“Pumpkin cronuts for the team.” I flash a smile. “Laminated croissant dough, a pumpkin cream, cardamom sugar, salted caramel glaze. Everything you could want from fall, but bougier.”
Someone whistles. A man in a ball cap with DYLAN printed on his name tag, leans against the door frame to the walk-in, intrigued.
Another man, who I recognize from the patch’s social media as Quinn, appears beside him.
A woman with dark hair in a high pony slips in, eyes sharp, smile warmer than coffee, who introduces herself as “Lanie.”
And then there’s Tricia, the marketing genius I’ve been DMing for a week, and Taegen, the reporter whose tell-all video capture my attention.
The room suddenly feels like a family reunion I’ve snuck into with dessert.
“Hi!” I beam. “I’m so happy to be here, truly. Thanks for having me. And please.” I gesture to the boxes of treats. “Help yourself.”
“You had us at cardamom,” Lanie says, already reaching for a napkin.
Chase slides the box an inch away from her and gives me a look that says he’s seen every trick in the book.
“What exactly is the plan here, Chef Baker?”
It’s impossible to mistake the ice in his tone.
I keep my smile. “I’m here for a pop-up. You keep the ship steady, I’ll set up a limited menu at a side station, we cross-promote, nobody dies.”
“Promising not to kill my customers is a low bar,” he says.
“Then I’ll charm them, feed them fast, and clean my station so well you’ll want to marry it.”
Something flickers at the corner of his mouth—humor, maybe, that he refuses to let out. “We’ll see.”
Quinn clears his throat. “Play nice, Chase. Katelyn, we’re grateful you came. We can walk the site in a bit and talk through line logistics.”
“Perfect,” I say, and shove a box toward Tricia. “Want to try?”
She takes a delicate bite and then forgets delicacy exists.
“Oh, no.” She rolls her eyes and groans. “This is so good, it should be illegal.”
I chuckle. “I guess you’d better arrest me.”
Taegen films the cross section with a low murmur of appreciation. “That’s a lamination I’d swipe right on.”
Dylan’s already halfway through his. “I don’t know what you just said, but yes.”
Even Quinn, who looks like he tries not to enjoy things on principle, blisses out at first bite. “We’re gonna need more of these.”
Chase hasn’t touched one.
I place a cronut onto napkin and set it in front of him.
“Chef to chef,” I say quietly. “I’m not here to show you up. I’m here to draw a crowd and make good food. If you hate it, tell me why.”
His eyes meet mine—hazel, steady. A beat. Then he picks it up, breaks it open. Steam curls up. He considers the interior, the even crumb, the custard-to-dough ratio. He takes a bite. Another, smaller one, as if to check if the first was a fluke.
“Well?” Lanie prods.
He swallows, sets it down, and nods once.
“Texture’s right. Flavor’s… restrained.” It sounds like a compliment but also like a slam. “It’s decent.”
