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)
“Of course. How else would we know when something is low?”
By checking. But I don’t say that since different strokes and all. “Are his pantry shelves labeled?”
“You’re creating a monster, you know that, Charlotte?” Corbin asks.
But Charlotte seems to like feeding me. “He keeps ingredients on particular shelves. And don’t even try to put anything away on the wrong shelf. I’m pretty sure my dad has a camera in the pantry.”
“I do not,” Corbin says with a huff.
“Dad! If I put something in the wrong place, you’ll come in and move it back where it belongs.”
“Like, the next day,” he retorts.
She shakes her head. “Within hours, Dad. You hate mess.”
Mess.
For a few seconds, that word rolls down my spine uncomfortably.
Messes…like me?
I mean, it’s a fact I’m a bit of a hot mess.
But hot messes like to have fun, so I keep feeding quarters into Charlotte as we sample the treats. “Can you get video of him reorganizing his shelves for me? I feel like that would be something I could watch over and over while eating popcorn.”
Her grin is the stuff of legend. “I can do that. It’s like a homework assignment.”
I smile smugly before I look at Corbin, who’s heaving a sigh as if he can’t quite believe Charlotte is rolling over on him so quickly.
I can’t quite believe I ever worried we might not get along. Turns out teasing this man is a shared passion.
“One more thing, Arbiter,” I say after another bite of the dark chocolate brownie.
She straightens her shoulders. “Yes?”
“I don’t like nuts. So can you vote on the seven-layer bar for me? I’m pretty sure your dad wants to marry it. But what do you think?”
With a laugh, she says, “He definitely wants to marry it. But in his defense, it’s really good.”
“Noted. We need to have one on our menu then,” I say.
“Definitely,” Corbin and Charlotte agree in unison.
“Will you put it on your task management list?” I ask.
Her fingers fly across the screen of her phone. “Do you want me to share that with you?”
“I would love that,” I say, and a few seconds later it’s on my phone too.
I think I’m in love. With the colors, the programs, her fantastic little managerial mind, and her affection for poking fun at her dad.
Next stop is a bakery on Fillmore Street. Charlotte’s got the hang of it already, assessing the decor, the display case, the vibes, and then the pastries.
We order a selection—chocolate chip cookies, a snickerdoodle, and a lemon poppyseed cake—then find a small table by the window.
I break a chocolate chip cookie in half and offer her a piece. “When did your dad teach you how to bake?”
“Actually, my grandma did,” she says, taking the piece and chewing. “She was amazing in the kitchen. Baking is like a science, that’s what she always told me. That might be why I like it so much.”
“My mom,” Corbin confirms, but there’s something heavy in his voice.
I file that away as I turn back to Charlotte. “Were you close with her?”
“She lived with us for a while. Well, right next to us. Like in a little house across the yard. It was nice to have her so near. She died a couple years ago.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say to her, then I turn to Corbin, my throat tightening. “I’m so sorry about your mom.”
He gives a solemn but grateful nod. “Thanks,” he says, then takes a beat. “She…left me her recipes.”
“Oh, Corbin,” I say, clasping my hand to my heart. That just does something to me. Tugs on all my heartstrings. “That’s lovely. You’ll be using some of them in our bakery, right?”
“Count on it,” he says with a note of emotion in his voice I haven’t heard before. And a promise too. “She loved baking so much. It was her passion. But it was hard for her in the end.”
I wait for him to supply more info. He doesn’t though. Instead, he takes a bite of another cookie, and maybe that’s all he wants to say now.
I pause for a few seconds, then ask the next thing on my mind. “Is she why you wanted to do this?”
“She is,” he says, full of vulnerability but also restraint. There’s more to the story, but it’s clear he’s not ready to share it, so I focus on our market research, taking notes with his daughter, and then moving along to our final stop—a cupcake shop in the Marina District that’s become all the rage.
While we’re there, we take bites of their top picks and then make a list of our favorite flavors.
“My grandma always said cupcakes should focus on flavor, not flash,” Charlotte offers.
I think on that for a minute, then nod. “No candy on the top.”
“No too-tall swirls,” Corbin says.
“No monster-size cupcakes,” Charlotte puts in.
“Just rich, good, real flavors,” I say.