I scribble my name, then examine the flowers for a card as Mikey says “Later” and heads out.
“Who are they from?” Rachelle asks.
“It’s not your birthday,” Aubrey says, telling me something I know.
“I don’t know who they’re from, and no, it’s not my birthday.” I finally spot a small envelope between a bunch of peonies. I open it and slide the card out, reading the words three times, since I’m positive I’m seeing things.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I hope you’re having the same problem.
Call me,
Gaston
His number is neatly printed at the bottom.
“So who are they from?” Rachelle asks, jumping up and down excitedly at my side.
“Um . . .” I glance at her, then at the flowers. He remembered not only my name but also the name of my shop, and then he sent me flowers—something I don’t think any man has ever done for me before. An odd sense of excitement begins to fill my chest.
“Obviously, whoever they’re from has serious fricking class, because this bouquet must have cost, like, over two hundred dollars,” Aubrey observes.
I swallow and look back down at the card once again.
“So tell us who they’re from,” Rachelle repeats.
“A guy I met on Saturday.” I lean forward to smell a yellow rose. “I . . . we . . . I don’t know. We spoke, and he was very nice and funny. I just didn’t think I would ever hear from him again.”
“Wasn’t Saturday Leah’s bachelorette party?” Aubrey asks.
“It was; that’s where I met him. He owns the club we went to,” I answer, blown away by the flowers. Seriously, they are beautiful.
“So you just spoke to him one time, and he sent you flowers?” Aubrey looks a little confused. Heck, I’m confused too. I’ve never had a guy send me flowers after a date, so I would never expect them after a short conversation.
“Of course he sent her flowers.” Rachelle rolls her eyes. “He wanted to make a statement, because she’s hot and he knows tons of guys want her.”
“Hashtag retweet.” Aubrey nods and then asks, “Did he send his number?”
I look between both girls, wondering what universe they live in. Tons of guys don’t want me. Heck, not even one guy wants me. “Um . . .”
“Did he?” Rachelle prompts.
“Are you going to call him?” Aubrey continues.
“He sent it, but I don’t know.” Yes, he was easy to talk to, funny, and charming, but I’m not sure if he is actually interested in me or if he’s interested because I didn’t immediately fall at his feet, which I’m sure happens often. Being as good looking as he is and owning a club is a double whammy. I have no doubt that beautiful women are always coming on to him and telling him exactly what he wants to hear.
“Was he hot?” Rachelle asks.
“Very.” I nod.
“So are you playing hard to get?” she asks.
“No, honey, I’m not playing any games. I’m just trying to look out for myself. Sometimes men will show you what they think you want to see, and then once they get you in their grasp, you figure out it was all a lie.”
“But what if it’s not a lie?” Aubrey prompts. “I mean, I don’t know very many guys who would send flowers to a woman after only just talking to her. My dad doesn’t even send flowers to my mom, and they’ve been married like forever and ever.”
“I think you should call him,” Rachelle says.
“I’ll think about it.” I look around. The four high tables near the front window are now empty following our after-school rush, and the only customers in the shop are a mom and her son, sitting at one of the kid tables. Judging by the amount of icing on the little boy’s face, he’s enjoying his cupcake, and his mom is talking on the phone. “Do you girls mind finishing up the cookies in the back? I need to put the finishing touches on Leah’s cake so I can pack it up tonight and drive it down to Tennessee tomorrow for the wedding.”
“For sure,” Aubrey agrees with a smile that matches Rachelle’s. Both girls love baking, but normally I’m done with everything by the time they come in after school, so they don’t always get to help out with that.
“Don’t forget—my mom will be here tomorrow. She knows you’re both coming in at noon and are pretty much in charge. She’s promised not to step on your toes.”
“We love your mom. And don’t worry—everything will be okay. You should just focus on having a good time,” Rachelle says.
“I know it will be,” I agree. Then I add, “Now go make cookies.”
I laugh at the girls as they jump and dance their way to the back kitchen. I wasn’t sure about hiring two high school girls to work for me, but it was one of the best decisions I’ve made, and not just because their friends are always coming in to hang out—which means they spend money while they’re here. No, both girls are hardworking, sweet, and dependable. I work so much that I see them more than I see my family or even my best friend, so we’re close . . . or as close as a thirty-three-year-old woman can be with two seventeen-year-old girls.
One thing I know for sure is it’s going to suck when I lose them after this summer, when they both go away for college. With a heavy sigh, I grab a few napkins and dampen them, then walk across the shop and hand them to the mom, who mouths Thank you before cleaning off her son’s cute little face. I head back to the counter, straightening up along the way.
Ever since I was five, I knew I wanted to own a bakery, and my parents took me seriously enough to start saving money for me. When I graduated from high school, they told me what they’d done but said they wouldn’t give me access to the funds until after I’d completed culinary school and a few business-management classes. I agreed and went to one of the best culinary schools in New York City and took night classes for business management. After I graduated, I moved back home and got a job at a café in town to gain experience; then I worked my way up to manager. I was there for almost ten years, and during that time I saved enough to open the Sweet Spot.
I have never regretted my decision, not for a single day. Even now, as I look around at the bright-yellow chairs and cupcake-shaped napkin dispensers sitting in the middle of pink tables as well as the cupcakes brightly painted on the walls of my shop, I know I’m living a dream come true.
Now I just need to finish up my best friend’s wedding cake and get it to Tennessee so I can watch her marry that man of hers. I’ll figure out what to do about Gaston when I get home.
Suggestion 2
GO AFTER WHAT YOU WANT
GASTON
“What?” I bark at the knock on my office door.
“Jesus, what crawled up your ass?” my best friend, Luke, asks while closing the door before walking across the room to take a seat opposite me.
“Nothing. What did you need?” I lean back in my chair and rub the bridge of my nose in an attempt to get rid of the headache that’s been steadily building behind my eyes for the past few days.
“Is your piss-poor attitude because of the chick you sent flowers to?” He studies me, and my jaw clenches and unclenches. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess by your sunny demeanor that she still hasn’t called.”