I grab the fondant and start assembling little dogs. The cupcakes are for a lady who is throwing a birthday party for her twenty-year-old poodle, and she’s inviting a ton of people. Twenty years? It’s a crazy milestone, so she’s entitled to throw a big party if she wants it. Heck, if I had a dog, I’d celebrate it too. I don’t, though, since I practically live at the bakery. The lady wanted the cupcakes to look just like her poodle. In its younger years, I guess.
As it’s not professional, I pride myself on being on time and not having to ask clients to wait forever while we scramble in the back to finish up their orders. So even though I have a wedding cake that needs to be baked—which, if I don’t get on it, will be the disaster of the century for this place—I’m working on the poodles.
Disaster of the century? Maybe I won’t even have a bakery to call my own if I can’t find a lender. Swallow my pride? Oh, heck no. Not in a billion years.
“Maybe it’s a birthday card. Sure looks like one,” Marla muses.
“Birthday card? For who?”
Marla’s eyes fly down. “I don’t know. The poodle?”
Sarah shakes her head. “Marla, sometimes you’re so…so…so amazing that it amazes even me, and I’ve had seventy-odd years to get used to it.” She mutters to herself. “Poodle. Good cripes. Yeah, someone just knew about this poodle’s birthday and dropped the card in our mailbox to go along with these cupcakes.”
Marla doesn’t even notice her sister taking shots at her. Those two are like this with the bantering and bickering, but it’s all in good fun. They live together and work together, so obviously, they must be able to tolerate each other.
Sarah tears open the envelope, and I tell myself I’m not interested in it because these freaking cupcakes are so freaking late, but of course, I’m actually interested. She’s right. That card had to be hand-delivered if there wasn’t any postage, but who does that? That is just extra suspicious, and the envelope is seafoam green, too. Seafoam is a suspicious color.
My hands fly, assembling poodle faces. Sarah pops the seal on the seafoam envelope and produces a glittery card with coral, seaweed, and a sparkly orange seahorse.
Seahorses happen to be my favorite.
My heart leaps into my throat, and before I know what’s happening, my hands become dead weight, and I drop an entire bowl of fondant on the floor.
Marla jumps forward, not back, smushing at least ten cupcakes when she catches herself with both hands. Sarah, on the other hand, screeches, loses her balance, and knocks off a bowl of fondant—the red bowl—for the cute little red poodle tongues. The card goes flying and lands in the middle of all the mess.
“Sorry!” I survey the mess in dismay. Marla holds a hand up to her chest like I might have just given her a mild heart attack.
Sarah makes a tsking, gurgling noise. “I had better get the mop.” She hurries off.
“Good thing we baked extra cupcakes.” Marla is already cleaning up the mess on the prep table.
“Shit.” I bend, but my hand snatches up the card instead of righting the bowls of fondant. I brush off white marshmallow icing and crack open the card of impending doom. I feel like this seahorse could ruin my love of seahorses forever.
“We have more in the fridge, thank goodness.” Marla’s talking about the fondant.
My hands shake while gripping the card. I know this isn’t good. No one knows I like seahorses except my family, and no one in my family would send me a card. Well, except for one person who isn’t a member of my family, at least not by official DNA.
The fucker has even written a poem on the inside of the card.
Here’s a riddle, fresh and sweet.
Let me introduce myself. I’d like you to meet…
Your newest business partner.
PS. You might own the bakery, but I’m the real treat.
The rat bastard even signed his name at the bottom. His whole bloody ridiculous name. Haladon Windsongs Destinyblade Walker.
“No! No, no, no, no, noooooooooo!” I leap up and wail.
I bump straight into Sarah and get a mop handle straight to the stomach for my blunder. Marla jumps again, sending cupcakes flying, and Sarah gasps. I grunt out a groan while Marla moans.
This morning just went straight to hell, compliments of my brother doing exactly what I told him not to. And now, if I’m reading between those fucking poetic pieces of crap lines, I realize the money isn’t just an investment I’ll pay off. Nope. Because my brother couldn’t not do what was best for me, I now have to put up with Haladon Windsongs Destinyblade FREAKING Walker owning half of my bakery.
God, I’d like to cut my brother with a rusty icing spatula. Maybe that’s what I’ll use to shave off his eyebrows.