Kiss My Cupcake(14)

Even so, I’m barely eking by right now. On the upside, I’m close to being able to cover my expenses without digging too deeply into my line of credit. Am I eating a lot of leftover cupcakes and close-to-the-expiration-date sandwiches that would otherwise be destined for the garbage? Most definitely. But I knew finances were going to be tough at the beginning.

It can take up to three years for a business to grow its legs and with the way things are looking, there is a chance I’ll be able to turn a profit within the next few years. Notwithstanding an annoying neighbor who is taking some of my business.

“This is amazing. You must be on top of the world right now!” Daphne sips her salted caramel martini while scrolling through the Instagram feed.

The last customer left about twenty minutes ago, probably heading next door for whatever Lumberjerk has planned for tonight. I closed up shop and made us a drink and now we’re relaxing at the back of the café, stretched out on the comfy couches and chairs.

Daphne snaps a photo of me lounging on the couch and Paul returns from the bathroom in time to peek over her shoulder. “Definitely post that.”

“Right? It’ll get tons of likes,” Daphne agrees.

Paul comes by first thing in the mornings to drop off the cupcakes for the day, giving me plenty of time to decorate them before opening. But tomorrow he has an out of town event, so he dropped everything off this evening and I convinced him to stay for a drink. There’s no way I could’ve made this work without his help and I’m eternally grateful for his friendship over the past several years.

I wait for Daphne to pass her camera over. “Can I at least see it before you post it? What if I look like a shrew?”

“As if I would post a bad picture of you.” Daphne is appropriately offended; she and I have spent a ridiculous amount of time perfecting posed photos over the past several weeks.

I hold my hands up in supplication. “I know. It’s a conditioned response. I got a message earlier in the week from my sister telling me she thinks my right side is more flattering.”

Daphne’s lip curls in disdain. “I hope you told her to suck it.”

“It’s her way of trying to be helpful.”

“It’s her way of being a bitch,” Daphne argues.

I shrug. Maddy is pretty much always a bitch. I’ve spent my entire life dealing with her, so her random comments are nothing in comparison to some of her other antics.

“Anyway, the only time I’ve seen you possess shrewlike qualities was when you and Raphael broke up,” Daphne continues.

I glare at her. “We do not talk about Raphael.”

“Raphael? How come I’ve never heard of this guy?” Paul asks.

“You have. He’s more commonly known as The Douche.”

“Oh. You mean the guy who was boning you and three other chefs at the same time?” Paul drops into the chair beside mine.

“The one and only. And can we not discuss him, please? It was years ago, before you came along and made me realize there’s more to life than kobe beef and truffle fries. Unlike you, he was more interested in showing me his bratwurst than he was in teaching me anything of value.” I pat Paul on the arm. One of the things I appreciate most about Paul is the fact that our relationship has always been strictly professional and platonic. Which was what I needed after the nightmare that was Raphael.

“Back when you were still trying to please Mummy and Daddy.” He takes a swig of his Manhattan.

“Those days are long gone.” I take another, deeper sip of my martini. It’s more like a gulp. I love my family, but they are ridiculously highbrow in their approach to the food industry. They’re also crazy.

I have no desire to serve people who think it’s reasonable to spend two thousand dollars on a burger. I don’t care if God himself blessed the freaking cow and then dusted it in edible gold.

“Have they seen this place yet?” Paul asks.

“Uh no, they haven’t.” And if I can prevent it, I’m hoping they won’t ever manage to make the trip out here to my “little cupcake shop.” They chose their side the day it became clear they were more concerned with the success of their business and keeping star chef Raphael happy than with my own broken heart. At least I’d gotten my trip to France out of the deal.

While I’ve been lost in my head, thinking about my family, Daphne and Paul have been chatting. Paul reaches over and pinches my arm, almost causing me to spill my martini on my dress. “Ow! What the hell?”

“Did you hear anything Daphne just said?” He gives me a look.

“Sorry, I was thinking. What’d I miss?”

“You know Tori Taylor the famous YouTuber?” Daphne asks.

“Sure. What about her?” I know the very vaguest basics about Tori. She has an insane number of subscribers and has made a career out of “Best of” videos. Last year alone she put at least ten small businesses on the map. The second she promotes something, thousands of people are right there, buying whatever it is, or going to whatever location she deems popular. She has incredible influence.

“Check this out.” Daphne hands me her phone so I can watch the video she has cued up. Tori appears on the screen, makeup on point, looking stunning as usual, name dropping the brands she’s currently wearing, citing the discount code you can use to get the same look/purse/shirt/shoes before she pans out to show her viewers the cool interior of her favorite local bar in LA.