Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
He’d probably hate me even more now that I’m also Mabel’s brand-new business partner. Especially since I’m very much looking forward to seeing her tomorrow.
And I’m wondering if she’ll be wearing a new bra.
That night, as I do a light stretch in my home gym once Charlotte’s in bed, my thoughts are entirely too tangled up. There’s so much to do to open a business. I knew that. Of course, I knew that. But still, one thing smashes into another like bumper cars in my head.
What to make.
How many items to offer.
What people want the most.
What will surprise them.
I’m not sure I have any answers after I finish my hamstring stretches on the foam roller. I leave the gym and head to the kitchen on autopilot, the faint counter lights guiding me there while the fridge emits a welcoming hum.
I breathe a little easier when I reach the kitchen island. This room feels like it has a heartbeat and has been a safe space ever since my mom taught me to bake and cook. I never knew my father; he was a no-name, one-time kind of guy, and that’s fine with me. Growing up, it was just Mom and me baking until she met Ray, my stepdad, when I was ten or eleven. After that, it was often the three of us in the kitchen, the one place where I stopped thinking only about hockey, stopped running plays, stopped picturing wrist shots, stopped imagining how to make them better.
It was relaxing.
Tonight, I don’t need to relax. I do need to work through some of these ideas though. I lean on the counter and click on the tablet I keep there. I swipe open my recipe app, jotting down some notes.
Maybe something with pretzels? The salty snack is a secret weapon when it comes to baked goods. Mix it with chocolate, and it’s heaven on a plate. I note a few more ideas, then close the tablet, ready to hit the hay.
Except…
I check the time. It’s earlyish.
Ah, hell. Why not?
I open the pantry and grab the ingredients, then find a playlist on my phone that’s usually better suited for a gym. But the workout music keeps my rhythm as I mix and measure, whisk and bake.
Finally, my mind settles as I finish making a sweet and salty bar with a graham cracker crust and salty pretzels, topped with bittersweet chocolate chips and a sprinkle of sea salt.
I take a bite, and damn. This is fucking good. So good, it’d be a sin to keep them to myself.
I find a delivery service and place an order for pick-up in the morning. Can’t hurt for my business partner to taste these too.
12
SWEET EDGING
MABEL
I read the note again. It’s one sentence, but the fact that it’s a letter makes my heart beat faster than I want it to.
Dear Mabel,
You seem like a salty and a sweet.
Corbin
I run my finger over the sentence, even though it’s typed out on a sheet of white paper. But it’s signed by him in ink. I don’t know why this delights me so much. Maybe because no man has ever sent me gifts of food. Dax certainly never did. Nor did other guys I dated. Maybe I got flowers once in a while, and hey, flowers are nice, so I’m not dissing them. But what’s even nicer than flowers? A personalized, homemade gift.
Not that Corbin and I are dating. Of course we’re not dating. But even so, his words feel true, and I feel understood.
I am both salty and sweet.
I reach into the Tupperware container that a delivery service dropped off five minutes ago, with the note on top.
I take a bite of the bar, and I know two things instantly.
That we must serve it, and how we’ll present it—with a heart-shaped piece of paper that says You’re My Salty and My Sweet.
I open the design software on my phone and whip up a simple graphic, which I send to him.
Mabel: What do you think?
Corbin: And here I was just hoping you’d like the taste.
Mabel: I do. I really do. What do you think of the description? It’s like a story for the item!
Corbin: I didn’t realize baked goods needed a name or a story.
Mabel: Every baked good needs both, but especially a story.
Corbin: Speaking of names, are you ever going to tell me the name of the bakery?
Mabel: Soon.
This is presumptuous. This is so presumptuous. But I’m presuming he’ll like my potential name. Still, I’m having too much fun teasing the reveal. So as I finish getting ready to meet him, twisting my hair into my lucky clip in the bathroom, I dictate another text.
Mabel: I know I left you hanging with the name.
Corbin: Yes. You did. I was…hung.
Mabel: I see what you just did.
Corbin: What did I do, Mabel?