Page 15 of Building Romance
A strawberry margarita cookie with lime frosting. It sounded simple and delicious. But I can’t perfect the strawberry cookie no matter how hard I try.
I desperately want to try them right now, because I feel like this batch might be the one, but they need to cool. So, I walk to the front of my café. Adriana is helping customers and I decide to go and change out the menu. Another week, another list of cookie and coffee specials.
I head into my tiny office and print a new specials menu while trying not to think about Fletcher McDowell. I need to start growing my profit if I’m going to make my goals for the year. And right now, McDowell’s moving in down the street may hamper my ability to grow this business that I’ve spent years working to own. And worse, it could completely decimate us. The next closest bakery, café, or coffeehouse is at least four blocks away.
I step back into the café, a handful of copies of the menu in my hand, one for the outside and a few for the bar area. I’m looking down to double-check my spelling when all of a sudden I run smack into a body.
The papers go flying and strong hands clutch my upper arms, keeping me from face-planting. My hand goes to chiseled pectoral muscles as I steady myself.
“Whoa,” a deep voice says, a deep voice that I immediately recognize.
I look up, and for reasons I cannot explain, anger begins to boil inside me like a witch’s cauldron. I shove off him and step back. I hate that I just pushed against a perfect set of abdominals. I hate that he looks like a model in a perfume commercial without even trying. And I hate the smug look on his face.
“I have a proposition for you,” he starts. I open my mouth to speak but he puts up a hand. “Not that one. A new one.”
My mouth opens and closes a few times because now I’m confused. It’s like this statement just caused my brain to short-circuit. What the hell does he mean, a new one? God, does this man ever stop?
“Not interested,” I reply through gritted teeth.
“Oh, come on. Hear me out. I swear, I come in peace,” he says while flashing me some kind of smile that I am pretty sure is reserved for charming women, but he has no idea that I am above all such man maneuvers.
“Get out!” I say loudly, not even caring if other customers hear.
“Cam, please listen,” he says trying again.
“God! You really have some audacity, don’t you? You think you’re so special, so high and mighty. Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret. You aren’t impressive. You aren’t going to win me over with some desperate ploy to help me. I’m doing just fine.” OK, that’s a blatant lie, but he doesn’t need to know that. “In fact, I’m doing better than fine. Your store isn’t going to be able to keep up with mine. So best of luck. Now, get the fuck out of my store and don’t come back. I’m banning you from entering this property. The next time I see you in here, I’ll be calling the police. Now leave,” I growl as I point to the door.
He looks at me and sets a piece of paper down on the bar. “Please consider a sponsorship from us for the upcoming competition,” he offers. “My number is on the back.” And without any further explanation, he turns and walks out of my café.
“What was that about?” Adriana asks.
Sighing, I grab the paper and toss it in the trash can behind the counter.
“Nothing. McDowell’s thinks that they can buy us out, but they have another thing coming. I’m not going down without a fight,” I explain.
“Oh, right, but what did he mean about a sponsorship?” she asks.
I lean on the counter, placing my hands on the cool marble in hopes that calms me down. “Ever heard of the City Bake-Off?” I ask.
“Yeah. It’s huge. They are even televising it. Why?” she asks.
“You have to get a sponsorship to enter. But I’m definitely not going to accept one from McDowell’s,” I state dryly.
“Why not?” she asks.
“Adriana, seriously? They are the competition! I bet that agreement would have a bunch of caveats that end my store. It’d be just like Fletcher to do that,” I say as if I know the man personally. But hell, I know him enough to know I can’t trust him, or at least I shouldn’t.
“But if you can win the competition, then we could get enough new customers to fend off a takeover or a major loss in profit,” she points out, and I hate that she isn’t wrong. I want that all to be wrong. I want to be the David to McDowell’s Goliath. I want to be the underdog that wins.
My phone buzzes and I look down to see a text from Winston, my older brother. He texts once a week. Always on a Thursday. If anything, Winston is a man of routine.
Winston: So, what’s your marketing game plan? Any ideas yet?
He knows about McDowell’s. He’s offered a hundred different ideas, but none that would work. I hate that my family views this debacle as another failure of mine, that they all have to swoop in and save the day. I want so badly to prove that I can do this. I’m tired of all of them babying me.
I lean down and pick up the document from the trash. Without another word to Adriana, I walk back into the office, stopping to grab a margarita cookie off the cooling rack, and I shut the door. I take a bite of the cookie once I’m seated.
Holy shitballs! This one came out perfect. I smirk. McDowell’s doesn’t have a margarita cookie. But Cam’s Café does. I look down at the paper on my desk. A part of me still wants to toss it in the trash, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious. What’s he playing at?
