Palmer: [picture] Yes, see. We were in a cage for safety. It’s adventurous. Try it.
Cooper: As a matter of fact, I’m doing something rather adventurous right now.
Ford chimes in, finally. He probably lifted his head up from his desk for a brief second. The guy never stops working, even late at night.
Ford: Great pictures, Palmer. And what are you doing, Cooper?
Palmer: Thank you. And yeah, what are you doing, Cooper?
Cooper: If you must know . . . I’m currently grabbing an Uber to the Dirty Beaver where our parents are going to attempt to be my wingmen because they feel it’s a necessity to insert themselves into every aspect of my life.
Palmer: WHAT? Oh my God, I’m going to need updates.
Ford: Uh . . . your wingmen? We’re going to need more of an explanation.
And they won’t be getting one, because I love dropping a bomb like that on my siblings and just walking away. I like to see them leaning in, getting involved, stepping away from their lives for a second and bringing their attention back to Marina Island—well, Seattle at the moment. But you get it. I like getting them all riled up. I stuff my phone in my pocket just as our Uber arrives.
Here’s hoping my night ends soon and I’m back at my place with my parents in the guest room, sleeping comfortably.
Chapter Two
NORA
“You look like you had a rough day,” Earl says as I take a seat at the bar.
I drop my wristlet on the bar top along with my phone and let out a deep breath, my eyes connecting with the grouchy but sweet bartender. “IPA, Earl.”
He chuckles. “I take that as a yes.”
I prop my elbow up on the bar and rest my head in my hand as I stare at all the glass bottles lining the wall, some full, some halfway empty, and a lot at the end of their rope. I can relate. I’ve ended enough rough days—spent baking endless cakes—at the Dirty Beaver that Earl can read my mood by now.
He plops an ice-cold beer in front of me, and I lift it to my lips. I take a grateful sip and then set it down on the coaster he provided me. “Brides are probably my least favorite people to work with.”
“Isn’t that the biggest percentage of your clientele?” He laughs while he flings his towel over his shoulder and props his hands on the bar top. Earl is an older gentleman, a retired veteran who bought the Dirty Beaver and did absolutely nothing to improve it. He claims that because the word “dirty” is in the title of the bar, people should know what to expect. And he’s right, but it’s also led to this place’s chill vibe—with the bonus that not one single bride I’ve ever worked with would step foot in a place like this.
“It is.” I nod and then take another sip of my beer.
“Then it seems like you might be in the wrong line of work there, darling.”
“But I like baking. I just don’t like dealing with the customers.” I pause to take another sip. “I’m damn good at it, though. I can smile my way through any conversation, but I don’t like dealing with them.”
“Have someone else do it,” he suggests. “Don’t you have an assistant or two you can dump it on?”
I shake my head. “It’s my bakery, passed down from my family. It’s my responsibility to deal with the clients, or at least until I can properly train someone to handle customer relations. Until then, it’s all me.”
“Well, what was it this time?”
“Cake testing. The bride wanted every flavor, but she didn’t want to pay for the additional flavors. For cake tastings, we have a set sample amount, because I’m not here to make free cakes for people, and she was pissed that I couldn’t just ‘whip up some more’ in the back for her.” I sip my beer, still fuming. “And then she asked if I know how to properly stack cakes so they don’t fall over. Apparently, at one of her friends’ weddings, the baker didn’t put enough support in the cake. They were at an old venue with shaky floors, and while they were dancing, the cake plopped right over. She pointed her fork at me and demanded to know if I’d ever let that happen.”
“What did you say to her?”
I take another swig just as the door to the bar opens, sending in a gust of the winter wind. “Told her I have a list of over five hundred clients she can call to see how I never let that happen.” I take a deep breath. “She asked for the list.”
Earl lets out a howl before he walks over to the other side of the bar to help a customer.
I’m sitting at the far end of the bar, in a dark corner, just the way I like it. I thought about asking my friend Dealia to join me for a drink, but she’s been a little off ever since her divorce. I don’t think she misses her ex per se, because she doesn’t seem to harbor any regrets, but I think she is having trouble grasping the concept of being alone. I kind of want to say, “It’s been a year,” but I tread the line of making sure I’m being sensitive. Either way, she’s not here.