Page 78 of Make Mine Sweet
To be honest, I cheer a little, too.
We go inside to the soundtrack of August’s shouts of triumph. He opts to stay on the patio to work on his coloring, so I leave the back door open. Dutch shifts positions to follow his sunbeam but doesn’t come inside.
Ian waits for me in the kitchen. “What do you want me to do?”
“You don’t have to help with dinner. You can just sit and relax if you’re tired, and I’ll?—”
He stalks closer to me. “Angel, if you keep accusing me of being tired, I’ll throw you over my shoulder and set you outside with August whileImake dinner.”
If I’m a tiny bit frozen and struggling to come up with a response, it’s because this man just called meangelwhile offering to make dinner for us. Also, he thinks going full pirate and tossing me over his shoulder is a deterrent? It just went onto my top ten romantic fantasies list. Which I created five seconds ago specifically to put that on it.
“I’m tempted,” I finally admit.
“Believe me,” he says, voice low. “I am, too.”
Reluctantly, I break our stare down. We’ll never have dinner if we stand around eyeing each other all night. The monitor and insulin pump make August’s mealtimes easier, but I still like to keep to a routine as much as I can.
“How about you brown the meat?” I grab the ground beef from the fridge, find a pan in the cupboard, and hand Ian a spatula from the container on the counter. “I’ll prep the veggies.”
We work side by side in the kitchen until the air grows heavy with the scent of cooking meat and warm spices. I’ve prepped small bowls filled with lettuce, cheese, and avocado, and laid a platter of sliced fruit on the table. Now and then, his arm brushes mine, but neither of us shifts to give ourselves more space.
“Any progress with your mom and your cake business?”
I keep my eyes trained on the tomatoes I’m chopping. “I’ll keep doing special orders on the side.”
“So nothing’s changing?”
It’s just a statement of fact, not a judgment call, but it still stings like a rebuke.Nothing’s changingcould be the title of my autobiography. Just ride out the same old, same old until the end of time.
Am I really willing to accept that?
And how far am I willing to go if I’m not?
“I already owe Mom and Wren so much, I can’t turn around and ask for more. I don’t want to be greedy.”
Mom has carried on like we never had the conversation about expanding Blackbird’s menu to offer my cakes. Wren, of course, brings it up in subtle side-eyes and not-so-subtle remarks at every opportunity. I’m stuck in the middle trying to keep the peace. Mostly with myself.
“Angel, wanting something for yourself doesn’t make you greedy. It makes you human. Pretending that you don’t want it won’t satisfy. Your unhappiness will eat you up.”
“I’m not unhappy making pies and cupcakes.” I remind myself of that every day. I’m lucky to have a good job and a comfortable income. I have a strong support system, and excellent care for August. Not every single parent can say the same.
“Would you be happier making custom cakes?”
That’s the question, isn’t it? “I think so.”
“Then isn’t a little risk worth it?”
“Says someone who has climbed literal mountains.”
“What would it take to start up your own place?” he asks.
“My own bakery?” I have thought about it, even if I don’t like to share as much with Wren. But knowing doesn’t make anything easier. “I’d need premises in a decent location, and those aren’t cheap, even here. Best case scenario, it’s already set up with industrial appliances, worst case, I have to buy all that. It could be anywhere from twenty-five to fifty thousand dollars.”
That number alone sends a chill through me. Leaving Mom and Wren to go out on my own, putting August’s future on the line, all for my own hopes and dreams? That’s ice water in my veins.
“So either I get Mom on board one day, or I stop dreaming about a custom cake shop.” My laugh sounds awfully fake.
“What if you had an investor?”
