“Traffic jam.” That's the best I can come up with.
“Oh. Well, it is a busy side street on Fridays,” he says. “Just as an FYI, we need more goods.” Callum brings us back to reality.
“Chop-chop, back to work, everybody,” I say, adopting a formal tone.
“Yes, boss!” my staff says, matching my tone.
When Callum leaves the kitchen, I add, “The show is over, ladies. Put away your bids. That's it for the drool fest!”
Yeah, you guessed it, we’re all laughing again.
God, he was delicious.
CHAPTER 3
Holt
I knew pulling away from the parking spot at Naomi’s school that I was heading towards a morning of inevitable chaos. And I was right. I've been driving around for the last half hour desperately searching for stupid cupcakes.
I already stopped at major grocery stores, but I’m out of luck. When I saw a Trader Joe’s, I sighed with relief. Unfortunately, it was short-lived. They’re not expecting cupcakes before twelve o'clock—late delivery on Fridays.
My darling child will have a panic attack by then.
I don't even bother to stop at Ralph’s. Naomi hates their cupcakes. I don't blame her. As I keep driving, it becomes clear I'm now in Eagle Rock.
“Fuck,” I grumble to myself.
Luna growls.
“I know, you hate being strapped in for that long. We’re almost there.” I hope. “Hang in there,” I tell her.
At this rate, I might as well suffer and return back home.
“Come on,” I say, banging my hand impatiently against the steering wheel. I search left and right to find a spot where I could buy cupcakes.
What a freaking nightmare.
Most locations under the Magnolia's Bakery banner—Naomi's favorite spot when we’re in the Big Apple—start selling cupcakes at seven o'clock in the morning. Not in LA. Nine is the earliest and many shops don’t open until eleven.
“Fuck.”
As I zoom down York Boulevard, I notice a line rounding the corner to a side street.
“Whoa! That street is buzzing with people and it’s only a quarter to nine. It can only mean two things—coffee and sugar. We might be lucky after all, Luna.”
She barks.
I take the first left and backtrack. It's only when I turn the corner on Hazelwood Avenue that I realize how popular this place is.
“Sugar Glaze Shack,” I say as I duck my head to read the awning. “Never heard of this place before.” I assess the long lineup wondering if I shouldn’t keep driving around, but then I remember what it took for me to find this place. “Nope. This is it.”
I fully expect to drive around until I find a parking spot, but it seems like my luck is turning. An SUV pulls out at the right moment.
By the time I park, it’s already getting warm. I get rid of my jacket and proceed to get Luna out of the vehicle. Of course, she's angry with me, which means it's a fight to get her out of the harness.
“Come on, Luna, work with me. Just be patient and you’re free,” I tell her.
It takes a little more than that to convince her, but in the end, things go my way. Thank God. I lock up and drag Luna across the street where I tie her leash to a dog hook. She takes a drink from the bowl of water that’s been left there.
“Good girl, I won’t be long.” I pat her head and she sits.
As I pass in front of the shop, I try to look inside, but it's swarming with people. Holy crap. I move my head from left to right, but it’s to no avail. The mass of customers inside is doing a pretty darn good job at hiding the glass cases where I’m sure all the pastries are displayed.
The door flings open, and a wave of people walks out.
Hmmm. People are carrying arms full of boxes. This is a good sign.
I make my way to the back of the line with a confident stride. No doubt whatever they sell in there must be worth the wait.
I’m sure they sell cupcakes.
* * *
It’s a good wait, but with each box that passes by, my determination grows. Not to mention I’ve been keeping myself busy. Since my cousin Jagger had a sprout of inspiration on a song he’s writing for one of my new artists, we’ve been furiously texting back and forth brainstorming on lyrics and rhymes. Poor guy’s been up since four. He couldn’t sleep. The song was speaking to him… more like yelling. It's the price you pay when you’re a creative genius.
I place my iPhone back into my pocket as another wave of customers leaves the store.
Finally!
It's my turn to step inside.
The first thing to hit me is the incredible aroma.
Wow. It smells amazing.
I could eat them out of business. After all, I never got to eat breakfast this morning.
The music hits me next.
I immediately recognize the distinctive voice and the unmistakable guitar chords—Bon Jovi, “Livin' on a Prayer”.
Man, we practiced for hours to the tune of that song.
As I soak in the atmosphere and festive decor, my eyes land on a guy behind an iPad cash register. I'm not sure what look he’s going for, but the large glasses, the double polo shirt and sweater tied around his neck—all in contrasting pastel colors—is definitely from another era. I move my attention to the girl behind the second cash register. Her neo-green jacket—with linebacker-like shoulder pads—matches the green eye shadow to a T. Her spiky blonde hair is a mile high.
Can you say eighties?
Most customers are bobbing their heads to the sound of the music and don't hesitate to sing along when the bridge hits.
Whoever owns this place sure knows how to shake things up.
I’m so taken by the creativity and the electrifying energy, I almost forget why I'm here. As Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the U.S.A. fills the bakery, a woman with jet black hair carrying a tray approaches me. She’s wearing a black t-shirt that reads, ‘I love the 80s’, which she paired with a short yellow tutu skirt and an enormous hot pink bow—Naomi would love both. Her greeting snaps me back to reality.
“Bonjour! My name is Aline. Welcome to Sugar Glaze Shack,” a petite brunette with dark brown eyes says with a pronounced French accent.
“Thank you,” I say. I avoid repeating her name because I'm afraid I'll butcher it.
She stares up at me, eyelashes fluttering like crazy.
I smile down at her.
“You’re very, very, very tall,” she finally says with a wide smile.
I stifle a laugh.
“I hope that's not a problem.”
“Au contraire.”
“Pardon me?”
“On the contrary,” she purrs. Okay. “I’m French,” she says as if it isn’t obvious.
“Paris gets a bad rap, but I love your country,” I say.
“And I love you.”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, I love that you love my country.”
Talk about overly friendly greetings.
“Back to business,” she grins.
Thank God.
“Today, we’re revisiting the eighties,” she says, sticking her chest out.
I lift my eyes up and scour the room. “Well done. Clearly, your customers are enjoying themselves. Present company included.”