But at least I’m satisfied that we both contributed to the store’s identity—I supplied the name, and he devised a cheeky tagline.
We go inside, sit down on the floor, and take a stab at the menu. TheYou’re My Salty and My Sweetis a must, of course. So is lemon shortbread, one of his favorites. Orange habanero cookies, a trademark of mine, along with the pistachio ones too. Seven-layer bars, with and without nuts, Corbin adds.
“We’ll call them Nutty Love and Un-Nutty Love,” I suggest.
“Everyone knows Nutty Love is the best kind of love,” he says.
“We’ll see.”
I stare at the ceiling for a minute, falling into the memory of baking a cake for my grandma’s seventieth birthday. Fresh strawberries and whipped cream, her favorite. “In the summer, we should make a strawberry cake.”
He holds my gaze for a few seconds, head tilted, a flicker in his eyes that seems to say he likes that image of us, being open in the summer, serving cake.
We finish the rough draft of the menu, then plot our next steps in getting this dream off the ground. I’d like to say I’m being all adult and businessy as we work. That I don’t think once about rubbing up against him, but that’d be a lie.
13
THE DAY I LOVED SWEAT
MABEL
Divide and conquer.
That’s the plan. As Corbin tackles the garage door ordering—fine by me, since he has lots of opinions on that—I tackle paint picking.
I enlist my interior designer friend, Skylar, to help me out, along with Remy, my glass-all-full friend, who’s surprisingly opinionated when it comes to paint chips. She works for the hockey team, handling community relations, but not full-time, so she’s been able to join us in checking out furniture and baking equipment.
And right now, we’re at the paint shop she likes in the Dogpatch District in the city, and Remy holds up a sample the color of Pepto-Bismol, mincing no words. “This makes me want to hurl.”
“Next,” I agree, and grab a soft mauve shade.
“Nope.” Skylar shakes her head, her red hair swishing. “That color can’t decide where it wants to go for dinner.”
I tuck it back into its paint-chip home, then grab another. “This?”
“It looks like bubble gum,” Remy says, as if that disappoints her.
“It’s called Bubble Gum,” I point out, reading the name on the card.
She taps her chin. “I don’t like bubble gum.”
“You are so picky,” I say.
“Which is exactly how I found Jameson,” Remy says proudly, adjusting the messy bun that holds her lush, chestnut hair. “By being picky.”
“I thought you found him because he works at the arena too?” I have to give her a hard time, of course.
“Among other factors. And I was picky when he said he’d seen me several times walking past his craft cocktail bar and did I want to finally go out with him,” she says.
“Youshouldbe picky when it comes to craft cocktails and dating,” Skylar says, “and also to the colors you’re going to paint your new business.” She leans closer to the shelf and studies the paint chips, then hums in concern. “Actually, these are all a nope.” I don’t have time to ask why before she whips out her phone and quickly looks something up. “The brand’s not cruelty-free. I just checked.”
“Oh, thank you,” I say, genuinely grateful she thought of that. She’s an eco-friendly designer and tries to source secondhand, recycled, and ethically made items. “I hadn’t thought of that with paint. But I’m glad you did.”
“Happy to help.” She peruses the information on her phone, then nods. “Let’s try this brand.” She points to a nearby sign, and we head that way, debating paint colors for another thirty minutes before we settle on a handful of finalists. Even though I’m ready to move full speed ahead with my favorite, I have to slow down. I’m not the only one making the decisions. It’s a weird feeling for someone who’s used to being utterly independent.
“I should show these to Corbin,” I say, adjusting to my new reality of having a partner. “Along with pics of the furniture and stuff. I don’t want him to feel like I’ve been making all the decisions.”
“By all means,” Remy says, and I fire off a text.
