Page 39 of Even After Sunset

I work my way down the racks, growing more frantic by the second. Burnt… burnt… also burnt.

Then, jackpot! I find one tray of normal cookies. I grab another bag and slide six cookies into it, then go back to the window. The relief I’m feeling right now is huge.

“Here you go. These are on the house.” I hand the bag to her. “I am so sorry about that.”

The woman smiles and thanks me. Her husband looks to her, then back at me. “Alright, then. Thank you.”

She gives me another pitying smile over her shoulder as they walk away, which makes me feel like even more of a loser.

“Thanks again,” she calls. “Hope your night gets better.”

“Yeah,” I mutter to myself. “I think that ship has sailed.”

I head back to the racks and scour each one. I find four batches that didn’t burn.Four. Which means I have eight batches thatdid.

I run a hand through my hair, forgetting it’s tied up in a scrunchy, so it all falls back into my face and I have to pop into the bathroom mirror to tie it up again, making sure I don’t look as haggard as I feel.

“Hello? Anyone there?” a woman’s voice calls from the order counter.

I scurry out of the bathroom, plastering a smile on my face and serve her. And just twenty minutes later, I’ve run out of all my non-burnt cookies. I close up shop, beyond humiliated. Humiliation is what I felt the first night. This is more. This is scarily close to wanting to throw in the towel and give up completely, because I can’t take another night of this. I really can’t. I mean, what is evenwrongwith me, that I managed to screw up almost every single batch of cookies I’ve baked so far?

I am Meryl Pemrose’s adopted daughter; this is my thing. This endeavor is supposed to make her proud—not make me look like a spoiled rich kid who can’t even make it on her own when she’s been handed every single tool to succeed.

I let out a long breath. I cannotunravel. I need to put on my big girl panties and get it together. Again.

I get to work pulling out each rack and dumping the burnt cookies into a garbage bag. Then I take out ingredients and set to work baking. I figure if I get at least six batches done tonight, I can churn out another six tomorrow and hopefully make up for at least some of the profits I lost out on tonight.

This time I force myself to tear away from my computer screen as soon as the oven timer goes off.

I’m on the fourth batch when the door opens and Silas saunters in. He smells of pretzels and peach schnapps this time.

“What’s going on?” He gestures to the closed order window. “How come you’re not open?”

“I was.” I say, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. “I sold out of cookies in the first hour.”

Which, technically, isn’t a lie.

His eyes widen. “Oh, wow. Really?” He steps closer and peers over my shoulder. “Then what are those?” He reaches past me, takes one of the burnt cookies I put in a bowl to crumble and feed to the seagulls later, and pops it in his mouth.

“I uh… Those are just—“

“Ew. Burnt.” He finishes for me.

“They’re not burnt,” I bite back on instinct. “They’re… crispy.”

I have no idea why I deny it. I guess because I can’t handle the thought of failing at anything in front of Silas.

“Okay. If you say so,” he chuckles, tossing the rest of the cookie over my head toward the garbage. Only it misses and bounces off a cupboard instead and then lands on the floor… Intact.

“Wow,” he snickers. “Shatter-proof, too.”

“Screw off.”

“Ouch,” he chuckles again; louder this time, as he slumps onto the bench at the table. With the extra counter ledge in place, the couch (ie his bed) is inaccessible right now. He takes out his phone and starts dialing.

“Wait—” I put down the container of flour I was about to put away. “You’re calling Richard right now?”

“Yeah.” he gives me a funny look. “It’s ten o’clock. Why?”

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