Page 9 of Bittersweet

“What?” His eyes widen, and his head tips in ayeahmovement. “No, a woman owns the business next door. That’s my new neighbor.”

“Hattie? No, Hattie works for me. You should do your research more carefully.” I blink again, confusion and a touch of embarrassment running over me. I’ve met Hattie, the tattooed woman thatworksnext door, a few times and just assumed since she was sweet and welcoming that she was the owner. I should have googled it. I should have researched who my new neighbor would be. He’s right.

My mind tries to pull up the name of the business, but I fail. His hand goes out, and I stare at it.

A hand shouldn’t be that hot.

Annoying, asshole men in their underwear who may or may not be my new neighborshould not be that hot.

“Ben. Ben Coleman. Welcome to the building. Now keep quiet before eight.” I open my mouth to argue. To tell him to fuck off, to say that I pay rent just like him and I need to work when I have to work. That this is a bakery, and bakeries are openearly. That’s the nature of a freaking bakery. People getbaked goodsto enjoy in the mornings.

But then the beeping starts.

It’s the fire alarm.

Because cookies are burning to a crisp in the oven. I didn’t see the alarm going off on my phone because I was arguing with thisstupidman, and now an entire tray of chocolate chip cookies is burning.

I run to the oven, opening the door and coughing as smoke flies into my face. Grabbing a pink oven mitt, I start waving at the smoke to clear my vision before grabbing the pan and tossing it straight into the big sink.

“Well, shit,” I say before turning back to talk to the intruder.

To mynew neighbor.

But he’s gone, the door closed behind him. The only proof that he was here is the metal bat still lying on the ground, abandoned by its owner.

Coleman Ink.

That’s the name of the tattoo shop next door, I remember as my brain kicks in.

And Ben Coleman is the owner.

And I just made the world’s worst first impression on my new neighbor.

Four

-Lola-

I don’t havetime to overthink the interaction with my new neighbor and what ramifications there might be because I’m on a time limit. It’s seven fifteen, and my dad, along with a team of press, will be here in less than forty-five minutes to help me open my bakery. So I keep working, filling the case with things I made last night and this morning, and continue to scoop batters and doughs and put them into the oven.

The rush feels good, the constant movement and calculations taking away any space I might have for stress or panic or anxiety. I only have time for the absolute necessities.

I know that what happens in the next few hours could decide my fate. It could determine if my business flourishes or flops and if New Lola has what it takes to survive in the real world.

And when my phone rings and I look down and see Sam’s name, a text telling me they’re outside, I know it’s game time.

My “politician’s daughter” smile goes into place and masks the anxiety that’s brewing in my stomach.

Never let them see beneath the mask, I tell myself, walking toward the front door to start the show.

* * *

The press stays for a full thirty minutes, taking pictures of my dad cutting the wide pink ribbon, wearing a Libby’s apron behind the counter with a huge cheesy smile, serving a cookie to a sweet little girl, and taking a bite of a cupcake topped with a cloud of swirling pink frosting on top of it.

There isn’t a single picture of me smiling in my business unless my dad is also in the shot. Not one of me behind my counter, and not a solitary question is asked about the bakery unless it has to do with the headline they are spinning: “Beloved Mayor’s Daughter Opens Bakery in Hometown to Honor her Mother.”

I could be bitter, but I’m used to it. There’s an election coming soon, after all.

There’s always an election coming up.

---