Lizzie Blake's Best Mistake (A Brush with Love, #2)(21)
Stupid stupid stupid, she cursed as she sprinted down the block.
George, her boss, was about to ream her a new clock-shaped asshole for being late again. And, to top it off, she still needed to put finishing touches on a blueberry-kale cake monstrosity that was being picked up in twenty minutes. If George’s recipe wasn’t gross enough, the customer wanted #BLESSED written on top. The thought of having to subject her beautiful buttercream to such depravity made Lizzie’s hands recoil.
Lizzie skidded to a stop in front of her work, Baking Me Crazy, and yanked open the door, her ridiculously sweaty body instantly chilled by the over-cranked air conditioner and the heinously contrived minimalistic vibe of the bakery.
She dashed to the back, pushing through the swinging door and into the kitchen toward the lockers. She wondered if she herself was #blessed and could have her ridiculous lateness go unnoticed when George stepped in front of her path and she almost slammed into his plaid-decked body. While they didn’t exactly belly-slap, she did cause him to lose his balance, and he dropped his mason jar of cold brew, droplets smattering both of their legs.
Lizzie and George stared down at the mess before their gazes slowly lifted and merged, George looking furious, Lizzie looking guilty.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” George asked, ripping an AirPod from his ear.
“I know I’m late and I’m sorry. I’m so so so so so sorry. Very sorry. I swear it won’t happen again. Deadass.”
“You literally said that exact same thing last week,” George grumbled, scratching at his patchy chin-strap beard. Lizzie stared at the bald spots that ebbed and flowed around the random tufts of hair. She was constantly distracted by the damn thing, wondering why he didn’t just shave it off since he scratched at it so much.
George waved a hand in front of her face, breaking her train of thoughts. “Are you even listening to me?”
Her eyes snapped up to his as she realized he’d kept talking.
No. “Yes.”
“Really?” George said, raising an eyebrow. “What did I say?”
The question caught Lizzie off guard, and she sucked in a giant breath, trying to think on her feet. (Un)fortunately, she also sucked down a bunch of spittle, causing her to double over as she coughed and choked on air.
“Sorry, George,”—cough—“I don’t”—hack, cough, grunt—“hold on—”
By the time she regained her breath and stood up, eyes watering, George looked more weary and resigned than furious, and Lizzie jumped on that. “Sorry, don’t know where that came from. What were you saying?”
George pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. He looked at her. “You’re an excellent baker, Lizzie. Truly. And I’d be willing to let you incorporate your own recipes here more and take on bigger projects if you could only figure out how to get your head out of your ass and your feet in the door on time.”
Lizzie swallowed against the pinpricks of shame that needled at her throat. “I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice, meaning it.
She hated the all-too-familiar look of exasperation that George was giving her. It was so damn frustrating that her mind was a constant tangled scribble that she could never seem to unravel.
“Am I fired?”
George stared at her for a hard moment before his features softened and he scratched again at his patchy beard. “This is your last warning. I mean it. Late again like this and you’re done. I’ll be watching you closely. Every shift, every break, you better get here on time.”
“Oh fuck, thank you, George. I won’t let you down,” she said, bouncing on her toes as though the relief of still having a job could lift her from the ground.
George dismissed her with a weak flap of his wrist. “Don’t leave this either,” he said, waving at the shards of glass and spilled cold brew. “Grab a mop or something,” he said, walking into his office.
Lizzie wiped up the mess quickly, then got to work on the day’s orders, losing herself in the calming rhythm of measurements and precision. While other tasks seemed to cost Lizzie’s brain twice the fuel to go half the distance, baking was the one thing she could do on autopilot. It was like every delicate swoop of frosting, each powerful knead of dough, every carefully crafted confection, allowed her nervous system to sigh in relief. The constant flood and buzz of energy zipping randomly from neuron to neuron could finally be allowed to still, to focus. It made her feel whole.
She worked on a large order for a gallery, making simple and sturdy sugar cookies, but decorating each with an intricately piped frame, and hand-painting landscapes on the smooth, frosted surface.
While she lost herself in her art—gently piping and painting, absorbing the scent of sweetness and work—she decided she could do this. Be more responsible.
Turn a new leaf.
The problem was, Lizzie had turned so many new leaves, she could be a decaying forest floor for how many of them had failed.
But this time would be different. She would wrestle her brain into submission. She would force it to accurately keep track of time and to-do lists. She’d remember to take her meds and stay on top of chores. She’d yank on its leash every time it started to wander.
She didn’t exactly have a plan for how she was magically going to do this when it was, you know, something that she and her therapist had been trying to develop coping skills for almost a decade. But she’d figure it out.