Page 19 of Cupcake
Eight
When Amber opened thedoor to the pounding of my fist, she didn’t look happy. She rubbed at the sleep in her eyes and yawned. “The date seriously can’t be over already.”
I pushed my way inside and plopped down on the couch. “The date ended before it even started. Want a burger? I’m not hungry.”
Amber took the box and opened it, inhaling the delicious scent of beef and blue cheese. “Why do you have a burger in a to-go box, and where is Maxwell?”
She ate the burger while I filled her in on what happened. When I finished the story, Amber sighed and set the box down, offering me a hug. “I’m sorry, he’s a friend of a friend. I don’t know him more than in passing. Are men really that big of pigs these days?”
I nodded and pointed at her. “Most are bigger pigs than Max was.”
“Not all, though. Brady isn’t a pig. I happen to know for a fact that he wouldn’t mind if you poked his loaf.”
The sound I made was a half-drunken snort. “He’s been trying to get me into bed for years, Amber. It’s a game. We both know it. He doesn’t want me topoke his loaf,” I said, using air quotes. “Besides, I’m his boss, and that’s not happening. Why don’t we have booze and cupcakes?”
Amber snickered and pushed herself up off the couch. “I know just the place for the cupcakes, and I bet I know where we can pick up some booze. Let me change.”
While Amber was in her bedroom, I leaned back on the couch and pinched the bridge of my nose. The disastrous last six months of the year played out behind my eyes—all the dates that went wrong, and the few guys that lasted a week or two before they ditched my giant ass. I was hit with the knowledge that my idea to find someone to love me for who I am before I turned thirty had been a bad one. What made sense to me on December thirty-first had become an albatross around my neck the closer I got to July thirteenth. The revelation brought me to the only decision I could make. I had to let it all go. I couldn’t force something to happen if it wasn’t meant to happen. That was a lesson I should have learned before I went on thirty dates from hell.
When Amber returned, we left the apartment and stopped off at the local store for a bottle of vanilla cupcake flavored vodka, and a bottle of strawberry wine, then unlocked the back of the bakery to feast on some cupcakes while we drank.
I was chewing a wonderfully decadent chocolate cupcake when an idea hit me. I threw my hands up in excitement. “Oh! I just had the best idea ever!” I set my cupcake down and ran to the cooler, gathering supplies before I dumped it all on the bench.
Amber gazed at me in a drunken stupor. “What are you doing? Why can’t you be normal?”
“I am normal. A normal baker!” I dumped ingredients into the small mixer and set it to mix while I grabbed a measuring cup and poured half a cup of vodka into it. I held it up like a trophy. “Vanilla cupcake vodka cupcakes!” Unceremoniously, I dumped the liquor in and let it mix while I measured flour, salt, and soda.
Amber’s laughter rang out through the bakery while she lined a pan with papers. “That’s a lot of cupcake in one name. We need something catchier. Also, can we sell cupcakes laced with booze?”
I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. I was already busy scooping the mess into the pan and shoving it in the oven. “Sure, we will call them the cupcake for the twenty-one and over crowd! They’ll fly out of here like hotcakes. If they taste good, that is.” I dumped butter and powdered sugar in a bowl and started the mixer again, dumping in more vodka and letting it spin. “Maybe it is illegal to sell alcoholic cupcakes.” I waved my hand. “No matter. If we can’t sell them, I’ll make them for us to eat behind the scenes!”
“What are you making now?” she asked, motioning at the mixer.
“The frosting. Duh,” I said, but the words were starting to slur from all the booze I’d swallowed in the last few hours. I hadn’t eaten anything, either. Wait. Do cupcakes count as food?
While I made the frosting, Amber disappeared into the main bakery and came back with a loaf of pepperoni cheese bread. She sliced it into large wedges and buttered it, pushing a piece toward me.
“You need to eat that. Your words are starting to run together.”
“I don’t want to poke his loaf,” I said smartly, shutting the mixer off and leaning on the bench.
“I didn’t say poke it. I said, eat it. Geez, what is your problem lately?”
Rather than answer, I shoved in half the slice of bread and chewed, moaning a little bit when I swallowed. “Dammit, why does he have to be so good at his job?”
“Because he cares about your business, his craft, and you,” Amber answered, taking a bite of her piece of bread.
