My insides decide at that precise moment to discombobulate, and my mouth goes dry.
“Claire! It looks amazing!” Zoey rushes straight to me, looking around at the reality that she helped me dream up. She did an amazing job getting my social media up and running, helping design the flyers, and getting the word out about The Porch. She took the idea and boiled it down into an easily digestible mission—one that people could get on board with. One that I could execute.
In some ways, today is as much Zoey’s triumph as mine. Her fingerprints are all over this place.
“Hey, Zoey!” I look past her at the others. “Hey, everyone. Thanks for coming.”
“We were promised cupcakes,” Miles says.
Zoey smacks him across the chest. “Workfirst, Dad.” She rolls her eyes.
Miles smiles.
And part of me relaxes.
“We’re here to help wherever,” Zoey says. “If you need it.”
They all look so happy to be here—I’m not sure how to process the kindness.
“Oh, do you all know Lennon and her husband, Daniel?” I motion over to where my other friends are standing, pausing as the thought hits me—my other friends.
But I don’t have time to linger on it or continue the introductions because a man walks up to my booth and starts looking around.
“Claire,” Zoey hisses, giving me a wide-eyed look that’s clearly meant to remind me I’m not here to socialize. I step back behind the table as the group—my group—moves away from the booth, giving people space to browse.
Miles doesn’t move. Instead, he looks around at everything I’ve baked, eyes lingering on the Scotcheroos. He glances up and finds me watching him when I should be talking to my potential customer.
I force myself to get to work, thrilled when the man decides to buy a package of lemon bars. As he’s leaving, Zoey hurries over and gives him a flyer, telling him the details of the grand opening. “Two weeks. The perfect neighborhood bakery. Sit, sip, and stay awhile.”
Once the man has gone, she shoots me a look. “Sell yourself a little, Claire.”
Miles strolls up beside me, wearing one of my extra aprons. “She’s not going to do that,” he says to Zoey.
I frown. “How do you know?”
“It’s not your style,” he says. “There’s not an arrogant bone in your body.”
“It’s not arrogant to want to share the things you’re good at,” Zoey says.
Miles points to her, then to himself. “We know that.” Then he hitches a thumb in my direction. “She’s still learning.”
“I resent that,” I say. “I used to put together huge fundraisers all by myself. I was good at that.”
He crosses his arms and looks at me. “But did anyone know you were the one who did all the work?”
I fold my arms back, defiant, but finally admit, “No.”
“I thought so. Can you tell the next people who walk in here that your snickerdoodle scones are incredible? Or that the cookies are the perfect balance of crispy on the outside and soft in the center? Or that your lemon cake will make them want to be a kid on a trampoline again?”
I’m struggling to defend myself, because he’s right. “I... will... have a hard time with that.”
“So.” He makes a motion like he’s rolling up his sleeves, even though he’s wearing a white, short-sleeved Henley shirt with three buttons at the top. “Let us do it for you.”
Zoey’s eyes brighten. “Yes! We’ll be the cheer squad!”
An older woman walks up to the table and starts looking around. Miles grins. “I’ve got this.” He walks right up to the woman, who’s carrying two crocheted bags, one empty, one with vegetables in it. “Good morning!”
She looks up and, not surprisingly, seems instantly charmed by him. “Good morning.”
