Page 73 of XOXO

"It's been a year," he says curtly, "and I'm here because I've heard of your excellent chocolate mousse cake. I'd planned a full write-up in the coming weeks, but I happened to be in the neighborhood, saw the lines out the door, and figured tonight would serve as a good example of top quality products."

I'm sure my smile is painful by now. If I didn't have enough reason to loathe this man, showing up after closing on Valentine's Day really solidified the deal.

I must not satisfy Miles with my lack of response, because he hesitantly adds, "If everything goes well, I might even be interested in arranging a deal with Interlude. My father used to work there and they're always looking to outsource desserts." He gives me a significant look. "Interlude could really open doors for you, you know."

HA! Okay, that shit is hilarious. I almost burst out laughing before remembering where I am.

Buddy... I'm a hands-on pastry chef with pink hair. My bakery is literally called Weirdough. I stand by my products, but I can't imagine a ton of cross section between my clientele and a hoity-toity tight-ass Georgetown restaurant. The people who patronize Interlude are the types who'd gladly eat Play-Doh if you charged them two hundred bucks and said it was imported from France. I think I'll stick to my loyal customer base who actually care about quality and taste, thankyouverymuch.

But because the universe is cruel, Miles is famous... which means I can't actually vocalize these thoughts.

Instead, I bat my eyelashes and reach for an order sheet. "Our chocolate mousse cake is a top-seller," I assure him, scribbling chocolate mousse on the paper. "We're all sold out tonight, but I promise the quality of a future cake will be exactly the same. Just for you." I provide an exaggerated wink. "Would you be okay picking up on Friday at three?"

His blond eyebrows furrow. "No. I want it today, you see." Before I can object, he does something with his face — and for the life of me, I can't tell what he's aiming for, but there are two possibilities: He's either attempting a smile, or performing a very accurate imitation of a constipated dog.

The former makes more sense… right?

"Um." I swallow. "The issue, see, is that it's Valentine's Day." I gesture at the garland, streamers, and fairy lights. "We've been overrun with orders for weeks. All I've got left at the moment is" — I lean over the display case — "three strawberry tarts and two pink macarons."

"Hmm." Miles drums his thick fingers on the speckled countertop and gives me that piercing stare again; I try my hardest not to shudder beneath it. "Hmmmm."

I clear my throat. "Is there... something else I can help you with, Mr. Compton?" Some of us would like to eat or pee today...

"Actually, yes." He raises his eyebrows. "If you can make that mousse right now, I'll pay you three times the cost. Four times."

"That's generous.” I tap on my Strawberry Shortcake watch. “But see, it's almost closing time... on Valentine's Day." How much clearer can I be? "Surely you have someone special to spend the evening with?"

His mouth snaps into a thin line. "We both know that I do not, Miss Comeau."

"I didn't know that," I reply — and it's only through sheer power of will that I avoid adding, "but I'm not surprised."

"At any rate." He clears his throat. "If you make a mousse for me tonight — and if you allow me to watch the process to better facilitate my learning — I will offer you ten times the cost of a mousse, right here, right now." A pause. "That's my final offer, Miss Comeau."

Well, shit. I slump over the register again. What were my plans tonight, again? Oh, yeah — eating a microwave lasagna and watching Dylan scream at a Nats game. "I... don't think I can refuse that," I admit. Miles flashes me a smile that feels unnecessarily bright. What's he getting at?

I gesture to the front of the bakery. "Would you mind flipping the sign and locking the door? We technically closed thirty minutes ago, and I don't want more random people walking in."

"Oh." His brow furrows. Could this be a never-before-seen sign of... remorse? Unbelievable! "Of course," Miles says, bowing his head and turning to the front of the bakery. And then, quietly — so quietly I almost don't hear it: "Sorry."

I ignore the knee-jerk response threatening to overtake me ("No, don't worry, it's fine!") and head for the kitchen, determined to let at least one girl go home. For busy events like today, they usually do alternating "late" shifts; one employee will help with clean-up and prep until six, the other until five. I think Diamond did the late shift yesterday, which means it's Sarah's turn.

I'm unsurprised to see that Dylan's not in the office when I breeze by en route to the kitchen. Irritation flares in my throat at the thought that he might've already gone home, but as Dr. Dubrow says, that's called Future Thinking — and that gets us nowhere. Give him the benefit of the doubt, I chide myself, turning towards the walk-in freezer to get some eggs and cream for the mousse cake. Give him—

Sarah's petite frame springs out of the walk-in, and my heart leaps into my throat. "S-Sarah!" I stutter, clutching my chest. I have the most sensitive startle reflex known to man. Luckily, my employees know this.

"Are you... okay?" she asks cautiously, resting a delicate hand on my shoulder. Sarah's a trust fund baby who dropped out of Catholic University at the start of last semester. I've always suspected she took this job as a rebellion against her parents, but if they're planning to teach her a lesson, they might wanna start by cutting the rent payments and credit cards...

"Fine, fine," I lie, straightening to my feet. "Sorry. You know me, always jumpy!"

Her bright green eyes pool with concern. She really is unfairly pretty. I've often thought that if Sarah were on Survivor, she'd be the contestant who still resembled a runway model after weeks in the jungle. There's one of them every single season.

"Well," she says, grinning, "hopefully you can rest easy knowing that we've taken care of most of the clean-up. Dylan let Diamond leave thirty minutes ago, and— oh!" Her eyes grow big as she stares at something over my shoulder. "Oh... oh my — Miles Compton?!"

Ugh. I roll my eyes as he strides into the kitchen behind me. I was half-hoping he disappeared. Or was a horrific figment of my imagination.

"Pleased to meet you," he says to Sarah, reaching out to shake her hand. "You must be... Sarah? That's what your website says, anyway!"

She reciprocates, her hand shaking. "Y-you looked at our website?"

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