Though I’d rather speak my mind, I table my sarcasm and give a rehearsed response. “I'm sorry, I don’t do orders on such short notice. I have other customers who booked my services in advance waiting for their orders.”
He laughs and I have to resist the urge to slam the phone back on the hook. I've gotten quite a bit of practice with my customer service voice lately, but this guy is pushing it.
“I forgot to tell you who I am, Holly. This is Sebastian Titus, of Titus Tech, speaking. I can pay you anything you want for this order. Now, when can I expect to pick up the cupcakes?”
This time, it’s my turn to laugh. “If you’re that Titus computer guy, then I'm Beyoncé. When you’re ready to put in a real order—which will be ready no sooner than a month from now—then you can call back, pal.”
“Excuse me—” he starts with a gasp, but I've already hung up and dropped the phone lazily back onto the countertop.
When it rings again, I ignore it, knowing it’s just him calling back. I don’t know what’s with people who call claiming to be someone famous. It’s so damn obvious every time they do it. Besides, it wouldn’t matter if it was Elvis calling right now to put in an order, I just don’t have the time. Actually, I take that back. Elvis is the only one I'd be able to squeeze in an express order for. Who can resist a man who moves his hips like that?
Forgetting the annoying phone call and get back to work. Once the fondant is rolled out, I pass it on to my assistant so that she can add it to the waiting orangesicle buttercream cake and instruct her to put it in the huge walk-in fridge when she’s finished. Tomorrow is a very busy morning of orders that need to be delivered bright and early. And being the only one I trust with that duty, I need all the desserts to be together so I can just load them up quick and head out.
It’ll take most of the day, but it’ll be worth it to see so many happy faces when I give them the cake or dessert of their dreams. That’s what this is all about; making people smile with something that I’ve made with my own hands.
Still, sometimes I do wonder if it would be easier if I just hired a ton more people, kicked up my heels, and watched as Holly Cakes flourishes. That’s what Bob says every time he calls. Hadn’t I worked hard enough already? Wasn’t I ready to pass on the baton?
It’s taken eight years to get where I am today. I started when I was sixteen, selling cookies at the local flea market. As the years passed, I opened up an online store, visited local restaurants and peddled my goods, and even traveled to the local nursing homes and grocery stores to try and catch people hankering for a treat.
I didn’t get a real storefront until two years back. Business was slow but steady for a while and I continued to bust my sticky buns slaving over sugar cookies and homemade pie crusts until The New York Times article came out a few months ago. I hadn’t even known I’d been reviewed until I showed up to open the bakery one morning and found a line halfway down the block. Everyone wanted a taste.
Holly Cakes has been slammed ever since, but I haven’t hired a single new person.
This bakery means the world to me and I don’t want to take away what makes it special, and that’s . . . well, that’s me. I don’t want anyone to come into my bakery and wonder just who Holly might be. I want to be the one to greet them, to shake their hand, to get to know them.
That’s why I'm the one who makes the deliveries and I'm the one who answers the phone. Bob keeps warning me that if I procrastinate, my time in the limelight will be over before I know it. I'm enjoying my fifteen minutes of fame now, but it will soon come to an end. The celebrities will move on to the next cult crush on the block and the masses will follow.
However, if there’s one thing I listen to more than anything else, it’s my own intuition, and my intuition tells me that I'm going to be just fine because I treat my customers right.
Right, Mom? I add, glancing toward the ceiling as though I could gaze right through the concrete block to the swirling white clouds above to see her gentle smile peering down.
Has it really been three whole years since I lost her?
My heart throbs in my chest, my palm pressing above it to ease the sharp pain. Three whole years and it still hurts as bad as it did that day.
My assistant leans over, thrusting a tin of fresh baked oatmeal raisin cookies into my hands, successfully yanking me out from my own head.
“These are ready for the fridge!” she beams.
I nod absently, glancing at the long line of customers waiting at the register. While a few are here to grab a cookie or muffin a la carte, quite a few of them are eagerly waiting to pick up their finished orders, most of which had been placed weeks ago.
All of a sudden, the line begins to move, surging and swaying as the people are forcefully parted. A dark-haired figure appears in front of the register, shooting a scowl at the first person in line until they step plaintively aside. The man, dressed in a pressed ebony suit that matches his dark locks, looks vaguely familiar—and not just because he looks like he could’ve stepped right out of a Calvin Klein ad. There’s something about his stern, downturned eyes and hard mouth that jostle something in my memory.
“I'm sorry sir, but you’ll have to wait in line,” I say with a frown, gesturing toward the people who he’s displaced from the line.
“I'm Sebastian Titus,” he interrupts, pressing one palm forcefully onto the counter and leaning between myself and the people waiting, “and I need those cupcakes I tried to order over the phone before you hung up on me.”
Chapter 3
Sebastian
The woman’s emerald eyes abruptly narrow on mine, one hand setting firmly on her hip while the other drops a tin of cookies onto the counter before her. She takes a step forward, leaning toward me in a mirror movement of my own authoritative stance.
“So, that was really you on the phone earlier?” she asks, though it’s clear from her furrowed brow that she already knows the answer.
I give an exasperated sigh and nod my head a single time. It’s about time she realizes that she was wrong in assuming that I was not who I said I was.
“Huh . . . My gut is usually right about things like that,” she says. “Sorry, Sebastian. I'm Holly, even though you already know that I suppose.”
Waving away her apology, I shake my head. “Can I put in my order now?”
“Absolutely not. You can either wait in line to put your order in like everyone else or give me another call. But like I told you, it won’t be ready today. We have a waiting list,” she replies curtly, throwing her unraveling braid over her shoulder and shooting a sickly-sweet smile at the man behind me. “But what about you, how can I help you today? Are you picking up?”
The man glances at me, then Holly, then back to me, like he’s afraid of speaking over me. I shoot him a withering look that keeps him firmly in place behind me. By the time I look back at the baker, her smile is gone and an unpleasant glower has taken over instead.
“You’re a real piece of work, Sebastian Titus, you know that?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“First you call me and demand that I make you cupcakes despite the fact that my waiting list is a mile long. Then you show up and shove all my loyal customers out of the way? You’ve got a lot of nerve.”