Chapter 7 #2
“Olivia.” He nods an acknowledgment of my presence.
I merely lift my chin back at him, hoping he knows I had nothing to do with wanting him to meddle in our business. Literally.
“Here, have a seat.” Farmor moves toward the stack of folding chairs, but Hunter’s long stride easily outpaces her.
“I’ve got it.” He grabs two—one for him and one for my mom—while still juggling the briefcase he brought with him. As he takes a seat, he says, “I know we’re a little short on time, so is it all right to dive in?”
Farmor nods eagerly. “Please do.”
Hunter opens his briefcase, pulls out a slim laptop, sets it on the desk, and says, “First, it would be helpful for me to go over what you’re already doing for marketing and promotion.
I took a peek at your website, and while it’s nicely done, I do think it could stand a few updates.
I didn’t notice much of an online presence, so we can definitely work on that—go over what SEO you’re utilizing and any other avenues of advertisement as well as their cumulative costs and payouts.
Then we can start brainstorming where we could make changes to drive new business your way.
I know it might be hard to talk numbers with a veritable stranger, but it’s also helpful if I can look at your books to see if there are any places to tighten costs and increase profits, to drive more money into marketing efforts. ”
With every word he says, my jaw tightens until my teeth are clenched so tightly I’m afraid I might break a filling loose.
“Livvy is the one who handles most of that—she’s the one with the business degree,” Farmor says, pride in her voice.
Hunter’s gaze flickers to me, sending an immediate flush of heat up my neck when our eyes meet.
“When my Lars and I started this bakery,” Farmor continues, “the internet didn’t even exist. I’m useless when it comes to all that computer stuff.
I know how to bake. To make your mouth water at the memory of my kanelbullar or to have you dream of eating my prinsesst?rta for your birthday.
But beyond that . . .” Farmor opens her hands to the air with a small shrug of her shoulders.
“Livvy’s done a great job,” my mom asserts. “She’s a whiz with the books and coming up with fun advertising strategies.”
Hunter’s expression betrays nothing as I glare at him, daring him to question me or my skills. Because the fact that he’s here is proof that I’m clearly not a “whiz.” Having him seated next to me, asking me to open all our books and decisions to him, is a punch to the gut.
“But with increasing costs on all ends,” Mom adds, “and customers’ budgets getting tighter, we’re feeling the pinch more each month. We’re still profitable, but not like we used to be.”
Hunter leans forward, his eyes moving between my mom and Farmor. “It’s clear that all of you love this bakery and that you’ve put your heart and souls into it. Let’s dig in to see if there’s anything I can do to help make it even more successful.”
An hour later, my headache is back with a vengeance, but this time, it’s accompanied by swirling acid in my stomach.
As much as I hate to admit it, Hunter is good at what he does.
He’s got my mom and Farmor wrapped around his marketing-savvy finger.
I, on the other hand, feel smaller and smaller with every suggestion he makes, with every idea he proposes—things I should have thought about, stuff I should have done without some know-it-all from Florida swooping in and potentially saving the day.
This is my family’s bakery. This is my business to take to the next level with my hard-earned business degree.
Instead, I sink lower on my metal chair as Hunter animatedly discusses sales and advertising blitzes and increased SEO—an investment of cost on the front end but with the hopes of greater dividends as a result.
A knock at the office door startles us all.
Rebecca, a part-time employee, pokes her head in and says, “Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve got a line of customers. Can one of you come help for a minute?”
I leap to my feet. “Coming,” I say, then under my breath add, “Since I’m clearly not needed here.”
Out front, there is a lunch rush, with five people in line and three more perusing the baked goods. It’s the busiest we’ve been all week. I’m grateful for the reprieve from watching my mom and Farmor fawn over Hunter and his brilliant insights. (Farmor’s words, not mine.)
As I’m helping check out the second-to-last customer in line, the doors to the kitchen swing open, and Hunter emerges with my mom and Farmor in tow.
He’s grinning, his eyes lit up in a way I’ve never seen before.
Granted, I’ve known him only a few days, so it’s not like I have much to go off of, but it’s obvious that giving him the chance to help with our bakery has ignited something within him.
I don’t know why that makes the anxiety and anger I’m battling that much harder to keep from scalding its way up my throat and out my mouth.
When he heads my direction at the counter, it’s all I can do to keep from channeling the inner Oscar the Grouch I didn’t know I possessed and telling him to go away.
There are still other customers in the bakery, though, so instead, I try to be pleasant. “Need anything else?” I ask through my gritted, smiling teeth.
Hunter comes closer—too close. He’s almost behind the counter with me. Too tall and smelling too good and being too brilliant. “I heard what you said,” he says, voice pitched low so only I can hear him.
I stiffen. “Excuse me?”
“You are needed, Olivia.”
Oh perfect. He heard me mutter that?
“I need you to collaborate with me,” he says, “if we’re going to turn this bakery into the success it should be.”
I inhale slowly, but no amount of deep breathing can keep from me snapping, “Are you serious right now? This bakery is a success. It has been since before you were born, and it will be long after you walk out that door! So thanks for the offer to collaborate, but I don’t need you telling me all the things you think I’ve done wrong and changing everything so you can claim to be some hero who came in here and rescued us when we don’t need it. ”
Hunter’s eyebrows lift; the two remaining people looking at the shelves of treats pause and glance at each other uncertainly.
“Olivia!” Farmor rebukes from where she stands by the kitchen, her eyes wide.
The back of my neck breaks out in a sweat, and my hands turn clammy on the pen I’m clutching from the last customer who handed it back to me.
“I need to—” I can’t come up with anything fast enough, and let the sentence hang as I shove past Hunter, who hastily backs out of the way, and rush for the swinging doors that will allow me to escape into the empty kitchen.
After a couple of minutes of standing stiffly by the sink, waiting for a scolding that doesn’t come, I finally exhale, take off my apron, hang it up, turn—and nearly jump out of my skin.
Farmor stands a few feet away like some sort of seventy-five-year-old Swedish stealth ninja, her hands on her hips and head cocked. “All right, tell me what is going on.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She gives me a look. “Why does Hunter helping us make you so angry?”
“It doesn’t.”
“You might not want to talk about it, but don’t lie to me, sotnos.” Age sketches its story in gentle strokes across her familiar face, the poetry of years evident in every crease. But her eyes are as bright and clear as ever, the pale blue of a sky washed by rain—and they see far too much.
“I’m sorry.” I can’t hold her gaze, dropping mine as I step over to the industrial sink to wash my hands. Even with my mind whirling, it’s second nature to be cautious about the germs from interacting with customers. With all the immunosuppressants I’m on, I can’t afford to get sick.
“I’ve never seen you act the way you do with him.” Farmor watches as I scrub my skin until it turns red.
“I . . . I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry for making a scene with my replacement.” I finally turn off the sink and use a paper towel to dry my hands.
Trying to put into words the way I’m feeling right now feels like standing at the base of a mountain—one I’m not ready to climb.
How do I explain that this bakery is my life, that I literally chose my degree so I would be valuable to our family business—but I’ve clearly failed?
And now, watching Hunter, of all people, come in and undermine—and -outshine—all my years of effort in a matter of sixty minutes .
. . It’s not something I can articulate succinctly.
It’s not something I want to talk about at all. Ever.
“We’re not replacing you,” she says gently. “We’re expanding our team. It never hurts to get a fresh viewpoint.”
“Clearly.”
Farmor sighs. “Can you try to give him a chance? He has some good ideas. And if they help the bakery . . .”
The skin on my fingertips and palms is red and tender from being overzealous with the hand washing, but it’s my heart that feels raw.
The thing is, I know his ideas are good, and of course I want the bakery to do better—to have lines out the door and our kitchen overflowing with special orders.
The issue is having Hunter be the answer to our problems. The issue is realizing that in this one piece of my life where I feel I am meant to make a difference, it turns out I’m still not enough.
“I know, Farmor—and I am trying. But he’s a different person around you and Mom.
When you’re not there, he’s rude and judgmental and . . . and mean!”
“Your mom seems to think he only acts that way because he is attracted to you, and you make him nervous.”
I groan. Not this again. “Maybe if we were in fourth grade—where it’s the social norm to torture your crush.”
“You don’t believe he’s attracted to you?”
“No! Because we’re not in elementary school, and being a jerk is not how a man shows a woman he’s interested.”