Katelyn laughs, cheeks pink. “Glad you think so! Team Cronut or Team Nacho?”
“Cronut, obviously.”
“Traitor,” I growl.
But I’m smiling when I say it.
By noon, we’re neck and neck. Tricia stops by between photo ops, announcing updates like a referee.
“As of lunch rush, Cronut leads by four orders!”
Katelyn twirls her piping bag. “Better bring your A-game, Chef.”
“I’ll bring a whole alphabet.”
The afternoon flies. A small kid at the counter tugs my sleeve.
“My mom says you’re losing,” he says solemnly. “You should make more sauce.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” I say. “What’s your mom’s name?”
“Sarah.”
I glance at Katelyn, who’s pretending not to eavesdrop. “Tell Sarah she’s banned.”
The kid giggles and runs off with a nacho boat twice his size. Katelyn shakes her head. “You’re a menace.”
“You love it.”
“Maybe a little,” she says.
Thatmaybelands in my ribs and stays there.
The sun drops low and the line finally fades. My back aches, my hands smell like apples and fryer oil, and I don’t care.
It’s been the best damn day of work I’ve had in years.
We close the window together. The air cools instantly—quiet except for the hum of the lights outside.
Tricia appears one last time with her tablet.
“Okay, the tally is in!” she announces. “It’s close.”
Katelyn wipes her hands on a towel. “Lay it on us.”
“Team Pumpkin Cronut: two hundred and forty-seven. Team Apple Pie Nachos: two hundred and forty-two.”
A five-order difference.
Katelyn gasps, half-delighted, half-shocked. “Wait, I won?”
Tricia grins. “By a pastry’s edge.”
I groan but can’t help laughing. “Five? That’s it?”
“Every sale counts,” Katelyn teases.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You’re going to be unbearable, aren’t you?”
