Chapter 4 The Teeth of a Shark
THE TEETH OF A SHARK
MABEL
I arrive at the baking stations in a flurry, breathless because I raced over from the trailer. The crowd’s even bigger now. Great.
“How good of you to join us,” Ronnie remarks coolly.
Do I have I’ve just been kissed senseless written on my forehead?
Actually, crap. I might. A few strands of hair have come loose from my braid, and my lips feel bee-stung, and I imagine Ronnie’s narration.
Now, in fifth and decidedly last place, is Mabel the Messmaker. Tell us, Mabel, how was it to snog in my trailer?
“Thanks for giving me the chance,” I say, tucking the errant strands over my ears.
“It’s in the rules. I have to.”
“Cool. I love rules,” I say, ignoring his dig, keeping up a bright, shiny attitude.
Ronnie just shoots me a searing I know what you did stare. Though, it might also be a Shut up, you little brat stare.
I stay strong, though, my smile never wavering.
After five more seconds of trying and failing to make me wither, he huffs and shifts his attention to the four bakers who didn’t fall into their cakes. Lucky fuckers. “You all did so well,” he says. To them. Rare praise from the tough-as-nails chef. But it also feels a little pointed against me.
I try to ignore it, taking this opportunity for publicity.
Poppy assembles the five of us before the audience, making sure I’m farthest away from the photographer.
When I look behind me, I see my cake has magically disappeared, and my station is spic and span.
All the other cakes are still in place, including the one with a red, heart-shaped trophy perched in front of it.
Reality smacks into me—Ronnie handed out the trophy while I was in the trailer. He really doesn’t want me around.
But most of the crowd is still here, and even as his assistant lines us up for the group pic, I’m pretty sure the folks in the front row are snapping pics of me.
The people behind them too. Come to think of it, most of the phones are angled my way.
Should I ham it up? Lean into my fifteen minutes of viral fame?
I might as well smile. There’s no such thing as bad publicity, right?
Before I know it, I’ll be The Inventive Baker. Or The Fast on Her Feet Baker.
Ronnie steps in front of me for the official pic, so I have to kind of peek around him to be seen. I smile for the camera without looking like I’m photobombing. At least, not too much.
When the photographer lowers her Nikon, Poppy materializes at my side, thrusting a canvas bag my way. It’s full of…my things. My measuring cups and spoons, some of the special tools for my frosting, and so on.
“Thank you so much,” she says, then snags a piece of paper from her back pocket. “A voucher to validate your parking.” She points toward the tent’s exit.
In case I was thinking of lingering, the message is clear—don’t.
“Thanks for everything, Poppy. Sorry again about the—”
“It’s all done,” she says tightly.
That’s clear. Time to go.
Chastened, I adjust the bag on my shoulder and head through the romance fair toward the exit, which is full of late afternoon sunlight. I check the time—it’s just past four. The contest started this morning, and it’s been…a day.
As I walk past a long row of food stalls, my phone trills.
Maybe it’s Corbin. But what would he say?
What would I say? I’m still not sure how to process that hot, melty, body-rubbing, pelvis-grinding, out-of-nowhere dirty, filthy kiss.
But when I grab my phone from my back pocket, I see it’s the banker guy I’m meeting with tomorrow before my volunteer shift at the animal rescue.
“Hello?” I’m wary since I wasn’t expecting a call.
“Hey, Mabel, it’s Jonas over at Neighborhood Capital Trust and Loan. How the heck are you?”
I’ve never spoken to Jonas before. We’ve only emailed. I didn’t realize he was so laid-back. So easygoing. What a change from Ronnie. “I’m fine,” I say, careful but hopeful. “Everything set for tomorrow?”
I plan to make my pitch in person, even though I’ve already emailed him my business plan.
“Actually, the committee meets today to finalize our small business loan portfolio for this quarter. Any chance I could convince you to drop by in the next half hour or so? Just need you to sign this proof of income. Cross the t’s and dot the i’s, and all.”
Sunshine floods my chest. That’s good news. Maybe that means I got the last spot for the quarter. I cross my fingers. “Of course. I can be there by four-thirty.”
“Sweet. Perfect timing.”
“It is,” I say and hang up. This is wild. My grandmother always said timing is everything. She always encouraged me to chase my dreams, whatever they were. She always said, You’ll know when things are right. This feels right.
I hustle down the aisle toward the exit of the romance fair, and I spot Corbin up ahead, headed the same way.
He’s walking with two guys who also look like they juggle couches for fun.
One’s in a sapphire blue suit with a plaid print, the other’s in dark purple.
I can’t tell from the back who exactly they are, but I know they must be his teammates.
My pulse goes haywire, but it’s not simply residual excitement. I don’t have time right now for awkward conversations with Corbin and the guys, especially with my panties still annoyingly damp.
I hope he walks quickly, and then I won’t have to pass him. But they’re doing that athlete swagger, taking their sweet-ass time as they stroll, knowing they don’t have to rush unless they’re on the ice.
Meanwhile, I’m trying out for the Olympic race-walking event.
Head down, I push ahead, hoping to avoid him without being a dick. But as I near the trio, Corbin notices me out of the corner of his eye and lifts a finger toward me. Our eyes connect, and he gives me a nod.
A fucking nod.
Like a Thanks for the good times nod?
Or a Don’t acknowledge me nod?
I don’t know. But it doesn't matter. Even though that kiss was insanely good—and almost a whole lot more than a kiss—it wasn’t a start-of-an-indecent-affair kiss.
I barely wave at him, then I just…sail out of there, aiming to put that trailer incident behind me, because an in-person meeting with a banker has to be a good sign.
Maybe my frosting fiasco has appeared online but people are admiring how I saved it with the smash-cake comment.
Perhaps the bank’s excited about my ability to improvise.
I race to the parking garage then hop in my car, ready to scurry across town.
Once I hand over the parking voucher, I hit my friend Remy’s name on my phone.
I need to process this loan news with a friend, and she’s one of those people who knows a little bit about everything because her job involves research into, well, everything.
She answers, and I dive right in as I drive.
“The banker wants to meet with me today,” I tell her.
“He needs me to sign one last piece of paperwork I must have forgotten to sign. This has to be good news, right? It has to mean he saw my frosting fiasco and it’s going viral.
Is it going viral? I haven’t had a chance to look. ”
“Tell me what to search for,” she says, and I rattle off some terms as I zip through surprisingly light traffic. I’m hitting every green. Nothing can stop me. That kiss was the start of my luck turning around.
Remy clucks her tongue. “I’m checking, I’m checking.” Before she can render a verdict, I’m at the bank, snagging a spot by the curb. More good luck.
“Yes, it looks like…yes, you got some hits,” Remy says, as I turn off the car.
“Are they good?”
She hums. “They’re…not bad, per se.”
My hackles rise as she goes glass-half-full on me. “Why do I feel like the per se is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence?”
“It often does. It’s Latin and means by itself, and it’s often mis—”
“Oh my god, I love you, but I don’t have time for a lesson, grammar girl.” It’s four-thirty. “Gotta go.”
“You’ve got this,” she says, and that’s better.
I utter a hasty goodbye and rush inside the bank, asking the greeter where Jonas Gideon’s office is. “Right this way,” she tells me, then guides me past the tellers, back to the banker’s office, where I expect to be greeted by a pasty man in a navy-blue suit crunching numbers.
Instead, the guy strums an acoustic guitar, and a shark’s tooth hangs on a rope necklace against his tanned throat. He wears a bright white Henley and mauve pants, and I can seriously appreciate the way he’s paired the two shades, as well as the rocking-it vibe.
“Mabel, how the heck are you?” he asks, still plucking out some notes. It’s a Hozier tune, I think.
“Good song. And I’m well.” I glance down, and…okaaaay. I’m still in my apron. I untie it and fold it hastily. “Sorry about the apron.”
“No worries. Authenticity matters to us.” He sets down the guitar, leaning it against the desk, and shoots me a gleaming white smile. He must own stock in Crest Whitestrips. “Thanks again for meeting me today. I had to move up the meeting because it’s gonna dump in Tahoe tonight.”
Wait. What? “You mean snow?”
“Yep,” he says, eyes sparkling. “Climate change sucks, but you have to grab the chances when you can to hit the slopes.”
Did I get the chillest banker ever or what? “Then let’s get down to business so you can hit the road,” I say.
“Aww, thanks,” he says, then nods to a stack of papers on the corner of his desk.
The proof of income, I presume. He blows out a long breath and strokes his chin.
“And listen, trust me when I say I love your bakery concept. The idea of being open in the afternoon and early evening is brill. I mean, who isn’t jonesing for a cookie or a cinnamon bun after work, right? ”
“Exactly,” I say, relieved he understands and appreciates that not all bakeries need to keep early-bird hours.
“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how important social media marketing is.”
“So important. But all marketing is good marketing, right?” I ask, upbeat and peppy. That’s good for a baker, right? The peppy baker. That can be my online persona.
He hums thoughtfully. “A strong online presence is vital. We need our businesses to talk up their offerings and so on. We need good press. Social media marketing is part of what we evaluate when we consider the financing.”
“Terrific! Even as a pop-up bakery, I’ve tripled my following in two years.
My engagement is up fifty-five percent year over year.
I’ve done collabs with a local animal rescue for cakes with dog designs, with a romance bookstore for a Sweets and Spice night—even with Elodie’s Chocolates for a Tempting Treats evening.
And I’ll work on growing my social media presence even more.
I can add the smash cake to the menu now that it’s gone viral.
To get out ahead of it. Own the narrative and all. Would that help?”
He’s quiet for a long beat, then reaches for the papers on the corner of his desk, pulling them toward him with one long finger. “Mabel, I don’t need you to sign these.”
My brow knits. “You don’t?”
“Like I said, social media is super important. And right after I called you, one of my colleagues sent along some viral footage. Of you smashing into a cake.”
His heavy pause is a little concerning though.
News of my bake fail traveled even faster than I’d thought possible, but the local station was streaming the contest. Still, “That was less than an hour ago,” I say.
“Yes, and that ship has sailed. We can’t back a woman known as a hot-mess baker girl. Or the girl who got dumped so her ex could go on Romance Beach. And we definitely can’t back smashed cakes.”
I roll my lips together, sealing in my dismay.
This was one of my last chances. I’ve applied for loans left and right in order to launch a retail storefront for You Deserve a Treat.
I’ve even looked at several spaces over the years.
But like the loans, they haven’t happened.
Either my credit score isn’t high enough, or the cash flow is too inconsistent, and do I even realize the failure rate of small businesses?
Yes, I am the failure rate.
“You’re not giving me a loan,” I say heavily, processing the obvious.
Jonas shoots me a sympathetic look. “No, but look on the bright side. Keto’s so popular these days, maybe I’m doing you a favor!”
He shows me out so he can go snowboarding.