Now that I know it’s a bakery, I’m looking at it with a more critical eye. The awning is a light blue, the brick façade freshly painted white. It’s bright and cheery, and I’m sure resembles the same on the inside.
Lyndee Gibson.
Hell, I wasn’t expecting that one.
The woman I butted heads with daily in college is going to be right across the street from me. My cock actually seems to like that idea, giving me a happy little jump in my pants. Unfortunately for him, there’s no way her opening a business across from us will have the results he’s hoping for. Nothing good could come from this.
This has bad written all over it.
Chapter Two
Lyndee
I set the paintbrush in the pan and smile. After four hours of painting with both brush and roller, it’s finally complete, and I couldn’t be happier with the final project.
Glancing around, a sense of pride fills my entire being. This is it. All my hard work and determination, my sleepless nights and ramen noodle budget has paid off. I’m a week away from opening Sugar Rush, my very own bakery in the heart of Stewart Grove, Ohio. After nearly two decades of hoping and wishing for this day, my dream has finally become a reality.
Ever since I was a little girl and had my very first homemade scone from a small bakery in my hometown of Wellington, Ohio, I knew what I wanted to do with my life. The flavors burst to life on my tongue, sweet and buttery and oh so perfect, and before long, I was saving my pennies to purchase homemade breads and pastries for my family. We weren’t exactly poor, but we definitely didn’t have the extra cash to spend at the bakery.
My mom did the best she could, but it wasn’t easy. As a single parent, she worked day and night, sometimes as many as three jobs, to make sure me and my brother, Dustin, had a roof over our heads and food on the table. That’s where I learned how to cook the basics. Mac and cheese, hotdogs, and meatless spaghetti were a few of the basics I made on those nights Mom worked. Dustin wasn’t picky, as long as it was soft enough or cut up enough he could eat it.
When I was fourteen, I taught myself to use the oven. Using my grandma’s old recipe books and ingredients I purchased from the dollar store, I tried my hand at fresh breads, cookies, and cakes. I fell in love with baking, the sugar in the air and the flour in my hair. It was my solace when the stresses of real life started to suffocate me.
What could a fourteen-year-old possibly stress about, you ask?
Besides having a mom who worked herself to the bone, we were taking care of Dustin. My brother is four years younger than I am and was born with cerebral palsy, though is considered higher functioning. He can talk pretty well, feed and bathe himself with little complication, but still uses a walker or wheelchair to help him get around. He has the use of his extremities, but becomes weak when he overuses them. When Dustin was younger, it wasn’t too bad. Even without having a dad around, we made it work. We were a team, Mom, Dustin, and me.
Until it all came crashing down around us.
With me graduating culinary school and working at that very bakery I discovered my passion for pastries, Mom was able to slow down a little bit. She found a full-time position at a physician’s clinic that provided enough income, and partnered with mine, we were doing just fine in our cozy three-bedroom house in Wellington.
We didn’t need the man who ran out on us when I was just six years old. If he wasn’t able to handle being a parent to a boy with a disability, then I didn’t want him there. Even at a young age, I could see the disconnect in him. He never wanted to hold Dustin and would often leave him in his crib to cry, until I’d go in and take care of him. I bathed him, fed him, and changed his diapers. I know his departure in the middle of the night when Mom was at work was tough, but it was a blessing in disguise.
Then, four years ago, we lost Mom. I’ll never forget opening the front door and seeing those two police officers standing there. A drunk driver crossed the centerline when she was on her way home from work on Friday evening. By the time the accident was called in and the emergency personnel arrived, she was already gone.
“That looks great,” my brother says, pulling me out of my melancholy.
I blink up, taking in the light-yellow wall, and smile. “Thanks.” I beam proudly, glancing around at the brightly colored room. Three walls are yellow, with the wall that separates the customer side of the bakery with the kitchen a lovely lavender. I wanted this part to be cheerful and fun, to give the customers a little slice of sunshine while they’re here.
“I think those multi-sized and colored shelves will really pop on the yellow,” he says, maneuvering his electric wheelchair through the room, careful to avoid the stacked tables and chairs in the middle.
“I agree,” I reply, glancing at the pile of newly painted blue and green shelves. Dustin and I found them at the secondhand store and bought all they had. They’re all different lengths and styles, and we painted them a sage green color and a light blue that matches the awning out front. I plan to use them to display cute canister sets, fun kitchen gadgets, and even books that patrons can grab and read while they enjoy a cup of coffee and a breakfast pastry. The local secondhand stores have been a gold mine for finding fun treasures to decorate my bakery at a fraction of the cost of purchasing new.
Even the tables and chairs I’ll be using came from there. I found two gorgeous wingback chairs and a round end table too that will be perfect in the corner by the front window, opposite the entrance. The rest of the tables are small bistro-style, some perfect for two chairs and others will fit four, but it’s the chairs that I really adore. No two chairs are alike. I had to hit both secondhand stores in town, but also made a trip to a nearby city to get enough. My inspiration for the design hit me one night while watching an episode of Friends on television. Monica and Rachel’s four chairs were all different, and I fell in love with the look instantly.
“I’m ready to start moving tables,” Dustin says with a chuckle.
“We have a long way to go before we can do that though,” I tell him, glancing at the torn apart front counter and display. The shell is positioned against the purple wall and will need to be reassembled and put in their final positions. But they’re heavy. When I purchased them off a buy, sell, or trade group on social media, I paid them an extra hundred bucks to deliver the pieces to me. It took three guys a good half an hour to get them inside the bakery, so moving them on my own isn’t going to be easy. Not at all.
That’ll be a bridge I cross when I need to.
“The kitchen is set up,” Dustin proclaims, proud of the hard work he put into helping finish the heart of my business.
“Show me,” I reply, wiping my paint-splattered hands on my leggings.
My brother leads me into the newly finished kitchen and waves his hand dramatically. “All of the pots and pans are washed and ready to go on the shelves,” he says, motioning to the big stack of new, clean kitchen products.
I move around him and start to move the gorgeous equipment onto the industrial shelves. I can feel my brother’s eyes on me every step of the way, making sure it’s easily accessible by both me and him. Dustin isn’t a baker like me, but he knows his way around a kitchen. Over the last four years, I’ve spent a lot of time in the kitchen. It helps calm me when I get upset or stressed, and Dustin has picked up a few things. At first, he was afraid to bother me, but over time, we learned to work together. Having him beside me, kneading dough, actually helped my mood more than hampered.