Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
kennedy
My best friend is not a morning person. The early bird gets the worm is not a phrase she knows, and any time someone says it, she explains that she doesn’t eat worms and if she did, delivery services exist. That’s why I made her cinnamon rolls and stopped by her favorite coffee shop on my way over to the Book Nook, the bookstore she manages.
I shove my hip into the door until it creaks open and walk into the familiar space. Maya is nowhere to be found, but her pseudo-son Goose is, tail wagging and pink tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. He greets me with an enthusiastic bark and follows it up by head-butting my thigh.
“Hello, handsome man,” I coo.
The chocolate lab yips in reply. Maya may not be a morning person, but Goose certainly is. Snuffling, he nudges the container in my hand with his nose. “Don’t worry, bud. I didn’t forget about you.”
I pull the treat I brought for him out of my purse. It’s coiled to look like a cinnamon roll and made with peanut butter and sweet potato. The moment the treat is within reach, Goose gobbles it down and looks back up at me with puppy dog eyes that practically beg for another.
Not one to disappoint, I pull out a second one. “Greedy guy.”
“Kenn, I told you not to bring anything for him.” Maya appears from one of the many aisles of the bookstore with an armful of paperbacks. “He’s on a diet.”
Ignoring her, I bend down to kiss the top of Goose’s head, then scratch behind his ears for good measure. “Ignore her. She’s just jealous of how cute you are.”
She huffs. “More like I don’t want to have to listen to Cole drone on about proper canine nutrition for the hundredth time this month.”
Goose and I exchange a look. He’s only eyeing me because he wants another treat, but I pretend the two of us have a secret understanding that we won’t listen to his mom.
Maya rolls her blue eyes, finally realizing she’s lost the battle. “Just don’t give him five of them in one sitting, please.”
“Mm-hmm,” I agree with a thumbs-up. “I brought you treats, too, you know. Cinnamon rolls.”
Her face lights up brighter than I thought was possible before ten a.m. “You did?”
“Yep,” I reply. “And coffee.”
“From Boston Bean?”
“Double espresso with two pumps of vanilla syrup, a splash of skim milk, and a sprinkling of cinnamon.”
Placing the paperbacks on the checkout counter, she grins. “You’re the best.”
I snort and hold up my own coffee. “Hardly. I’m fueling you so you’re awake enough to properly listen to me vent.”
She unboxes a cinnamon roll and shoves an alarmingly large bite into her mouth. I stick to sipping my coffee, giving her time. Partly to let the sugar do its job and partly because I need a moment to work up the nerve to admit the loan isn’t happening.
She’s licking frosting off her fingers when I finally blurt it out.
“The bank said no to the loan.” Head down, I pick at the edge of my coffee cup lid. “They were very polite about telling me I’m a financial risk.”
Mid-lick, she freezes, her eyes snapping to mine, and slowly lowers her hand. “Do you want a sounding board or a solution?”
It’s our go-to question when one of us has something we need to get off our chest. She’s asking whether she should listen and let me get it all out, only offering commiseration or congratulations, or give me advice to find a way out of my predicament
“If there was a solution, I’d have found it by now,” I admit, still not looking up. “I’ve already considered other banks or cosigners or whatever else you’d suggest. I just need to be mad about it for a little while.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, her expression full of sympathy, then nods. “Okay. Be mad.” She takes another bite of cinnamon roll, speaking around it. “Want me to be mad with you or just sit here?”
Despite everything, I almost smile. “You can be mad with me.”
“Good. Because fuck that bank.” She points her cinnamon roll at me for emphasis. “You would’ve paid them back. You’re annoyingly responsible about money.”
A huff escapes me. “Apparently not responsible enough.”
“No, you don’t have enough money. That’s different.” She leans against the counter, studying me over the rim of her coffee cup as she takes a sip. “How much does this affect your plans?”
“It means I’m stuck doing orders out of my apartment for the foreseeable future.” I try to keep the bitterness out of my voice, but it’s pointless. I sigh. “And I’ll have to keep turning down orders because I physically can’t produce enough with limited space.”
“Fuck, Kenn.” She’s quiet for a moment, tearing off another piece of her cinnamon roll. “How long until you could reapply? Or save up on your own?”
“Without the loan?” I do the math in my head for the thousandth time, once again disappointed by the number. “It’s going to be a while.”
Goose sits beside my feet and brushes up against me like he knows I could use the comfort.
I scratch his head with my free hand. “It’s not the end of the world, but it’s one more thing that’s not working out.”
“Yeah.” Her voice is softer now. “I know you don’t want advice—”
With a breath in, I give her a sharp look.
She holds up a hand. “I’m just saying. If you change your mind, I’m here.”
“Thanks,” I say quietly. The truth is, acknowledging that I’m drowning when everyone else seems to have their shit together is hard enough as it is.
“Anytime.” She picks up her coffee and takes a small sip. “Now tell me about dinner with Cameron. I’ve been dying to ask.
I set my cup down on the counter and meet her eyes. “It was ugh.”
Nose scrunched, she tilts her head. “That bad, huh? I know he’s not the easiest guy to get along with, but you’ve also had a one-sided beef with him since you thought he said your raspberry whipped mascarpone cake was dry.”
“Someone told me he said that, and I got over it once Sophie confirmed he’s celiac and couldn’t have tried the cake,” I defend. Yes, Cameron was on my shit list for a short while, but that was forever ago. “And it’s not ugh because it was bad, it’s ugh because it was surprisingly nice.”
Sure, Cameron’s not super chatty, but when he does speak, what he has to say is worth listening to. And yes, he glares a lot, but it’s not like I’m the one who’ll have to pay for the Botox he’ll need to fix his frown lines in a few years.
“And…” Maya probes, as if my declaration that it was nice isn’t enough of an issue to warrant an ugh.
“And at the end of the night, I asked if he wanted to come up and he said no.” The admission drips with my undisguised disappointment. “It was awkward to say the least, so I quickly said good night and went inside.”
Cinnamon roll in hand, she points at me again. “We know his ex gave him serious baggage.”
“I didn’t invite him up for a continued discussion about the socioeconomic implications of reality television.” I sag into the counter. “I invited him up so I could trace his tattoos with my tongue.”
She snorts coffee through her nose, coughing and laughing simultaneously. “Jesus. Warn a girl before you say things like that. And after the David fiasco from last year, didn’t we decide that the Real Housewives are second date conversation material?”
Fucking David the Defender. He’s on my shit list, too. “First, this wasn’t a date, and second, he actually engaged in my points rather than just dismissing them.”
“Oh,” she chirps. “That’s good. Better than going on a tangent about why off-Broadway shows should have a special category at the Tony’s and…” Maya notes my expression and trails off. “You talked about that, too, didn’t you?”
I take a quick sip of my coffee, burning my tongue in the process. “Of course I did. Off-Broadway theatre is vital to the New York theatre ecosystem. It’s where innovative work is developed.”
My three loves in life are baking, Bravo, and Broadway. I can’t help it if they all happen to come up in conversation.
My best friend hums to herself. “Okay, okay. So the non-date was ugh.”
“And humiliating,” I remind her. “He stared at me like I was wearing a lace thong as a headband when I suggested he come up.”
“Kennedy. Babe.” She sets down her coffee and looks at me seriously.
“You are many things, but I’ve never known you to fall victim to embarrassment.
Last month, you showed up to a client consultation with flour handprints on your ass because you’d been kneading dough and forgot to check a mirror.
How did you handle that? By taking a selfie with it and posting it on your socials. ”
A thread of amusement winds through me. “That was funny—”
“Two weeks ago,” she says, holding up two fingers, “you accidentally sent a voice memo to our book club group chat where you were singing the entire Mamma Mia soundtrack in the shower. Very enthusiastically and very off-key.”
“Everyone loved my performance and it’s hard for one person to sing duets.”
She leans forward, ticking off a third item with her fingers. “You tripped going up the stairs at the charity gala and your solution was to take a bow and ask for a round of applause. You showed up to coffee with me wearing mismatched shoes—”
“They were both black.”
“One was a sneaker and one was a boot.” Her eyes dance with humor. “My point is, you don’t do embarrassment. You do ‘oh well, life is weird and messy, and I’m going to laugh about it and move on.’”
I trace the rim of my coffee cup and sigh.
As much as I don’t want to respond, I know better than to think she’ll let it go until I do.
“I know, but he rejected me nicely, Maya. Cameron doesn’t do ‘nice,’ which means he was being polite because it was a charity thing and didn’t want to hurt my feelings. ”
“That’s—”
My phone rings, cutting off the point she was about to make, and I quickly fish the device out of the depths of my purse. I don’t recognize the number, but swipe to accept anyway. Good banter with a telemarketer may cheer me up.
“Hi, you’ve reached the Pleasure Palace, where your satisfaction is our priority,” I answer. “How may I assist you?”
Maya smacks her head, her face going pink with embarrassment even though she secretly loves my creative openings for spam calls.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m trying to reach Kennedy Caplan… with Crumb I’d prefer to use someone more established, a vendor with hundreds of weddings under their belt,” she admits with a sigh.
“But my job is to make the bride and groom happy, and the bride wants you,” she says.
There’s no malice in her voice. Only honesty.
“She’s very particular about not using the vendors her friends have already used because she wants everything to feel fresh and undiscovered.
She and Gabrielle Hartley are friends, and Gabrielle has raved about the desserts you made for her daughter’s sweet sixteen last spring.
Said you were the only one who actually listened to what her daughter wanted instead of just pushing your own aesthetic. ”
I blink. Then blink again. Suddenly, staying up for three days straight making custom macarons shaped like designer handbags because fifteen-year-old Sienna Hartley was obsessed with fashion doesn’t seem so horrible.
Maya scribbles on a nearby receipt and shoves it in my face. Ask who the bride is!!!
As eager as I am to find out, I still don’t think I can even speak.
“I looked into you and will admit I’m impressed. Your work is creative, yet classic,” Diane continues, as if she hasn’t just dropped a bomb on my entire existence. “I’d love to set up a meeting to chat further about the opportunity if you’re interested.”
For maybe the first time in my life, I’m stunned stupid. Maya smacks my arm hard, making me jump. It’s exactly what I need to kickstart my brain into working again. “I—yes,” I tell her. “Absolutely.”
“Great. I’ll have my assistant email you to schedule,” she says. “Talk soon.”
With that, the line goes dead.
Heart racing, I stare at my phone. Holy fuck. This is the kind of commission that could take Crumb & Co. to the next level.
My excitement lasts about ten seconds before panic sets in.
How the hell am I going to produce a wedding cake for that big of a wedding, plus extras for tasting, plus a unique, never-seen-before type dessert table, plus keep up with my regular orders, all with a single oven with two racks?