CHAPTER 1
SYNDAL
When I lean back in my chair, I’m thankful for the lumbar support. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing. I’d be more concerned about sitting all day if I didn’t spend so much time on my feet when I’m not clocked in. After work is when I get to do what I really love.
There’s something special about making treats.
People enjoy them for the experience. It only lasts for a short period of time, but that’s okay.
And, of course, you can’t really stay mad when eating chocolate.
Being able to bring people joy is something I can’t even put into words. It fuels my soul in a way nothing else does.
A new chocolate mold was delivered today, and I’m looking forward to trying it out. Thinking about it almost has a giggle escaping. I bet my mailperson would be horrified to know they delivered a penis binky lollipop chocolate mold to my house today. Or maybe they’d love it.
I’d like to think they’d at least chuckle about it. I mean, it’s funny.
It’ll also be the perfect mold to use for the treats I’ll sell at an upcoming romance book signing I’ll be a vendor at. Not to mention, I kind of have a thing about collecting dick molds. Call it an obsession if you want; I prefer thinking of it as a hobby.
It’s a useful hobby considering I actually use my dick molds. Most of the special orders I get involve cocks. Chocolate cocks.
I shake my head and wonder how this became my life.
“Syndal,”Cindy chirps brightly while leaning around the side of my cubical.
It’s not easy, but I manage to hide my shiver of disgust at being in a cubical. This is not where I thought I’d be at this point in my life.
By now I was supposed to have my treat shop open and cranking out chocolate goodies. Instead, I work in insurance.
“Are you coming out with us tonight?”
I look up at my coworker, who works extremely hard at being nice, and smile. “Not tonight, Cindy.”
She pouts and lets out a huff as if she’s disappointed. I’m not entirely sure if she’s serious or if she’s just playing it up for my benefit.
It’s not like we’re friends outside of work. We don’t call each other. We don’t even text each other outside of office hours, which should tell you something. Even when we do, it’s about meeting up for lunch.
We’re lunch buddies. It’s been more than enough for me, honestly.
But sometimes I wonder if Cindy is sincere about wanting to be my friend.
Wouldn’t she reach out on the weekends if she really wanted a friendship?
The smile on my face turns brittle with the thought, but Cindy doesn’t seem to notice. Or she doesn’t care.
Either way, the way my stomach turns tells me everything I need to know.
“You never come out with us,” she needles me.
For a moment, I consider giving in. I really do. Not giving people what they want, even if they’re being insincere with their words, isn’t easy for me. It’s far easier for me to bend over backwards to make others happy.
Yes.
I’m aware that therapy wouldn’t be a terrible thing in my life.
No.
My issues don’t come from my parents. They were amazing, supportive, and caring. I just don’t get to see them very often since they moved to a warmer climate.
