I lift my eyes from the mixer to find her smirking. “What suits me?”
She shrugs and reaches for the tray of wild sourdough starter. “That freshly fucked look you’re wearing.”
My cheeks burn hot as I grab the tray from her. That’s exactly how I feel— freshly fucked. Beneath my uniform, my nipples ache, pebbled against the fabric. My face blazes even hotter.
The rest of my shift is more of the same. Everyone keeps asking why I look so happy, so glowy. Carmella, one of the sous chefs, even asks if I’m expecting. I laugh it off, but that only fuels the chaos. Before I know it, the kitchen is placing bets on who the father could be.
I need to get laid more.
I’m about to give in to the rumors and tell them it’s triplets when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Low Balance Alert
It’s not my father this time. It’s something worse.
I have text notifications set up for my bank account in case it dips below fifty dollars. Anxiety claws at my chest as I rush to open the app, my fingers trembling as I scroll to my balance. My stomach drops.
$49.21.
I forgot to cancel that stupid recurring charge from some useless app I downloaded last month. How could I have been so careless? What the hell is wrong with me? My mind spins.
I need to dig myself out of this hole. The grand opening has to be a success, or I’ll be stuck making minimum wage in this damn casino for the rest of my life.
Casino.
The thought slithers in before I can stop it. I could play a few hands. I could win. Double my money. Then double it again.
I step back, nearly stumbling as my shoulders hit the corridor wall. My breathing is uneven, my heart pounding thick in my chest. Blood rushes in my ears, my hands starting to shake.
Nope. I’m not going to be like Vick. No fucking way.
I have to get out of here.
I can’t stay in this building another second.
I can’t end up like him.
A jagged surge of adrenaline rips through my veins, sharp and ice-cold. Sweat beads along my spine, prickling against my too-tight uniform. My chest constricts, lungs strangled by the panic curling through me. I tear off my jacket and apron, yanking at the suffocating fabric, desperate for relief. The elevator is too slow, too enclosed, and I need space, I need to move. Instead of getting in, I shove through the stairwell doors and bolt upward, taking the stairs two at a time. My breath saws in and out, but I push harder, higher, my pulse hammering in my ears.
I just need air. Just need to be outside.
By the time I reach the exit, my vision is blurred with tears. The neon EXIT sign wavers, and then I’m through the doors, bursting out, gulping in great, shuddering breaths of cold, salty ocean air.
The world outside is crisp and vast, but it doesn’t stop the trembling in my limbs. I bend over, hands clutching my knees, nails digging into the fabric of my pants as I fight for control.
A brown paper bag appears in my line of sight.
“Here you go,” Arlene says, her voice calm, steady.
I snatch it without looking at her, pressing it to my mouth, inhaling, exhaling, forcing my breath into something controlled, something manageable. I hate this. The embarrassment claws at my throat, like it always does.
“Third one this month, kiddo,” she murmurs, her warm hand rubbing slow, reassuring circles on my back. “Going solo in that little bakery of yours is stressing you out way too much.”
She doesn’t understand. How could she? It’s not just the stress of The Frosted Spoon. That place—it could be good. I know it could.
I can bake. I can really freaking bake.
It’s everything else. The chaos pressing in from all sides.
