Chapter One

Just a Big Old Pile of Crap

Blaire

I have a fantastic idea for your little cupcake shop, Care Blaire!”

I cringe at the nickname, how ridiculously loud my dad is, and the reference to my first ever solo entrepreneurial endeavor as my “little cupcake shop.” He doesn’t mean for it to sound condescending, although it does.

My first inclination is to throw some sarcasm at him, but I’m aware he’s trying to be helpful in his own misguided way, and the conversation will be over that much sooner if I play along. “What’s this fantastic idea that has you so excited?”

“The café right beside Decadence is going out of business at the end of the year. I’d be happy to pick up the lease on that building and you could open up shop right next door to us! Wouldn’t that be wonderful? And so much more practical than what you’re doing right now.”

I hold my phone away from my ear and breathe in and out to the count of four so I don’t snap at him. “My current lease is a year, Dad.”

“Can’t you break it?”

“Not without a penalty, no.”

“Hmm. Well, I could cover that for you. I don’t think it hurts for you to give this a go on your own for a few months, but then you can come back home and be part of the family business. And obviously I’d provide you with the financial capital if you decided to make the transition.”

And there’s the braised carrot I was waiting for him to dangle. “Can I think about it?” There is absolutely zero chance that I’m going to take him up on his offer. It’s not that I don’t want the financial help. It’s all the strings that come along with it that I’m not interested in dealing with.

“Of course, of course. It’s a great opportunity and I wouldn’t want you to miss out on it. Why don’t we talk later in the week?”

“Sure. Sounds good.”

“Love you, Care Blaire!”

“Love you, too, Dad.” I end the call on a frustrated sigh and then nearly do a face plant into the concrete trying to sidestep a pile of dog poop. I also come perilously close to dropping my Tupperware container full of buttercream-topped delights. The dog doody happens to be decorating the sidewalk right out front of my “little cupcake shop.” I mentally shake a fist at the thoughtless dog owner who left it there as a special surprise.

This better not be a sign.

I glance around, looking for something to…remove the visual and olfactory offense, but the sidewalk is trash free. Normally I would be happy about the lack of old newspapers or takeout food wrappers blowing down the street, but today it’s rather inconvenient. The last thing I want is a stinky mess sitting front and center outside of my not-yet-open storefront. As a helpful warning to other passersby, I pluck a yellow flower from one of the planters brightening the entrance to my brand new cocktail café/bakery, aptly named Buttercream and Booze—scheduled to open in just one week—and stick the stem in the fresh pile. I’ll come back out and get rid of it so no one else suffers the same almost-fate.

Even the nearly craptastic accident and my conversation with my dad don’t dim my good spirits for long. I rummage through my purse in search of my keys—they always migrate to the bottom of my purse. I finally snag them, slide the key into the lock and push the door open. It tinkles cheerily, an auditory accompaniment to the vibrant, clean interior.

I wanted simple, fresh, and chic without being overly bubblegum adorable. So I nixed any pink from the décor that doesn’t include cupcake frosting. Instead I went with pale hardwood flooring, simple white tables and luxurious chairs upholstered in pale gray, easy-to-clean faux leather. Pops of vibrant yellows, pale blue, and silver accent each table’s centerpiece. The windows are sparkling and streak-free, the signage across the front of the café is clean, simple, and classy in eye-catching gray with a metallic sheen.

I inhale deeply as I step inside, the faint scent of fresh paint and bleach almost entirely eclipsed by the lemon oil diffusing in the corner, and the lingering smell of the real vanilla candles from yesterday.

I forget all about cleaning up the poopy present and shriek when I notice the box sitting on the bar. I set my purse and Tupperware on the closest table and my coffee on the bar. Despite my excitement, I take a moment to wash my hands prior to nabbing a pair of scissors. I carefully drag the tip along the seam to slice through the tape.

“I thought I heard you making sex noises out here.” My best friend Daphne appears at the end of the hall, scaring the heck out of me.

The scissors slip and catch my finger. “Ow! Crap!” A bead of blood wells from the cut and I suck the end of my thumb, the metallic tang making me slightly woozy. I’m a bit of a baby when it comes to the sight of blood.

“I’m so sorry.” Daphne rushes across the café, heels clipping on the hardwood. She nabs the small first-aid kit behind the bar, flips it open, and retrieves a bandage.

“It’s okay. I’m just clumsy this morning, and jittery.”

“Everything okay?” Her expression shifts to concern as she quickly covers the wound with a Band-Aid.

“Oh yeah, you know how it is. I woke up at three because I needed to use the bathroom and my brain wouldn’t shut off. Then I got another idea for opening day cupcakes so I figured I’d make a test batch while drinking an entire pot of coffee.”

She glances at the adorable cupcake clock on the wall. “So you’ve been up since three?”

“Mm hmm. And of course my dad called this morning with another one of his amazing ideas.”

She grimaces. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“What wonderful suggestions did he have this time?” Daphne is aware of my parents’ constant push for me to join the family business. I love them, and they’ve worked hard to get where they are, but their dreams and mine don’t line up. They love sautéing and roasting and hobnobbing with the rich and famous. I love butter and sugar and vanilla and not hobnobbing.

I give her the abridged version.

“And how did the conversation end?”

“All I said was that I’d think about it.”

“You did not!”

I hold up a hand. “I’m not honestly going to think about it, Daph, but I also didn’t feel like listening to an hour-long lecture on why being part of the family business would be better for me. I know exactly what will happen if I go back to working with my family. I won’t have a say in anything. They’ll take over the whole thing and change it from my cocktails and cupcakes theme into something ridiculous and highbrow. They’ll strip me of all decision-making power, pooh-pooh all of my ideas, and I’ll get to watch my dream go up in flames.” It sounds dramatic, but it’s not. My family is well-intentioned but pushy. “I didn’t work this hard just to go back to kobe beef and duck fat truffle fries.” Not that there’s anything wrong with either. I enjoy eating both, but I don’t enjoy preparing them the way my family does.