“Why?” She arches a brow. “Was he small? The hot ones always are. Like, statistically speaking, there’s a correlation.”
“What? No!”
“Ohhh,” she mumbles, already halfway to a full-blown thesis. “So Green Eyes was packing? Nice. But did he just lay there and expect you to do all the work like a sexy lump? Or like a dildo but then his charge died before you got your cookies?”
“Emery!” I shriek, turning back to the counter and furiously wiping down a tray that was already spotless.
“What?” she says, completely unbothered. “We both know there are three types of men. The overachievers—few and far between if you ask me. The underwhelmers—seriously, there’s too many to even name. And then, we have the pretty boys who think a nice sized cock, pretty face, and hefty bank account mean they’re exempt from effort. Nothing kills the vibe like a guy who lays there like a decorative pillow.”
“I really do not want to have this conversation,” I mutter, donning my apron like armor against the onslaught of inappropriate best friend energy.
“Okay, okay, fine.” She tosses her gloves onto the counter. “So if he wasn’t bad in bed, then what? Oh, no. Did he ghost you?!”
“Okay, fine,” I exhale sharply, the words tumbling out in a low whisper.
“I don’t know what happened. He was here. And then, he wasn’t. No note. No text. Maybe he had a meeting. Maybe he got cold feet. Maybe I mistook how he felt—” I swallow.
“Maybe he just found me lacking.”
Emery stares at me like I’ve grown two heads. Then slowly, she puts her hands on her hips.
“Want me to key his fancy truck?”
“What? No.”
“Leave fake one-star reviews on his company site? Claim he gave you food poisoning or was rude to puppies?”
“Still no.”
“I could send him weekly anonymous packages of spoiled shrimp until he breaks down and begs for forgiveness.”
I gag.
“Ew. No. Also, where do you even get spoiled shrimp?”
She waves a hand.
“I know a guy.”
“Oh my God, Emery.”
“What? I’m just saying. We have options.”
I shake my head, the sting in my chest growing sharper. “I don’t want revenge. I just want to know what happened. Or at the very least, I want to get through this day without spiraling.”
She softens instantly, her sass dropping just enough for concern to creep in.
“Okay. Then what can I do?”
I sniffle and blink fast.
“Help me frost the gingerbread men for Uncle Uzzi’s order?”
“Done,” she says without hesitation. “But I call dibs on the ones with gumdrop buttons.”
We’re halfway through a tray of cookies—my sad thoughts half-masked by frosting and the faint sound of Brenda Lee crooning in the background—when the bell chimes again And this time, it’s not a customer.
It’s a dapper little old man in a white velvet coat with matching slacks, silver-toed shoes that click lightly on the tile, and a Santa hat perched at a jaunty angle—complete with tiny silver bells that chime like enchanted wind chimes when he moves.
