Page 5 of Resisting the Grump

"But—"

"I’m taking tomorrow off so I can move. Told Cindy weeks ago."

His jaw clenched with frustration. "You just moved last fall."

"I know, but there are too many celebrities in my neighborhood. I'm sick of people going through my trash and trailing me to and from the gym." I wasn’t even that famous. And there was something uniquely depressing about being dehumanized by paparazzi who were clearly disappointed they weren’t snapping pics of someone else. Sometimes I wished I'd never written that first scathing article that put me on the map... and Clyde’s Char House out of business.

"Fine," Mac said. "Move for all I care. Just as long as you're ready to step up and be the golden boy of the baking world."

I glared at him from the doorway but bit my tongue and let myself out, wondering where the hell I was going to find a sweet tooth on such short notice.

T H R E E

- Avery -

I don't know why I opened my big mouth. It wasn't even a good idea.

"I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner," Grace said. "It seems so obvious now."

"Are you sure?" I asked, pinning my phone against my shoulder to retrieve my parking ticket from my purse. "I'm worried you're already overextended." Also, I’m allergic to ill-fitting printed T-shirts.

"Are you kidding? It's perfect. If you enter in the chocolate confectionary category, not only will the café get double the exposure, but I don't have to lose any more sleep over the fact that I'm taking a big risk in the main category."

Since when is apple pie considered a "big risk," I wanted to ask, but I knew that would only set her off. Plus, I didn't need to hear about the "experimental" crust again. Our ideas of "risks" and "experiments" were galaxies apart. "Are you sure you want me representing your brownies when I didn't make them?" I asked, validating my flimsy ticket in the machine. “Is that even allowed?”

"No," she said. "But I'll teach you to make them tomorrow, so you won't be caught out by any of the judges’ questions on the day."

Anxiety flooded my chest. It was one thing to make brownies for busy moms and businesspeople, but baking for judges felt like a different league. “Are you sure you want to change the plan? I thought feeding backhanded compliments to the competition to plant seeds of self-doubt in their minds was a role that would really play to my strengths."

"Nonsense," she said. "These brownies are a major crowd-pleaser, and the extra entry means we have more chances to impress the judges."

Or more chances to be crucified by them.

"Please," she said, her tone sweet as syrup. You know I’d do it for you."

I scoffed. "As if I’d ever ask you to wear a name tag and hustle brownies under a hot tent for me." I was far more likely to ask if she’d pay me in advance when my bills got on top of me... which she’d never refused do. "Fine," I said. "I'll do it."

"Yes!"

I could practically hear the whoosh of her dramatic fist pump through the phone.

"You're the best!"

"The best? Or just the only person you can ask?"

"I can't wait to pass the Brownie Bitch crown to you tomorrow,” she said, ignoring my question. “You're going to be the queen of melting caramel when I'm done with you."

I pinned my purse to my car with my hip so I could dig for my keys in the dim garage. "I'm too young to have all my dreams come true like this, but I'll do my best to not let you down."

She thanked me and hung up the phone, and even though participating in a baking competition was the last thing I ever dreamed I'd do, it would be a good opportunity to prove how capable I was of following her recipes. That way, she’d be far more relaxed about letting me hold down the café after the competition when her boyfriend whisked her off to Paris.

It meant a lot that she trusted me to run the place, and I was too proud to tell her how nervous I was about it. Noah made it sound like no big deal when he first ran the idea by me, but the bakery wasn’t exactly my reason for getting out of bed in the morning. Okay, so maybe it was, but only because it was my job.

I mean, I liked cooking shows as much as the next person who liked cooking shows, but food was food. It wasn't my religion. If I had to pick a religion, it would probably be reading the newspaper. Reading about what was going on in the world always made me feel grounded and connected. I loved the tactile nature of it, the sound the pages made when you folded them over, and the way the ink wore off on my fingers. It was like visual evidence that I'd fed my mind.

Or maybe I just liked it because it reminded me of my childhood Sunday mornings when my parents and I would sit around reading the paper together until the whole family had black-smudged fingers and plenty to talk about. Or argue about, depending on the topics. But I always appreciated how they included me in the conversation even when it was over my head. It was something I took for granted until I realized my friends—particularly my friends with gaggles of siblings—didn't get the same treatment. They were spoken to like children, whereas my parents always acted like my opinion was as important as anyone else’s.

So, frankly, it's their fault I'm so bossy. Or at least, that’s what I told myself when I got home and felt compelled to write an assertive letter to my new neighbor about the building rules I expected him to respect. Not that it was my job to enforce the rules, but my gut feeling was that he was going to be a difficult character.

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