Futures and Frosting (Chocolate Lovers #2)(44)

“Okay, first of all, I didn’t KNOW it was a pot cookie until after I took the first bite and second…I don’t know. I have no excuse for the rest of it,” I trailed off.

“If you knew it was a pot cookie after the first bite, why in the hell would you keep eating it?” Carter asked with a chuckle as I scooted up in bed until I could sit against the headboard.

“Why wouldn’t I eat it? The damage was already done. And it was a delicious cookie.”

Carter shook his head at me and sighed.

“Claire, you are only supposed to eat a little bit of a pot cookie, never the entire thing at once.”

He stared at me like I was an idiot and this was clearly something everyone knew.

“How in the f*ck am I supposed to know something like that? Do I look like the type of person who goes around eating pot cookies all the time?” I asked angrily.

“Everyone knows this. I’ve never eaten a pot cookie, and I still know the rules.”

“The rules? Is there a Pot Cookie 101 class I missed or something? It’s not like the f*cking thing came with an owner’s manual. I was handed a cookie, and I ate a cookie. Who in their right mind only takes one bite of a cookie and then puts the rest back for later?” I demanded.

“Someone who eats a pot cookie,” Carter deadpanned.

After I had showered and dressed, I left the house with an obvious bug up my ass.

And now my magazine interview is in an hour and the only things surrounding me are bad, hallucinogenic ideas – chocolate covered gummy bears, pickles, moon pies, M&M’s, every Little Debbie snack treat imaginable from Twinkies to Swiss Rolls, and a computer printed picture of Drew’s hand covered in chocolate. Trays of chocolate covered crap litter the counters, and I berate myself for all of those hours we spent NOT coming up with a good idea. At least Drew manages to frost all two-hundred cookies for the order that's being picked up today. It makes my hatred for him go down just a tiny bit.

“The peanut butter on your cock is delicious.”

“DREW!” I yell again in warning.

“Sorry!” he yells back, trying to mask his giggles.

“Cock, the other white meat.”

I open my mouth to scream another threat at Drew, this one to his manhood, when an idea strikes.

I glance at the clock and quickly rush around the kitchen, grabbing the ingredients I need. While I wait for the chocolate to melt, I grab a small, white packaging box from under the counter. I prepare it by adding a sheet of pink tissue paper inside to line the box and affix a “Seduction and Snacks” sticker to the outside. I watch the clock out of the corner of my eye as I get down to business, crossing my fingers, toes, and even my legs that this idea would work.

Thirty minutes later I finish placing the last of the new candy inside the box, seal the lid closed, tie a neat, pink and white ribbon around it, and grab my purse from under the counter.

“Drew, I’m leaving. Don’t forget to go next door and wait for Liz’s delivery so you can sign for it,” I yell to him as I head to the front door to make sure the “Closed” sign is in place. I have about twenty minutes now to run home, pick up Gavin, and drive to the meeting spot. The magazine adamantly insists that I bring Gavin with me. This magazine interviewes people due to customer recommendations. Customers write into the magazine and suggest businesses they believe should be spotlighted for one reason or another.

The magazine had done some research, made some calls, and for whatever reason decided “Seduction and Snacks” needed a write up. When the magazine called to set up the interview, they told Jenny that the customers raved not only about the sweets we sold but also about the owner’s mouthy little son that ran around the store and made everyone laugh. It had been a toss-up on whether or not I should be horrified by this or happy that Gavin’s penchant for swear words and constant talk about his wiener was finally doing something good in the world.

It's still hard to wrap my head around the fact that our businesses had taken off so quickly. Never underestimate the need for sugar and sex in small-town-America. With one last look around the darkened store to make sure everything is in order, I step outside to the faint sound of the computer speaking one last Drew-initiated command.

“Son of a face turd, you whore. Touch my taint and tickle my balls.”

~

I walk into Playland McDonalds with butterflies flapping in my stomach and my hand clutched tightly around Gavin’s.

I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I’ve done a few phone interviews since we opened and those had been a piece of cake. Maybe it's the fact that I’ve never done something like this with my son right next to me - my lovely son who likes to talk to random strangers about his poop.

This will be fine. No big deal. Just a couple of questions. Easy peasy.

“Remember, best behavior,” I remind Gavin as we make our way through the crowded restaurant to a booth in the back. I can see the interviewer already seated with her laptop open on the table. We make eye contact and she gives me a wave.

“I want to play in the playland,” Gavin whines.

“You will, as soon as the interview is over.”

“That’s dumb,” he mutters.

“Too bad. Be good and you can get a Happy Meal.”

“Can I have pop too?” he asks.

I pause, contemplating his request. Being a parent is tough, especially when it comes to negotiations. You don’t want your kids to think they can have whatever they ask for, but you also don’t want them to tell the interviewer of a national magazine that their nuts smell like cheese and it’s because she’s so ugly. Pick your battles, people.