Page 1 of After Midnight

CHAPTER ONE

DREAM MOORE

Beep-beep-beep-beep

“I’m up, I’m up,” I yelled at my alarm clock, as I smash the button on top to shut it up. Working an eighteen-hour shift is hard, but the worst thing of all is having the damn alarm blaring in my ear telling me to wake up and do it again. But, I’m old school this way. I could set the alarm on my cellphone and be awaken to gentle chimes and soft melodic digital waves, but it’s not the same. Soft bells won’t anger me enough to get out of bed, if anything, they’ll send me into a deeper sleep. I can’t afford for that to happen. I open up the store, and if I oversleep, I don’t make any money. So, the good old-fashioned alarm clock with the insidious siren is the only sure bet. As much as I hate it.

I have three alarms set. The one telling me to wake up, the one for when I decide to sleep past the first one set for fifteen minutes later, and the last one set for fifteen minutes past that. If I reach the last alarm, I’m in danger of being late. I call it the “wake your ass up right now, bitch,” fail safe alarm. It’s the red-zone alarm, and since it’s sounded, it means something in my morning routine is getting skipped. I’m in the red-zone, so something has to go. Is it the morning brushing of hair? Teeth? Both? I can always blame the hair on a bad day, but the teeth could never be worked around even with mints, candy and minimal conversation. I had braces as a kid, and swore I’d never return to that life. Skipping my toothbrush would be like kicking my dog. If I had one.

The shower is non-negotiable and a must. Some people do it at night, others in the morning. I do both. I enjoy the feel of the stream as it cascades down my body, and if it’s the evening shower, I imagine the water washing away all of my stress for the day. If it’s the morning, I let it revitalize and prepare me for the stress of the day. I get it, I’m stressed, but what business owner isn’t in their first year? I wasn’t born with a silver spoon up my ass, so I work for what I want.

Which leaves breakfast. I have to cut corners somewhere. I dashed into the kitchen to brew the coffee after throwing on a black cold shoulder V-neck printed long sleeve t-shirt and a pair of skinny jeans, and threw a thin bagel in the toaster.

Shit, what did I forget?I ask myself as I scan the room. The oversized wall clock I have hanging in the living room screams at me to leave in ten minutes, or I’m fucked, and not in the way I could use right about now. Then I see it. The travel sized deodorant stick I left on the bookcase when I emptied my purse the other day was the perfect reminder. Sometimes, disorganized organization can be a major life-saver. Another dash into the bathroom to put on the deodorant I forgot when I finished my shower, a sprint back into the kitchen to retrieve my no-longer-warm thin bagel and coffee with gobs of sugar and cream thrown in, and I’m out the door.

Dream,I remind myself.You can’t go anywhere if you forget your keys.I’m determined this isnotgoing to be one of those days where life fucks me, and not in the way I could use right about now.

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“SPEEDING ACROSS TOWNis not something I do on a consistent basis, Steve,” I tell him before he even gets a chance.

“Dream, I catch you damn near every morning,” Steve replies in an incredulous tone.

“Exactly. It’s not consistent.”

“I’d say four out of five days a week is pretty consistent.”

He’s got me there. I hate it when I can’t argue my point. Steve’s a sweetheart, even if he is a bit anal. “It’s inconsistently consistent,” I argue. One thing owning my own shop has taught me is it’s only a failure when you give up. “Just give me a few minutes and I’ll have an éclair out for you or something.”

“I’ll give you more than a few minutes if you say the word,” he says with a sly wink.

I shake my head and unlock the door. Steve is a regular customer, but I’m not sure what he likes more. The savory baked goods, or flirting with me. He can get away with it, he’s a man and he’s a customer. If anyone was to ever call him out on his behavior, he would simply play it off as his attempt at being friendly. If I reciprocate in any way, shape or form, however, it would ruin me. Word would spread fast in this small town, and no one would ever come to buy from the homewrecker Dream Moore. The hussy that ruined Steve and Willow’s marriage. Nope. I’d have to pack my bags, sell the shop and get on the first thing smoking out of town. Hell, they’d probably throw a parade if I got caught with my literal pants down. The people in this town are nice, in a “I’m going to call you ‘sweetheart,’ but really, I mean ‘fuck you, bitch,’ kind of way. Running a Moore out of town would be the same as winning the college championship around here, and I’m too petty to let them celebrate anything without being able to sell my sweet treats. So, I put up with guys like Steve, because they keep me in business. He’s harmless, his money is as green as the next customer, and his business helps pay the light bill.

Prep time was a breeze as I had it down to an efficient science given my penchant for hitting the snooze button on the alarm one too many times, and before long I have enough treats to get me through the morning rush. I flip the white, cardboard sign from “closed” to “open,” and Steve, of course, is the first one through the door. Once inside, he gives the place a quick once over and inhales so deep it looked like he was going to suck all of the oxygen into his meaty lungs.

I can’t blame him. From the outside, The Dreamy Bake Shop & Café looked peaceful and delightful. Inside, it was even more enchanting. Whenever my café is open, it’s full of sweet delights to tantalize and tempt all the senses. The air is always filled with the sweet, yet subtle aromas of warm bread and cakes, the kind willing to transport a customer to their favorite quiet spot if they accompanied it with a glass of milk or their favorite tea. Various pictures and artwork decorated the walls, most of which were detailed landscaping to give the mind the feeling of peace and tranquility, or to excite it with thoughts of travels to far off locales.

Lunchtime was always our busiest time, but there was still ample seating for those who wanted to stay and chat, or read the daily news from The Southern Reporter, the local newspaper. The evening was always the slowest rush as customers would stagger in, beat down from the workday and needing an instant energy boost through a tasty sugar rush. At the end of the day, the registers were counted, items and ingredients set aside, and the café cleaned and set in order for the next day to do it all again.

“I’ll have the usual, darling,” Steve ordered in the classic, but unique to the region, southern drawl. “And your phone number.”

“So your wifeWillowcan call me?” I shot back as a reminder, and began to prepare his order. “No thanks. I’m sure you have your hands full with her already.”

“My hands are big enough to fill them with the both of you,” he retorted with a wink.

Ew, no way,I say to myself, careful not to grimace too much. It’s been a while since a man filled me, but it hasn’t beenthatlong. “One hot cross bun and a white chocolate baguette togo,” I said with urgency, as I folded the paper bag I’d placed his order in, and handed it to him.

With a smile, Steve handed me his debit card, and after settling his debt, gave me a salute. As he walked through the door, he bumped into Jeanette. “Oh, didn’t see you there, darling.”

Jeanette was my full-figured best friend, and assistant manager. When I first came up with the concept of The Dreamy Bake Shop & Café, I’d offered her the chance to become my partner, but she shot me down. She’d had enough to do with raising three kids with her husband Jake, and couldn’t take on the responsibility and risk of a startup business in this small town we called home. I understood, and offered her the opportunity to work for, and with me. This way, she could still be a help to me, and also could get out of the house for a while and make her own money. Being the sweetheart of a friend she is, she accepted the job, and has been with me ever since. Of course, I sometimes get the feeling she accepted the job to watch out for me more so than to make her own money, but either way, she’s beside me most of the day and I welcome her assistance almost as much as I love her friendship.

“No, I’m sorry,” Jeanette answered back. “Totally my fault, though I could see how you would think it was yours. Probably distracted by my friend over there again. Did you finally get her number, Steve?”

My jaw fell to the floor as I watched my so called best friend encourage this man, and then flash me a devious smile. She knew exactly what she was doing, and I hated her for it, while at the same time, resist the urge to double over in laughter rising up inside of me. Steve’s face turned a fiery red, and he mumbled something inaudible, nodded his head and then scooted out the door at a much faster pace.

Thank you,I mouthed breathless to her as we both observe Steve get in his dusty truck and speed off.

“Once again, Jeanette is here to save your tasty baguettes from all the tasty men in this town that want to fill you withtheirwhite chocolate,” she teased.

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