Kiss My Cupcake(4)

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 na?ve, 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.

“Save the unicorns!” I shout.

We scramble over to the shelf, carefully grabbing the rest of the stemware before it can meet the same sad fate. I cradle them to my chest, collecting as many as I can.

The next bang isn’t as unexpected, but it’s still jarring. I jump and nearly lose my hold on a unicorn. As it is, I have a horn poking me in the boob. At least the glasses are no longer at risk of falling off the shelf.

“I think it might be coming from next door.” Daphne carefully sets her armload of glasses on the counter.

“What the hell is over there? A portal to another dimension?” I prop my fist on my hip and glare at the wall, as if my angry face is going to make the banging on the other side stop.

“An old bar I think?” Daphne and I both cringe with the next loud slam. “I’ve never really paid much attention to it, to be honest.”

“It sounds like they’re coming through the freaking wall! I’m going over there to see what’s going on.”

I grab the empty box and carefully put the shattered unicorn martini glass pieces inside. Whoever is over there needs to see what they’ve done.

“I’ll be right back.” I rush outside and manage to sidestep the doggy doo again as I stalk over to the run-down bar next door. I glance up at the faded, peeling sign above the storefront: THE KNIGHT CAP. I reluctantly admit, in my head, that it’s a clever play on words.