walks in. Ben Cleary, a regular who orders two dozen cupcakes every Wednesday for his coworkers. Always half chocolate, half whatever our special is, but prepared in allergen-friendly conditions because his assistant has a tree nut allergy. He’s a pretty awesome boss, I assume.
The front entrance opens, and in walk more customers. It’s our morning rush, when we get a combination of people coming in for coffee and muffins, and those who pretend they’re coming for muffins but are really coming for things covered in frosting.
I wonder if any of these people are dealing with broken bits... I remember my doc saying how common the disorder was, so the odds are good that there are some idle woo-woos in here on a fairly regular basis.
I feel a sudden and overwhelming urge to fix the situation right this very damn second. Now that it’s in my head, it’s all I can think about.
I wonder whether Ryan would be willing to give things a test run in the storage room over his lunch break...
Then I remember that today is his quarterly review with his team. The tie-wearing manager comes down from the fourth floor for the meeting and everything. I don’t think he could slip away from that, even with the promise of attempted midday delight.
Attempted. Even if I got him over here, or anywhere, for that matter, I don’t know if I could physically do it.
Two years.
Twoyearstwoyearstwoyearstwoyearstwoyears.
An urgent sense of panic is engulfing my sanity. There are several men in the mix of people standing in line to order. I start scanning them like I’m a lascivious cyborg. Are any of these specimens potentially sexually compatible?
Butter is handing change over to an older gentleman who comes in twice a week for coffee and a scone. He always wears a bow tie and a bowler hat with a Mr. Rogers cardigan, even if it’s ninety degrees out.
Sure, he’s probably in his late eighties, but I suppose it’s possible he still has some spring in his step. The liver spots on his hands do sort of bring out his eyes.
Stacking up the boxes of cuppies, I give Ben Cleary a good once-over as Butter and Shannon move to greet him at the counter. Hmm, he’s a good-looking fella. Very pale skin, blue eyes, dark hair, not too skinny, not overly beefy, kind of quiet. A jawline I could slice my hand open on.
My eyes drift from Ben to survey the front room of our shop. Sky blue walls with trim painted daffodil yellow and a springy green. Designed so that when you walk through the front door, seeing the decor combined with the tasty smells wafting from our kitchen is like stepping into a full-sensory hug.
The innocent decor contrasted with my hyper-focused surge of concentrated frogginess is unsettling at best.
“Uh, Kat?” Shannon says.
“Yes?” I say, my voice sounding detached as my unwholesome gaze shifts to a man who is at least in his sixties. He’s wearing a wrinkled lavender button-down shirt tucked into denim shorts and socks with his sandals, but I’m debating his sexual prowess nevertheless.
“Let go of the cupcakes, Kat,” she says, and I’m now aware of her attempting to tug the to-go boxes out of my arms. I release my grip and step back, and Shannon gives me a concerned look. “You okay there, Pumpkin?”
I blink at her. Butter is standing at the counter, pouring Ben a cup of coffee, and our new cake decorator, Liz, has come out from the back room to help with customers.
And then there’s me. Standing here sexually objectifying senior citizens.
Oh god. What am I doing? I don’t want to have sex with geriatrics or random customers. Ryan. I want to have sex with Ryan.
He and I are going to have one hell of a chat tonight. And, gods willing, some absurdly long-overdue naked time.
I look up at the kind old man I was just meat-marketing and feel mildly sick to my stomach.
“Uh, Kat?” Shannon nudges me.
“Yep,” I lie. “I’m great. I’m awesome. Super awesome.”
Shannon narrows her gaze at me, but swings the boxes around to Ben. “Can you finish up with him?” she asks me, her happy customer service expression already back on for the other customers as she moves down the counter.
“Sure.” I shake off the criminally unfortunate images that were just forming in my mind and make my way to the register, where Butter is now showing Ben the Cuppie of the Day.
“White chocolate with a raspberry jam center,” she says excitedly. No one loves cupcakes as much as Butter. She’s been here with us since day one, and she still gets kid-on-Christmas-morning excited to see these little culinary treats go out the door.
“They look great,” he says with a genuine smile. “The hidden truffles last week were a big hit.”
I grin. Butter looks like she’s going to squee out loud. The hidden truffle cupcakes were all her master plan.
She reaches behind her for a small jar of edible glitter with a brush sitting inside and, in her flustered state, starts dusting the tops of the white chocolate cuppies with reckless abandon.
“That’s her way of saying thank you,” I offer. “Not just anyone gets extra glitter, you know.”
Butter has been known to shower glitter on anyone she thinks needs a boost in their day. Everyone should have a Butter in their lives.
He raises an eyebrow. “I will cherish this honor.” He tips his coffee cup to us in a mock salute, takes his boxes and bids us both a good day.
Butter is on cloud nine. I’ve never seen someone better suited for her job. I love what I do—we all do—but even when we are all exhausted and bitching about the long hours and ungrateful customers who grouse over too much or too little frosting on their kids’ birthday cakes (yes, that happens), Butter is always happy to be here.
If I didn’t love her so dearly, I’d probably have to hate her.
Mr. Cleary heads out, as do Bowler Hat and Socks with Sandals, and we deal with the rush. I manage to avoid any more wildly inappropriate thoughts about our elderly customers and get my head back in the game.
Okay, so, yes. This is a problem. One that I need to deal with. But right now, I need to focus on getting through this Wednesday and an imminent staff meeting.
After the morning burst, we meet for a little huddle in the back room by the workstations. This routine is partly to gather our wits, and partly so we can stand and drink coffee and catch our breath without any potential customers catching us with our aprons down.
Shannon, Butter and I started Cup My Cakes together three years ago, and we all have our place in the arc of power. Shannon Brimley, tall and tough with a mop of curly blond hair tucked under a tied cake-themed handkerchief most days, is our master organizer. Mika “Butter” Kawai is our culinary genius and a perpetual ball of happiness, with beautiful black hair as thick as her finest buttercream, always pulled back into some sort of braid. Liz Watson, our newest employee, is the teeniest adult I’ve ever known, all pale skin and even paler hair, and the lord paramount of elegant cake artistry.
And
