“Nope.”

“Have you told them when your grand opening is?”

“Absolutely not.” I do not need them showing up on opening day throwing advice at me. And honestly, it wouldn’t be that difficult for them to find the information on their own if they had the wherewithal to check out social media, but I’ve been extremely vague about the whole thing.

“It’s too bad they can’t just support you without taking everything over.”

“They have the best of intentions and a complete lack of chill.” Two traits I’m not unfamiliar with.

“Truer words have never been spoken.” Daphne blows out a breath. “It’d be nice if they would let you access your trust without forcing their opinions on you.”

“They really love the concept of conditional independence.” My family owns some of the most highly regarded, exclusive fine dining establishments in the Pacific Northwest. The expectation was always that I, too, would become a chef and carry on the family legacy.

She taps on the edge of the counter. “It’s just frustrating to know you have the money, but if you use it there are all kinds of stupid stipulations that go along with it. Sort of defeats the whole purpose of having a trust in the first place, doesn’t it?”

Daphne’s family is well off, too. We went to the same prep school and have been friends since we were kids. The main difference is that her family has backed every single dream she’s ever had an inkling to pursue, whereas mine keeps trying to hammer the square peg that is me into a round hole of their design. “Hence the reason the money is staying where it is until this place is established and I’ve proven I can make it work.”

Fingers crossed that’s what happens. For the past several years I’ve been squirreling away money and living in a crap apartment because I’m determined to make a go of this, on my own merit. So I put the research in, found a storefront I could afford in an area where I thought I could be successful, worked up my business plan, secured the financing, and now here I am, opening my own place, without my family’s input, much to their chagrin.

Daphne motions to the shop. “How much more proof do they need?”

“Running a successful cupcake truck business isn’t quite the same as having a storefront.” I run my finger around the rim of a martini glass.

Daphne taps on the counter. “I actually think the cupcake truck was probably the more difficult of the two. The crap you had to deal with on a regular basis was insane. At least you don’t have to worry about slashed tires anymore.”

“Thank goodness for that.” The food truck business is no joke. It’s wildly competitive, territorial and exceptionally cutthroat. The number of times I had to replace my tires because some jealous competitor wanted to take down Cupcakes to Go! was ridiculous.

My family was always worried for my safety. Regardless, it was my first attempt at being an independent business owner. Now here I am with my own storefront and no intention of ever working for my family again if I can help it.

Back when I was younger and still trying to appease my parents, I went to culinary school and apprenticed under renowned chef Raphael Du Beouf. He was talented, handsome, and suave. I was naïve, impressionable, and smitten. I fell for his sexy accent, his ridiculously capable hands, and his lines. So of course, like many stupid twentysomethings, I soaked up the attention and praise he lavished on me, and eventually we started sleeping together. I thought I was in love, while he thought I wouldn’t find out that he was sleeping with three other aspiring chefs on the side.

Brokenhearted and totally disenchanted, I let my parents—who felt partly responsible since they were the ones who pushed us together in the first place after he started working at one of their restaurants—fund a year abroad for me in Paris. I got over Raphael and fell in love with everything pastry and decadence. I returned with a new plan that—much to my family’s shock—did not include taking my place in their business.

So I made connections of my own and started from the ground up. I rented a booth at the local street market and sold cupcakes every weekend while working back of house at a high-end bakery. Which is where I met my friend and eventual business partner, Paul. He also worked the local street market circuit and eventually we pooled our resources, bought a food truck, and launched our mobile cupcake shop, Cupcakes to Go! On the weekends we would still hit the local markets, but during the week we made our rounds and delivered our delicious, decadent wares.

So as much as I rue my relationship with Raphael, his womanizing ways set me on this path. No regrets.

I shake off my trip down memory lane and motion to my apron-clad self. “Shall we take some Insta-worthy pics?”

“Yes!” Daphne jumps to her feet and grabs her camera—it’s pretty much an additional appendage.

She poses me in various locations around the shop, holding all manner of props, including the cupcakes I baked prior to my arrival. “You look like the love child of Betty Crocker and Ward Cleaver,” she mumbles as she moves around me, snapping shot after shot.

I’m a big fan of fifties-style dresses with full skirts and up-dos reminiscent of the same era. It’s not meant to be a gimmick; it’s just my thing. I pluck one of the decorative martini glasses from the counter display and am about to take a fake sip when a massive bang shakes the entire store, making the windows rattle and the bottles on the bar tinkle. I almost drop the martini glass. It’s plastic, so it wouldn’t be a tragedy if I did, but still.

“What the heck was that?” I set the glass on the closest table and rush to the front window, surveying the street. I don’t know what I expect to find. A tank? A wrecking ball?

“I don’t know, but it felt like an earthquake.”

I spin around to face Daphne. “When was the last time Seattle had an earthquake?”

She doesn’t even hesitate. “2001, I think.”

“Why would you even know that?”

Daphne shrugs and then covers her head with her hands when another violent bang rattles the martini glasses—the real ones—so badly, one of my new unicorn glasses falls off the shelf and shatters on the floor.

“Oh no!” Daphne slaps a palm over her mouth.

We regard the sparkly puddle with mutual horror; the gold horn sticks straight up, the eyeballs peer wonkily at us from the carnage.