Chapter One
“It looks like a penis.”
“A penis?”
“Definitely a penis. Penis adjacent at a minimum.”
Parker and I stared down at the plate. The croissant was about six inches long, engorged on one end, with a slight bend to the right. The raspberry glaze gave it a pinkish hue.
“What if we rotate it?” Parker nudged the plate counterclockwise. A dribble of vanilla custard oozed from the tip.
“Let’s try another angle.” I twisted the plate back to its original position, then tilted the tripod twenty degrees.
Nope.
“Maybe if I adjust the lighting.” Parker cranked the temperature on the panel lights down from neutral white to warm white, then inserted a light diffuser over the LED bulbs. “Any better?”
I peered through the viewfinder.
A giant penis stared back at me.
Not that I had any recent personal references to draw uponfor a visual comparison. With penises, that is, not pastries. I had plenty of personal references with pastries.
Still staring into the viewfinder, I could have sworn the cream hole winked.
You’re probably wondering who the strange woman is taking pictures of a raspberry flavored schlong. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Samantha Li, but my followers call me Sam. I’m an influencer. Which means that businesses, sponsors as we like to call them, give me stuff and I promote it. Basically, it’s like marketing.
Or prostitution, if you ask my mom. But, as I’ve explained to her six hundred and forty-seven times, yes, it’s a real job, and yes, people pay me to do it.
Sometimes quite generously.
Other times … not.
Parker is my assistant. An up and coming social media star himself. Okay, star may be generous. His parents go to the same church as mine do, so that’s how we met. I agreed to share my brilliance and wisdom in exchange for logistical support and manual labor. Like coffee fetching. And moving furniture into my new apartment.
That morning, we were doing a promotion for a new place called the “Golden Bean,” the latest, greatest coffee shop in Beverly Hills. So far, other than the phallus shaped pastries, it was … decent. The air hung thick with vanilla notes and caramelized sugar. Edison bulbs dangled from the ceiling. The playlist was vaguely indie with just the right amount of bass.
Most importantly, one of the baristas had a man-bun and a sleeve of tattoos covering his left arm. Any coffee shop hoping to have a chance of relevance in Los Angeles HAD to have a barista with a man-bun.
“We could use the muffins instead?”Parker pointed to the display case where a pair of plump strawberry frosted mounds, red cherries perched on top, were framed behind the glass.
I rolled my eyes, making sure Parker could see it. “Clearly, the universe is mocking me.”
Man-bun called our order and Parker bounced over to the counter. Parker was what they call a “morning person.” Someone who can function before 10:00am. I, on the other hand, was what they call a “normal person.” Someone who functions best after noon.
As Parker gathered our drinks, I looked around for other shots I could use. Tech bros hunched over MacBooks. Aspiring screenwriters pecked away at their keyboards. A cluster of yoga enthusiasts in coordinated athleisure sat in the corner.
Parker returned from the counter, placing one of two steaming white mugs on the table. “That one’s the lavender pistachio.” The image of a swan floated on the surface, fresh froth fizzing.
I snapped a few photos. Luckily, nothing came out looking phallus shaped.
Parker positioned the second mug beside the first. “And that’s the turmeric cardamom.” A foam tulip bubbled beneath the steam. It sort of reminded me of a vulva, but I took pictures of it, anyway.
When I finished shooting the latte art, I looked up to find Parker staring at me. “What?”
“Aren’t you going to eat it?” He bobbed his head toward the croissant. More of the creamy white filling had seeped out at the end.
“I think I’m good.”
