Page 6 of Any Girl But You
My anxiety is currently through the roof. Like surpassed the building, out the chimney, heading on its way to the North Pole, through the roof. We have an overcapacity prep schedule tonight, and the morning baker is already coming in an hour early. I’m not adding eight dozen additional cookies to that list.
How is Frankie so very nice and cool, and Quinn is decidedlynotcool? At all. She’s not even that nice. And I really, really, do not like not-nice people. “We won’t have time. I’m sorry, we already have more orders tomorrow than what we can handle.” I’m trying so hard to keep a smile on my face that I’m gritting my teeth. All the moisture in my mouth catapults to the back of my neck and any moment now, a gross sweat trickle is going to bead down my spine.
“Are you actually serious right now?” she fumes, her cheeks even more red than before. “You don’t have time? That is not my problem. That’s for you to sort out.”
The idea that anyone, especially Frankie’s sister, won’t like me grinds at me and will most definitely keep me awake tonight. And since Quinn’s a local business owner, there’s always an opportunity for collaboration. But I refuse to take any more of this nonsense, regardless if I work with her sister and roommate. “There is nothing we can do.”
“But I need these for tomorrow,” she says, dropping her crossed arms to rest her hands on her waist. “Your employee is the one who fucked up, not me.”
This earns Quinn a hard look from the woman in line and an even harder twist in my stomach. “Now…just a second here.” Who the heck does Quinn think she is? She comes intomyplace of business and talks smack about Luna—the girl who works her butt off for me every day—and then drops the f-enheimer right here in the middle of my family friendly shop? No. I absolutely am not standing for this. Between the dog that got loose, and the delivery guy who forgets my things, and my broken foot, and Josie… I have let way too much go today, this past week, this last decade, and I. Am. Done.
“Luna is an excellent employee. She’s here before everyone, stays late, and I’m… I will not let you talk about her like this.” My hand winds the apron string so tight around my fingers I may cut off circulation.
A long, icky moment stretches between us. An unfamiliar and uncomfortable standoff ensues, and something in me clicks. I refuse to be the one who breaks first.
Quinn shakes her head, and this,this!, is a look of disappointment that makes my insides cry. But right now, I’m so heated, it’s only slightly affecting me.
“This is completely unacceptable,” she says. “And you need to make it right.”
“I’ll take these back and refund your money.” I’ll take a hit, for sure. But I can put them in the display case today and tomorrow, half price them, and chalk it up to never doing business with Quinn Lee again.
“I can’t do that. I need these cookies for tomorrow,” she says with a deep frown, and an even deeper sigh. “This really sucks.”
Enough!“Well, perhaps you should get your cookies from somewhere else from now on.”
Oh no, I didn’t.
But yep, I sure did. Yes, I said it with a calm voice and forced smile, but I said it, nonetheless. My therapist would give me a gold star for the day for this one.
Quinn cocks her head, her freckles darkening along with her eyes. “Perhaps I will.”
She grabs the large bags. She’s so much shorter than me that I almost offer to help, to make sure she doesn’t trip as she juggles the cookies out the door. Thankfully, a customer steps in and holds the door open. Quinn bolts down the sidewalk with a very heavy, very annoyed stomp.
I let out a ragged sigh.
Andthatis my introduction to Quinn Lee. Which never, ever, has to happen again.
FOUR
QUINN
From the less-than-fifteen minutes I was inside Zoey’s bakery, the late August summer sun heated the inside of the truck so much it smells like burning vinyl. I cautiously set the boxes of thedefinitelywrongcookies on the seat and roll down the windows to let out the trapped air.
I jump into the front seat, and fire up Truck Norris—the family truck with a very long history, starting with my grandma Peaches, who gave it to Frankie, who then gave it to my dad, who then, after a bunch of negotiation and some cash, gave it back to me so that I can use it for work.
My knuckles turn white from vise gripping the steering wheel. How did I make that mistake? How, how, how?I knowI asked for green and red cookies. I can’t believe I signed that order without validating the details. For the last decade, I’ve double, then triple-checked everything, partly for fear of my boss laying into me, partly because it was my job to make sure everything ran efficiently, partly because even if the state of my bedroom and house shows the Queen Chaos side of my personality, my business side is type A to the extreme.
Tears spring to my eyes. This is exactly what happened in New York—the VP yelling at me because I made careless mistakes like this, even though I swore I didn’t.
When I was in Zoey’s a few days ago putting in this order, it was so hectic. Customers packed the shop like the A train during commuting hours, kids were running around, some dog got loose and terrorized the ankles of everyone, including me. I frantically signed the order slip just to get the hell out of there.
I push my palm into my forehead and squeeze my eyelids to contain the tears. So stupid. I’m smarter than this. I’m a business owner now, and should never, ever sign a contract without rereading the fine print. If I’m making these kinds of careless mistakes when I order cookies, where else am I going to fail?
But Zoey told me I should get my cookies elsewhere? I mean…what? Really? Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have said that her employee effed up. That wasn’t nice, but everything was accurate, direct, and to the point.
Whatever. I can get my cookies from anywhere…like the only other two options that exist.Shit. And really, is this anger about the cookies? No, it’s not. I’ve been in a constant state of freak-out mode since moving here, and this, coming before the big event tomorrow, was the final nail in the coffin.
I ease out onto the road, hands clutching a firm ten and two, keenly aware that I’ve splashed my door with the logoLee’s Christmas Tree Farm and Event Center. No matter how gratifying it’d be to rev the engine and peel out of here, I can’t. Thankfully, I had the foresight when I showed up earlier to not parallel park this beast. After taking the New York City public transportation for the last fifteen years, I probably couldn’t even park a Fiat right now.
