Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“Sorry not sorry,” I call over my shoulder.
Hitting the elevator button with my elbow, I re-tie the bandana on my head and swipe at my forehead with my sleeve.
I glance at my cart to double check I’ve got everything I need.
Coffee, cups, lids, ice: check.
Four dozen veggie-and-egg muffins for the low-carb bros on the FX desk: check. I make them with the secret ingredient of cottage cheese to keep them light and fluffy.
Four dozen English muffin breakfast sandwiches: check.
Six dozen muffins in my most popular flavors: check. The blueberry streusel muffins always sell well, as does our spring seasonal special of rhubarb and buttermilk.
But it’s the triple-chocolate variety that are a fan favorite. I use a moist, velvety milk chocolate batter spiked with espresso that took my entire junior year of college to perfect. It’s dotted with semisweet chocolate chips and topped with a white-chocolate-dipped espresso bean.
Brooks’s favorite. He’s a fitness-obsessed machine with seven-percent body fat, but he’s got a serious sweet tooth that I’m all too happy to indulge because . . . yeah, I may or may not have a little crush on him.
A major crush, if I’m being honest. One that’s lasted fifteen years. I’ve been smitten with Brooks since I was eight, when my brother George, who’s eleven years older than I am, introduced Brooks and me at their first Parents’ Weekend at Duke. They were roommates and rowed crew together. Now they work in the same investment banking group at A&T.
Not like I’d ever have a chance in hell with Brooks. Not only would my brother murder him if we got involved, but Brooks is totally out of my league. He’s gorgeous. Successful. Rich. For years I’ve watched him go home with any and every girl he wants. And those girls were all like him: polished and pretty and accomplished. Age-appropriate too.
No way he’d go for an awkward, twenty-three-year-old muffin girl who’s still hanging on to her V-card. A broke muffin girl at that. Until very recently, every cent I’ve made has either gone back into the business, or been distributed to my investors (read: my parents and my brother).
It was a big deal, and an even bigger headache, to land the contract I did last year to bring breakfast to Atlas & Teton’s trading floor. I promised to be there twice a week from 6:15 to 9:15 a.m. with enough grub to keep the salespeople and traders fueled throughout their morning.
This means I’m usually at the bakery by four. When Hannah and Dustin first started at Drury Lane, they’d arrive around then too. But now they come in closer to five or five-thirty. I should talk to them about it, but I feel bad for them. I don’t think either of them is sleeping much because they’re both hurting so badly. They could use the extra hour of rest right now. When they’re able to keep their heads above the water, I’ll sit them down.
Until then, I just hustle a little harder.
The elevator dings. A guy jogs up behind me and immediately moves to hold open the doors. He’s dressed in khakis and a white button-up, and his sandy brown hair is neatly parted to the side. Broad shoulders. Not tall, but not short, either. About my age.
Cute.
The kind of cute that makes my palms sweat. Because I’m not enough of a sweaty mess as it is in my pit-stained tee and flour-dusted Nikes. He turns his head and smiles at me, a handsome, clean-cut quirk of his lips, and my face burns.
“After you,” he says.
“Thanks.” I wheel my enormous cart into the elevator and pray my Levi’s don’t wedge themselves up my ass. I’ve been stress-eating any carb I can get my hands on these days, and all of my pants are tight. Especially this pair, made from that dumb rigid denim I love to hate.
Needless to say, I’m not thrilled the nineties are back.
The guy steps into the elevator with me and the doors close behind him. Terrible, awkward silence swells between us, and I want to die.
I also want to get laid.
Correction: I want to have some fun. It’s been in short supply since I graduated from college and dove right into opening Drury Lane.
Despite being busy as hell—I’m grateful for it, don’t get me wrong—I find myself feeling overwhelmed. Frustrated. And really, really lonely.
But did I mention I was awkward? I can’t pick up a guy to save my life. I blame it on not having any time to shower, much less flirt. But my dry streak is so epic it’s bordering on tragic. I need to figure something out, if only to give my vibrator a break.
The guy surveys the Saran-wrapped trays on my cart. “Looks incredible. You make all this?”
Be cool be cool be cool.
I smile. “Yup. I own the muffin bakery downstairs. Drury Lane?” I point to my T-shirt, and his eyes flick to my chest.