Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 111096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 555(@200wpm)___ 444(@250wpm)___ 370(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 555(@200wpm)___ 444(@250wpm)___ 370(@300wpm)
The glass display of baked goods was giant and full of pastries, cakes, cookies and sugary filled goodness. Baskets of fresh baked goods were scattered across the surface.
Cake stands littered the counter, all of which were half full of fudgy chocolate tortes, apple pies and strawberry shortcake at this time of day.
Our coffee machine, imported from Italy because I knew the importance of good coffee, which was espresso, not what the US had brainwashed us into thinking was coffee—sat next to the cash register. I had that painted pink too, with The Chaotic Baker written in my own sloping script.
My heartbeat slowed as I made it to the counter, reassuring the patient customer that my muffins wouldn’t kill them, ringing them up, then getting their order ready.
Few things could calm me when I was spiraling, but the smell, the feel, the rhythm of the bakery that I’d created tended to do that.
Though I liked being at the back of the house, doing all of the baking, the task that made me feel safe and comfortable, it was nice to have the distraction of customers filing in, getting lost in the gentle rhythm of making small talk, preparing plates and takeout orders.
My health concerns dissipated with my own version of hustle and bustle in my bakery.
My adopted hometown, Jupiter, Maine, was a little, sleepy, seaside town that tended to keep generations of residents living here, residents who looked out for each other, who shopped small, and who had a penchant for sugar and coffee.
In addition to that, our town was charming and picturesque, therefore, there was a lofty tourist trade pretty much any time of year. And my place was on the list of ‘must see’ town attractions on every brochure in every inn, hotel, and bed and breakfast in the area.
Then there was our social media presence. Fiona took care of all of that since I abhorred any and all kinds of technology. She thought it was psychotic that I had no social media of my own. Which made sense since she was obsessed with all forms of social media and incredibly proficient at making us somewhat popular on platforms.
She was always filming me baking or decorating cakes. I was fine with that until she told me to “up the cleavage,” then I’d banned her from putting me in any pictures or videos.
I definitely did not need that kind of business.
Anyway, we were busy. Consistently busy. But even consistently busy, successful bakeries had lulls.
Because I was meticulous about tasks, charts and cleanliness, there wasn’t much to be done in said lulls. The cookies for when the kids got out of school and their moms took them here for a sugar fix were already in the oven. The counters were cleaned. The dishwasher was going. Plates were cleared from tables. Takeout boxes were stocked.
Free time.
It was an enemy that I usually battled off.
Free time meant thinking. Thinking meant second-guessing what I had previously thought were sound decisions or convincing myself I had a life-threatening health condition.
I’d had my near-death experience for the day, so now it was time for questioning decisions.
“Did I make a mistake?” I asked myself in a small voice, biting my lip as I packaged up a cake. I smoothed my hand over the script, ‘Innocent pleasures – food without morals’ logo in bright pink, sloping script, a little cherub eating a cupcake below it. The Chaotic Baker was in small serif font below it.
My eyes found Fiona’s. She was leaning against the pink granite countertop that cost way too much but was worth every penny. “Breaking up with him,” I clarified.
“Fuck no!” she replied loudly.
I quickly hurried to the counter to give the older couple their cake, smiling in apology for my employee’s outburst—one that was not at all uncommon but somehow didn’t seem to offend anyone because it was spoken in her endearing accent.
“He was a piece of shit,” Fiona continued, inspecting her nails. “He cared only about himself yet was really good at making it look like he cared about you… except in all the places that mattered. For example, making sure you had all the orgasms you deserve, which, my darling, a fuck of a lot… minimum.”
My cheeks warmed as I looked around, thankful for the lull, all of our customers seated around tables, out of earshot.
Fiona, for her part, wasn’t the least bit embarrassed about discussing orgasms—granted mine, not hers—at her place of work.
“Yeah, but he was handsome, had a stable job, owned his own home,” I rattled off the qualities, my stomach swirling with unease. “He treated his mother well…” I struggled to find more positive examples. “I’ve never seen him hit a dog with his car,” I offered weakly.
Fiona rolled her eyes. “Oh wow, he was a decent human being who didn’t murder animals. That’s the bar, babe?” She shook her head. “No. He was an asshole when you told him, gently, that he needed to make a little more effort in the bedroom. Too gently, likely,” she added with narrowed eyes, knowing me far too well.