Page 12 of Building Romance
“No shit,” I mutter under my breath.
“But I’m on Team Cam. We’ll figure out a way. All of us will,” he says as he motions to our apartment building with his head.
“Maybe I can find a sponsor for that bake-off?” I muse and then launch into what I could bake if I can find a partner bakery to pair with.
“Hold up,” Gray says. “Explain this competition again.”
“So, every year the city has this giant competition. It’s being televised this year. The premise is that you get paired with a more established bakery that sponsors you, sort of like a mentor situation. Anyhow, the winner gets fifty thousand dollars to invest in their company and they get a free advertising plan from this big marketing firm and ten thousand to spend on some of the plan. It’s a really big deal. Plus, you obviously get bragging rights. All the bakeries that have won have gone on to be huge. Bakeries from across the country come to compete. Last year’s winner was this little food truck bakery and they were able to open two storefronts after their win,” I explain.
“So, let’s find you a sponsor,” Al states. I cannot believe this man knows the McDowells, but also, I am totally not surprised.
If anyone here knows a company owner that could sponsor me, it’ll be Al.
“Any company but McDowell’s,” I add.
Al’s face falls. “I was going to suggest them. Are you sure? They would be a great match. They’ve opened bakeries and café storefronts all across the world. They are a huge company now,” Al says.
I swallow. He’s right. They are. And if Fletcher McDowell hadn’t been the biggest jerk in the history of jerks, I’d consider that, but now, out of spite mostly and pride, I could never consider working with his family’s company. Could I?
No. Absolutely not. Hard pass.
“I…I think that would be a bad idea,” I say as I think of Fletcher. He epitomizes everything I hate, from his pretentious-looking suit to his perfectly sculpted hair that looks unkempt yet model-like all in one. Yeah, there’s no way. Even if I entertained that, I don’t see how we wouldn’t kill each other. The look he gave me the other day tells me he loathes me just as much as I loathe him. It’s a mutual-enemy situation.
“You know what they say,” Hutch pipes up. Everyone turns to him. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
CHAPTER SIX
Fletch
“I have no idea how to approach her?” I admit as I stare down the street toward Cam’s Café. There has been a steady line of customers there all morning, even with the light snow falling. I turn back to our store and look around. Our general contractor finally got his crews working, and I’m seeing progress for the first time in weeks.
“You need to go talk to her. The show is going to decide contestants in a few weeks. I think you have to have all the paperwork in at the end of next week,” Spencer says, his gaze following mine.
“I know,” I growl, feeling in an even worse mood than I was when we arrived this morning.
“So, who are we going to get to run the kitchen here?” he asks as he looks around us.
I sigh. “I need to go through our applicants again. Dalton had a recommendation of a chef who was his second choice for the last property.”
“I think that dude had some issues though,” Spencer points out.
I grimace. Damn. What a mess! “I’m going for a walk,” I declare. “I need to clear my head.”
“Good luck,” Spencer calls out after me with a chuckle.
I flick him off and start down the street toward the park. The snowfall is actually sort of nice. It’s painting the city in a light layer of white that looks picturesque. I get to the metal wrought-iron trellis at the entry of the park. A bench sits just off to the side a few paces into the trail. Even with the snow, it’s a lovely, serene place.
Then I hear a noise, a sort of rustling, followed by a grunt. I search the forested area and see a man in full camo emerge from…a duck blind. Wait? Are duck blinds even legal in the city?
He pulls off his face covering and I blink. I swear this man looks just like Hutchinson Cromwell, the former linebacker of our football team.
“Hey,” he says as he strides past me, peeling back several layers to show off some tattoos and a very trendy-looking shirt. He somehow pulls off a manbun situation as if it’s the coolest thing in the world.
“Uh, hey,” I manage.
He’s an enormous brute of a human, towering over me by nearly a half foot, which is saying something because I’m not a short person. He looks like a Viking mixed with a duck hunter mixed with a bartender.
“You’re that McDowell guy,” he says and it’s not a question. Damn, I guess my reputation precedes me.
