I turn up my music even louder, and italmostworks to distract me from my tumultuous thoughts—until Farmor shows up half an hour later and taps me on the shoulder while I’m doing dishes.
I pull out one AirPod with soapy fingertips.
“Finish up that cookie sheet and join me in my office, please?” It’s not really a request, even though she framed it as a question.
A wave of anxiety breaks over my body, a swoop of heat, like I’m on a roller coaster in a sauna, followed by a clammy coldness. I quickly set the clean cookie sheet in the drying rack and grab a paper towel for my hands. Did I do something wrong when I was balancing our business account and finishing payroll yesterday? Did we get more bad news on the ever-increasing cost of ingredients?
But when I walk into her office, Farmor doesn’t look worried—she’s actually quite calm, leaning back in her large leather chair that was once my grandpa’s. Her hair is pulled up into an elegant white coif; her crystalline blue eyes are bright. She even smiles, the well-worn creases lining her mouth crinkling. “Have a seat.”
As I drag a folding chair closer to her desk, I hear voices—my mom’s familiar tones and a deeper male voice. One that makes my stomach twist, a coil of tension tightening like a violin string pulled too taut.
“I’m happy to come up with some ideas. There’salwaysan angle to bring new life into a struggling business, if you’re willing to think outside the box,” Hunter is saying as they walk through the door into Farmor’s office.
“I hope you’re right, young man,” Farmor says, standing to greet him. “Because we definitely need to breathe new life into this place if we’re going to survive long-term.”
Hunter smiles at both of them, which makes me scowl. Maybe Ishouldhave told my mom exactly how awful he was last night instead of my avoiding her all morning. I wasn’t expecting them to meet with himthisfast.
I stay firmly planted on the hard, metal chair, arms crossed over my chest as he steps into the office. It’s not a big room to begin with, and with all four of us in it, I’m suddenly claustrophobic. With his broad shoulders, tapered hips, and muscled thighs (visible through yet another pair of designer pants tailored to fit him as perfectly as if our bakery is a stop on the way to a red-carpet event), Hunter takes up far more space than is humanly possible for one person.
“Olivia.” He nods an acknowledgment of my presence.
I merely lift my chin back at him, hoping he knows I hadnothingto do with wanting him to meddle in our business. Literally.
“Here, have a seat.” Farmor moves toward the stack of folding chairs, but Hunter’s long stride easily outpaces her.
“I’ve got it.” He grabs two—one for him and one for my mom—while still juggling the briefcase he brought with him. As he takes a seat, he says, “I know we’re a little short on time, so is it all right to dive in?”
Farmor nods eagerly. “Please do.”
Hunter opens his briefcase, pulls out a slim laptop, sets it on the desk, and says, “First, it would be helpful for me to go over what you’re already doing for marketing and promotion. I took a peek at your website, and while it’s nicely done, I do think it could stand a few updates. I didn’t notice much of an online presence, so we can definitely work on that—go overwhat SEO you’re utilizing and any other avenues of advertisement as well as their cumulative costs and payouts. Then we can start brainstorming where we could make changes to drive new business your way. I know it might be hard to talk numbers with a veritable stranger, but it’s also helpful if I can look at your books to see if there are any places to tighten costs and increase profits, to drive more money into marketing efforts.”
With every word he says, my jaw tightens until my teeth are clenched so tightly I’m afraid I might break a filling loose.
“Livvy is the one who handles most of that—she’s the one with the business degree,” Farmor says, pride in her voice. Hunter’s gaze flickers to me, sending an immediate flush of heat up my neck when our eyes meet. “When my Lars and I started this bakery,” Farmor continues, “the internet didn’t even exist. I’m useless when it comes to all that computer stuff. I know how tobake. To make your mouth water at the memory of mykanelbullaror to have you dream of eating myprinsesstårtafor your birthday. But beyond that ...” Farmor opens her hands to the air with a small shrug of her shoulders.
“Livvy’s done a great job,” my mom asserts. “She’s a whiz with the books and coming up with fun advertising strategies.”
Hunter’s expression betrays nothing as I glare at him, daring him to question me or my skills. Because the fact that he’s here is proof that I’m clearlynota “whiz.” Having him seated next to me, asking me to open all our books and decisions to him, is a punch to the gut.
“But with increasing costs on all ends,” Mom adds, “and customers’ budgets getting tighter, we’re feeling the pinchmore each month. We’re still profitable, but not like we used to be.”
Hunter leans forward, his eyes moving between my mom and Farmor. “It’s clear that all of you love this bakery and that you’ve put your heart and souls into it. Let’s dig in to see if there’s anything I can do to help make it even more successful.”
An hour later, my headache is back with a vengeance, but this time, it’s accompanied by swirling acid in my stomach. As much as I hate to admit it, Hunter isgoodat what he does. He’s got my mom and Farmor wrapped around his marketing-savvy finger. I, on the other hand, feel smaller and smaller with every suggestion he makes, with every idea he proposes—thingsIshould have thought about, stuffIshould have done without some know-it-all from Florida swooping in and potentially saving the day.
This ismyfamily’s bakery. This ismybusiness to take to the next level with my hard-earned business degree. Instead, I sink lower on my metal chair as Hunter animatedly discusses sales and advertising blitzes and increased SEO—an investment of cost on the front end but with the hopes of greater dividends as a result.
A knock at the office door startles us all.
Rebecca, a part-time employee, pokes her head in and says, “Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve got a line of customers. Can one of you come help for a minute?”
I leap to my feet. “Coming,” I say, then under my breath add, “Since I’m clearly not needed here.”
Out front, there is a lunch rush, with five people in line and three more perusing the baked goods. It’s the busiest we’ve been all week. I’m grateful for the reprieve from watching my mom and Farmor fawn over Hunter and hisbrilliant insights. (Farmor’s words, not mine.)
As I’m helping check out the second-to-last customer in line, the doors to the kitchen swing open, and Hunter emerges with my mom and Farmor in tow. He’s grinning, his eyes lit up in a way I’ve never seen before. Granted, I’ve known him only a few days, so it’s not like I have much to go off of, but it’s obvious that giving him the chance to help with our bakery has ignited something within him.
I don’t know why that makes the anxiety and anger I’m battling that much harder to keep from scalding its way up my throat and out my mouth. When he heads my direction at the counter, it’s all I can do to keep from channeling the inner Oscar the Grouch I didn’t know I possessed and telling him togo away.
