Synfully Sweet (Side Hustle #8)

CHAPTER 1

SYNDAL

When I lean back in my chair, I’m thankful for the lumbar support. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing. I’d be more concerned about sitting all day if I didn’t spend so much time on my feet when I’m not clocked in. After work is when I get to do what I really love.

There’s something special about making treats.

People enjoy them for the experience. It only lasts for a short period of time, but that’s okay.

And, of course, you can’t really stay mad when eating chocolate.

Being able to bring people joy is something I can’t even put into words. It fuels my soul in a way nothing else does.

A new chocolate mold was delivered today, and I’m looking forward to trying it out. Thinking about it almost has a giggle escaping. I bet my mailperson would be horrified to know they delivered a penis binky lollipop chocolate mold to my house today. Or maybe they’d love it.

I’d like to think they’d at least chuckle about it. I mean, it’s funny.

It’ll also be the perfect mold to use for the treats I’ll sell at an upcoming romance book signing I’ll be a vendor at. Not to mention, I kind of have a thing about collecting dick molds. Call it an obsession if you want; I prefer thinking of it as a hobby.

It’s a useful hobby considering I actually use my dick molds. Most of the special orders I get involve cocks. Chocolate cocks.

I shake my head and wonder how this became my life.

“Syndal,” Cindy chirps brightly while leaning around the side of my cubical.

It’s not easy, but I manage to hide my shiver of disgust at being in a cubical. This is not where I thought I’d be at this point in my life.

By now I was supposed to have my treat shop open and cranking out chocolate goodies. Instead, I work in insurance.

“Are you coming out with us tonight?”

I look up at my coworker, who works extremely hard at being nice, and smile. “Not tonight, Cindy.”

She pouts and lets out a huff as if she’s disappointed. I’m not entirely sure if she’s serious or if she’s just playing it up for my benefit.

It’s not like we’re friends outside of work. We don’t call each other. We don’t even text each other outside of office hours, which should tell you something. Even when we do, it’s about meeting up for lunch.

We’re lunch buddies. It’s been more than enough for me, honestly.

But sometimes I wonder if Cindy is sincere about wanting to be my friend.

Wouldn’t she reach out on the weekends if she really wanted a friendship?

The smile on my face turns brittle with the thought, but Cindy doesn’t seem to notice. Or she doesn’t care.

Either way, the way my stomach turns tells me everything I need to know.

“You never come out with us,” she needles me.

For a moment, I consider giving in. I really do. Not giving people what they want, even if they’re being insincere with their words, isn’t easy for me. It’s far easier for me to bend over backwards to make others happy.

Yes.

I’m aware that therapy wouldn’t be a terrible thing in my life.

No.

My issues don’t come from my parents. They were amazing, supportive, and caring. I just don’t get to see them very often since they moved to a warmer climate.

All my bullshit comes from how I’ve been used by the friends I’ve had in the past. I learned not to trust people a long time ago. I haven’t been given a reason to change my mind about my expectations of people and their behavior.

Not yet at least.

I’m not exactly holding my breath either.

“I know,” my voice is soft like it doesn’t want to make waves or take up too much space, especially if Cindy is going to get mad and lash out at me.

She hasn’t before, but I’m waiting for it.

Isn’t it inevitable? “It’s not like I don’t want to, but I need to pack up some things for tomorrow’s market.

It’s going to be a few hours of work, and I have to get up early in the morning to set up. ”

I don’t share a lot about what I do outside of work with Cindy or anyone else, but I have mentioned selling at markets before. Markets sound better than conventions, which is really where I sell things. I love them, but I have a feeling Cindy wouldn’t agree.

Or maybe she would.

It’s not like I really know her.

When I look up at Cindy, her eyes are glazed over, and I realize she didn’t listen to anything I had to say. Suddenly she snaps to attention and sits up straighter while her smile widens as if it’ll be enough to blind me.

It won’t.

I’ve seen past the mask now.

“I understand,” she sighs as if extending some empathy or understanding is just a little too much of a burden.

She points at me and shakes her finger slightly in admonishment, “But next time I’m not going to let you get away with turning me down.

You should get out. You’re young,” she presses a hand to her chest and leans toward me before stressing, “we’re young. We deserve to have a good time.”

“You’re right,” I offer her the words, but I don’t really believe them.

Something flashes in her eyes that tells me she knows I’m only telling her what she wants to hear and have no intention of going out with her. Or anyone else from the office.

What she doesn’t know, or maybe she doesn’t want to realize, is this job is not my dream. It is what I do. It’s what I get up and do day to day, but there’s no passion here. Bills have to be paid. That’s just how it is.

I’m not sure anyone could muster up excitement about working at an insurance company. There’s no glamor in my cubicle. Or any of them. It’s mind numbing and I wonder how the other people around here deal with it.

Maybe for them it’s going out to the bar with coworkers. Who am I to judge?

“I hope you have a good time, Cindy,” my words are sincere and she blinks for a moment in surprise.

Then, with a wave, she’s gone. Probably back to her cubicle to finish out the last few minutes of the day and get everything shut down.

I do have a moment of wondering if I should have changed my plans and agreed to go out with Cindy. It probably wouldn’t hurt anything. Unless something goes wrong, or it turns awkward and then it throws off the routine of work. Since I can barely handle as it is, disrupting the flow would suck.

Getting home takes as long as it always does.

Knowing some short cuts does help and the fact that I don’t have to go to the other side of Denver, but there’s still just a lot of fucking traffic.

There’s nothing to be done about it. Other than jam out in the car and make mental lists of what I need to get done tonight.

The event tomorrow is going to take all of my focus, energy, and effort. I’d much rather be at home, but I do love it when people enjoy my treats. What can I say, I’m a contradiction. Would it be fun if I made complete sense?

When I finally make it home, I grab the delivery box before scurrying inside. Carrying treasure inside my domain feels like a victory. It’ll make a nice addition to the hoard.

I don’t even care how ridiculous that sounds. I already know people are going to love the chocolate made from this mold. It’s fun; what’s not to like?

The moment I step inside my home, it feels like I can really breathe. Pascal and Cap come trotting toward the door from the kitchen. I’m sure they were contemplating my death over their empty food bowls just before I walked through the door. Now that I’m here, hopefully, I’ve saved my life.

At least until tomorrow.

“Hi babies,” I coo at my cats as I put everything down and putter around my house until I make my way into my bedroom after leaving the pacifier dick mold on my kitchen counter. Or should it be a dick pacifier mold?

When I snicker, Cap gives me an epic side eye. But he’s always been a little judgmental. I think it’s because of the star on his chest.

I knew what his name should be the moment I saw the white fur on his otherwise dark tortoise shell coat. He was just a kitten then. Now he’s grown into himself while having an overinflated sense of justice. Cat justice, of course.

He’s very demanding and judges every decision I make.

The judgment is especially strong when my decisions involve leaving him alone with only Pascal.

They get along just fine, but Pascal isn’t capable of feeding Cap or giving him treats.

You would think I committed a crime by not being home to cater to his whims.

Pascal is easy going and rarely judges me. Of course, he would be happy for me to be home as well because he does like treats. He’s also okay with having hours of uninterrupted nap time. The boy loves a good nap, and I can’t say I blame him. Who doesn’t like a nap?

“Did you two get into trouble today?”

Yes, I realize I’m talking to my cats, but who else should I talk to? Pascal lets out a sound filled with innocence. I don’t believe it even a little bit.

Cap looks at his feline brother with a look which can only be described as affronted.

I smile at my guys. They bring me so much joy and help when I’m feeling lonely.

It’s not like they could have gotten into any real trouble anyway. Everything is cat-proofed and I already know they spend most of their time on their own personal level of the cat tree. It’s their place. And there have been battles over territory on the damn cat tree more than once.

The worst days of my life have involved Cap icing out Pascal and my emotional kitten just couldn’t take it.

You haven’t lived until you watch a cat looking more pitiful than those unavoidable animal rescue commercials.

But this cat is warm, cared for, fed, and has fresh litter. His brother was simply ignoring him.

Think, emotional zombie apocalypse level drama.

After taking off my bra, I just take a moment to enjoy the feeling. Holy shit. Is there anything better? I just don’t think so.

Cap watches me closely from his perch on the aforementioned cat tree. “Cindy invited me out for drinks again,” I inform him while getting things set up to try out the binkie dick mold. While they’re setting, I can start packing up for the convention tomorrow.

I’ve never made more dragon eggs than I have while getting ready for this convention. But could I do anything less for a fantasy con? Hell no.

I’ll be surprised if I don’t sell out. I mean, I hope I do.

I did last year and could have sold more. This year I think I planned accordingly. Maybe.

Probably.

I just never know. One thing I didn’t get to do was update my signage. I wish I had the time and the budget, but it’s just not possible. Maybe if this weekend goes well.

What most people don’t consider is that when the price of goods fluctuate, then my overhead changes. Making chocolate treats can’t sustain me and my bills considering there have been events where I haven’t broken even.

And everything for an event is money I have to pay up front. From the event fee. To the ingredients. To the time and electricity. To keeping up with making sure everything is above board and I can legally sell what I make.

I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve thought about throwing in the towel and giving it up. But the thought of not making my treats makes me want to cry.

Even if my dream is never more than this.

Even if no one else understands why it matters to me.

As long as people buy my treats and love them, I’m going to keep going and trying.

“It’s all you can do. Right, Pascal?”

I glance over my shoulder to where Pascal, an orange tabby, is laying on his back on his ledge. It looks like he splat there after falling from a great height. What isn’t helping is the way his tongue is lolling out of the side of his mouth.

Pascal lets out a lazy meow which must mean he agrees with me.

“Exactly,” I encourage him and I swear Cap looks utterly confused about the whole thing.

I can’t blame him. It’s not like the cats were privy to my inner monologue.

“But we need to stay on track tonight. After packing up, I need to eat something and then go to bed. It’ll be an early wake-up tomorrow.

” Cap makes a sound of disbelief, and I stick my tongue out at him while wiping down my counter.

“You’re right. I’ll sleep after reading in bed. I didn’t think it needed to be said.”

Cap looks satisfied as hell and I keep chatting with him and his feline brother until we snuggle into bed and I finally fall asleep, a ball of anxiety and excitement. Hopefully tomorrow will be a success.