I’d done a shop to have the supplies on hand to fill the orders I had for the next week, and I topped up on groceries.
Doing this, I was in active denial that I bought more beer.
I didn’t often drink beer, but the Oasis was a social place. There were about twenty-five people who lived there who at any time could knock on my door for a drink and a gab, and some of them drank beer. But why I was in denial was because that was not the reason I healthily replenished my stock of beer.
Ahem.
I’d also done a clean of the apartment (there were big positives to it being so small, and being able to give it a relatively thorough clean in less than an hour was one of them), some laundry, and I’d changed the sheets on the bed because I wanted a free and breezy Sunday with nothing dragging on me.
And now I was going through emails and sorting my schedule.
I had several birthday cakes to do the next week, a couple of cupcake towers, and the big Saturday job: a baby shower with a three-tier cake and four dozen cookies, all decorated in a woodland’s animal theme.
Fortunately, I also had next Sunday free.
Since people who were smart and organized tended to get orders in early, the next three weeks were pretty packed, but after that, my schedule lightened up.
However, I had five emails with prospective orders that would mean my schedule would remain steady, which meant excruciatingly and drainingly busy.
Therefore, I got out a notebook, grabbed a pen, wrote down average tips, computed what the take of my current schedule of orders would be and added my paychecks, and saw, if I remained on my strict money diet, that the next six weeks as they stood would plump my savings account minimally, but every little bit helped. It would also mean I’d have two and a half months’ worth of bills paid sitting in my checking account.
Thus, I decided to take a breather.
Not a break. But a breather.
Already, I had work, orders, whatever was happening with Mr. Shithead, and finding a way to extricate myself as Gabriel Stark’s latest challenge at the same time figuring out a way to get him to confide what the hell happened that morning (an impossible task!), and not enough time to do all of that.
Furthermore, I didn’t want to get burned out.
My future goal: have my own kitchen or even a full-on bakery, and if not that, look at getting hired as the pastry chef for a posh outfit like Christopher’s.
I could not start hating what I loved and had a passion for because, well, because I let Kevin play me.
So I was in the midst of kindly but professionally letting down the people who had requested orders, all the while asking them to consider me for future ones, when there was a knock on my door.
Even if it wasn’t Gabe’s two sharp raps and him calling out, “It’s me,” a thrill raced through me that he said he’d be back tonight, and that might be him.
You are so totally freaking lying to yourself and it’s getting to be all kinds of exasperating, Dreamer scolded.
Someone needs a vibrator session to take the edge off, Logic suggested.
I sighed and went to the door.
I peeped through the peephole, and at the look I saw on Shanti’s face, I hurriedly unlocked and opened the door.
She burst in, crossed the room in a rush, threw herself dramatically on her back on my velvet couch and pressed one of my Home-Goods-on-sale toss pillows to her face.
Oh boy.
I closed the door and went to sit on my armchair.
My bestie was lean, but stacked, with booty, all of this somehow hiding she was average height and making her seem taller.
She usually let her hair go natural in soft, loose, kinky curls that framed her face in a beautiful, thick, lush, drifting halo, but sometimes she’d be in the mood for braids or extensions, though that wasn’t often.
She had delicate features, big eyes, and skin a couple of shades up from mocha.
It was her mom, Miss Tandi, who’d semi-introduced us.
