In my pocket, my phone buzzes. I don’t have to look to know it’s my brother, pissed about something.
I’m focused on Winnie’s unexpected guest. She doesn’t do online dating. I know. I looked for her on all the dating sites. Who else could it be, though? That’s not Carolina’s car.
“Itisa man,” I say softly, furious at the betrayal.
He steps out of the car, talking loudly at the top of his lungs to the three women he helps out of the Volvo.
“No, no, no,no,no!” Winnie’s front door slams open.
I force myself not to run after Winnie and drape her with my jacket.
My darling pastry chef is running toward the car in just her T-shirt and PJ shorts. “Such a cute little creampuff.”
“Absolutely not!” Winnie waves her hands.
“Winnie, is that any way to greet your mother? We’re here to visit you.”
“Visit?” The most elderly of the three women snorts. “Your gold-digging sister got thrown out on her ass, and now we’re all here to move in with you.”
3
WINNIE
Ihave never been a small girl in any sense of the word. Not my personality, not my dress size.
So I am definitely not obsessing over the ill-fated interaction with The Guy who shall henceforth be known as Fitz the Douche.
After he left, I went over that paperwork with a fine-tooth comb. I was an investment banker in a previous life, after all, and I know how to read a real estate contract.
I bet Fitz thinks he’s really in control, like it was a big gotcha. Like I’m some down-on-her-luck baker who’s about to lose her grandmother’s café. Well, guess what? My gran has ADHD and a gambling problem, and I have financial literacy and a credit card, so I’m not crawling and begging some man to take care of me.
Especially not one who has socks with pink llamas on them.
I am a franchised bitch, and this is why I typically buy my own property. My other Brew & Browse locations are doing great. And I’m not selling those land parcels to anyone, so he can come try me.
Sure, the lease deal for this spot was pretty sweet and came with a big tenant improvement package, but I don’t care.
I’ll pivot. Every wannabe real estate developer in this city is always looking to offer a sweet deal to a proven franchise. They all need some sort of café to sell as a perk of their “luxury” apartment complex. I’ll pack up this location and go somewhere else in the city.
Somewhere Fitz doesn’t own.
“This is why we have fuck-you money,” I remind Fidget, who is trying and failing to lick her belly in the front seat of the car. “Bullet dodged, because this could have turned into a ’90s-romance-movie level of a shit show. I mean, would you believe me dating a billionaire to save my failing café?” I bark a laugh. “Honestly, let it fail—then I don’t have to remind Olive for the thousandth time where we keep the oat milk.”
On the radio, a teenager is singing about finding her perfect dungeon prince.
I change the station.
The same song plays on the next one and the next, because apparently every radio station in this city is owned by the same unimaginative person.
Fitzgerald Svensson. The bastard kicking me out of my café.
“It’s fine. Everything is fine. This is a blip. No problem a little money can’t fix.” I reach out to pet Fidget. She can’t see my hand coming around the cone and yelps in surprise.
I listen to the sound of the rain on the roof of my car. I drive home in stop-and-go traffic, the windshield wipers hypnotic. I love rainy Seattle weather. That’s why I moved here.
Today, though, it just feels a little… depressing.
Lonely.
