Page 8 of Red, White, and You

“On time is late. Early is on time. Late is fired.” She finally glances up, and I swear I catch the tiniest flicker of approval in those sharp green eyes as she takes in my jeans and plain white t-shirt. “At least you didn’t show up in a Hart Health uniform.”

“I do own normal clothes.”

“Shocking.” She gestures toward a stack of folding tables leaning against a nearby tree. “Those need to be set up for the overflow display. Think you can handle that without pulling a muscle?”

I bite back a laugh. “I think I can manage.”

For the next twenty minutes, we work in surprisingly easy silence. I set up tables while Gigi arranges cupcakes with military precision. Every now and then, she barks out an instruction—“Not there, over here,” or “Make sure they’re level”—but there’s nothing mean about it. She just knows exactly how she wants things done.

I can respect that. Even if a small voice in the back of my head reminds me that I’m supposed to be building rapport… for a reason that has nothing to do with respect.

“So, about the message from your parents…” I say.

“Not another word about that,” she commands.

“You know,” I say, adjusting a tray of red velvet cupcakes, “you’re pretty bossy for someone who owns a bakery.”

“You’re pretty compliant for someone who used to be famous.”

“Used to be? My team won the Super Bowl five months ago.”

She shrugs, not looking up from her tray of star-shaped cookies. “Fame is fleeting.Buttercream is eternal.”

Despite myself, I laugh. “Is that going on a T-shirt?”

“Already ordered them. They’ll be ready next week.”

I can’t tell if she’s joking. “I’ll buy two.”

She laughs, and it’s the best sound in the world.

A family with three kids approaches the booth, and I watch her entire vibe shift. The laser-focus melts away, replaced by genuine warmth as she crouches to the kids’ level.

“What do you think?” she asks the youngest, a girl who can’t be more than five. “Red velvet or chocolate chip?”

“Both!” the little girl says, beaming.

The mom laughs. “You get the chocolate chip, and I’ll get the red velvet. We’ll share.”

I watch Gigi’s face as they walk away. There’s something wistful there. Not bitter—just a soft ache that says she’s imagining what it might’ve been like to have a mom like that.

Another family steps up to the booth. As the kids make their selections, Gigi chats with the parents about the festival schedule and her favorite local bands, and I realize this isn’t just a job to her. Every interaction is thoughtful. Every recommendation is personal.

It’s not like the corporate charity events I’ve attended, where every detail is focus-grouped and filtered for brand alignment.

“You’re good at this,” I tell her after the family moves on.

“Good at what?”

“Making people feel like they matter.”

She pauses mid-reach, eyes flicking to mine. “They do matter. Mrs. Wilkinson over there?” She nods toward an older woman sitting on a bench. “She’s been coming to my bakery every Tuesday for three years to buy a single chocolate chip muffin. Not because she loves them, but because her late husband did. It’s a way to feel close to him.” She points toward a face-painting booth. “That’s Emma. She’s saving for art school. I buy her paintings and hang them in the shop. She’s incredible.”

The guilt hits me like a linebacker at full speed.

She’s talking about honoring people. Connecting with them. Seeing them. And I’m standing here with an ulterior motive tangled around my presence like a noose.

I only walked into her shop in the first place because her parents paid me to.

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