Cookie was practically vibrating with excitement when I walked into Grits. She grabbed my arm, pulling me toward the kitchen before I could even clock in.
“Wait what?”
“The Zinnamon rolls! The red velvet ones you made? We sold out in two hours. Two hours, Zahara! And people keep calling, asking when we’re gonna have more.”
Pride and panic warred in my chest. Pride because my rolls were good enough that people were asking for them. Panic because this meant attention. And attention meant questions.
“That’s great,” I said carefully.
“Great? Girl, it’s more than great. We need to tell Larry. Get you a raise or something. Maybe even let you develop more flavors.”
“No.”
Cookie blinked. “No?”
“I mean… not yet.” I scrambled for an excuse. “Let’s make sure it’s not just a fluke first. Give it another week or two.”
The truth was, I wanted to keep sneaking into the kitchen after hours. Keep baking on my own terms. Keep building my business without Larry’s greasy fingers all over it.
Cookie studied my face, suspicious. “What are you up to?”
“Nothing. I just don’t want to make a big deal out of it yet.”
“Mm-hmm.” She didn’t believe me, but she let it go. “Fine. But by the end of the month, we’re telling him. Deal?”
“Deal.”
I could work with that. A month was enough time to figure out my next move. Maybe even save enough to finally rent actual commercial kitchen space.
I was tying my apron when Larry walked in.
My stomach dropped.
“Zahara!” His voice was too loud, too friendly. “Just the woman I wanted to see.”
Oh God. He knew. Someone had told him about the rolls. Or worse, he’d seen me sneaking in after hours.
“Hey, Larry. What’s up?” I kept my voice steady.
He stepped closer. Too close. Close enough that I could smell his cologne—cheap and overpowering.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you…” His eyes traveled down my body, lingering in places that made my skin crawl. “You look real good today. That uniform fits you just right.”
Relief and revulsion hit me at the same time. He didn’t know about the baking. He was just being his usual disgusting self.
“Thanks,” I said flatly, trying to step back. But I was already against the counter.
“You know…” He leaned in, one hand bracing on the counter beside me, trapping me. “A woman like you shouldn’t be working herself so hard. You need someone to take care of you.”
“I’m good, Larry.”
“I’m serious. You and me, we could have something special.” His other hand reached up, like he was going to touch my face.
I grabbed his wrist before he could make contact. “I said I’m good.”
For a second, something ugly flashed in his eyes. But then he pulled back, laughing like it was all a joke.
“Alright, alright. Can’t blame a man for trying.” He walked away, still chuckling.
