his espresso was three degrees too cold.
But it’s my store. I’m effectively the boss and I’m expected to defuse every temper tantrum that comes barreling through the door.
I didn’t say I was good at it. I’m only slightly better at customer relations than I am at math.
My armpits are already sweaty in this heat. Missouri summers always have that merciless phase and we’re in the thick of it.
God, if I have to choose between replacing the archaic computer and functioning air conditioning, I’ll be in real trouble.
I suck in a breath and step away from the glaring monitor, hoping to leave my nervous breakdown behind with the overheated machine.
Maybe by the time I return, the numbers will magically change.
“Lead the way, Emmy,” I say with way more enthusiasm than I feel, fanning a bit of much-needed air up my shirt before following her to the front and the asshat waiting for us.
And what an asshat.
Holy hell, I wasn’t ready for this breed of scary-hot alpha male to be standing at my counter, waiting to tear my face off.
I expected a scowling prick—and let’s be honest, he certainly is one—but he’s a finalist for world’s hottest prick.
Toweringly tall? Check.
Dark-blue eyes flashing with sin? Yes.
Mile-wide shoulders that look like they could hold up the sky? Oh, baby, he’s got them.
He’s the full Prince Charming package, up to and including the intimidating look etched on his face that’s pinched with a thousand demands.
While I take my place behind the register, he glances at his digital watch with the designer gold band and sighs.
Yep, definitely a prick.
But rich as hell, if his designer brand oxford shirt and bright-blue tie are anything to go by. I don’t have it in me today to offend rich paying customers.
So I do the only sane thing a struggling business owner can—I reach down, dive deep, and dredge up a smile from the bottom of my soul.
“Hi there,” I say, my customer service voice bright and bouncy, ready to deflect the avalanche of crap he’s about to dump on me. “Is there a problem with your order?”
“No. I haven’t made one yet,” he clips. He’s not even looking at me. His eyes are turned up, fixed on the overhead menu.
O-kay.
Good thing I’ve been doing this for a while.
One prick, no matter how sharp his cheekbones are or how defined his jaw is—and God, what a jawline—will distract me from making money.
“Sure,” I say cheerfully. “How can I help you then?”
“Can you execute a large custom order for delivery today?” He doesn’t even wait for me to nod before waving a hand at the glass case gleaming with pastries. “I need a sampler of this crap. Tortes, cheesecakes, turnovers, cupcakes, the works. Make it extra sweet.”
This crap?
I’m frozen, stunned and staring as my brain tries not to get ragey and defensive.
This is an order, even if he’s placing it in the rudest way imaginable.
A real oh-shit-this-is-expensive order that will make good money.
My favorite kind of order that only comes up a dozen times a year, if I’m lucky.
I turn my smile all the way up to blinding. “Certainly! Do you have any specific requests for your crap?”
There goes my tongue. It didn’t get the memo to be polite.
He looks at me like I’m a crushed bug under his shoe and swipes a frustrated hand through the air. “All of it. Everything you do here. I don’t care.”
I blink at him, waiting for more, but he stares at the bakery case like it’s personally offending him.
“Okay, yes, we can do that,” I say slowly, looking him up and down.
So, he doesn’t look insane, but maybe he’s unhinged in the usual rich people way. The kind where you walk in and buy out an entire store without even caring what it sells. “I’m sure we can accommodate your needs with a custom package of—”
“Extra sweet,” he snaps. “So rich you’ll choke.”
Oof. I hate the way his eyes flash when he makes me imagine gagging.
“Sure, sure. It’s easy to scrounge up our sweetest creations or add a little extra frosting to the lighter stuff.”
“Whatever, lady. It needs to be perfect. I’m trusting you.” The way he narrows his eyes at me says he trusts me to muck this up beyond recognition.
“Perfect, huh? You’re in luck. We’ve been doing that for over fifty years,” I bite off nicely at his assholery, beaming an even wider chipmunk smile that hurts my cheeks.
He hate-glares at the bakery case, then turns his dubious eyes back on me like swords.
Oh, boy.
My hair’s probably a worn red ball in this humidity plus the back office turning into a sauna.
But why does he look so skeptical?