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)
But most of the crowd is still here, and even as his assistant lines us up for the group pic, I’m pretty sure the folks in the front row are snapping pics of me. The people behind them too. Come to think of it, most of the phones are angled my way. Should I ham it up? Lean into my fifteen minutes of viral fame? I might as well smile. There’s no such thing as bad publicity, right? Before I know it, I’ll be The Inventive Baker. Or The Fast on Her Feet Baker.
Ronnie steps in front of me for the official pic, so I have to kind of peek around him to be seen. I smile for the camera without looking like I’m photobombing. At least, not too much.
When the photographer lowers her Nikon, Poppy materializes at my side, thrusting a canvas bag my way. It’s full of…my things. My measuring cups and spoons, some of the special tools for my frosting, and so on.
“Thank you so much,” she says, then snags a piece of paper from her back pocket. “A voucher to validate your parking.” She points toward the tent’s exit.
In case I was thinking of lingering, the message is clear—don’t.
“Thanks for everything, Poppy. Sorry again about the—”
“It’s all done,” she says tightly.
That’s clear. Time to go.
Chastened, I adjust the bag on my shoulder and head through the romance fair toward the exit, which is full of late afternoon sunlight. I check the time—it’s just past four. The contest started this morning, and it’s been…a day.
As I walk past a long row of food stalls, my phone trills.
Maybe it’s Corbin. But what would he say? What would I say? I’m still not sure how to process that hot, melty, body-rubbing, pelvis-grinding, out-of-nowhere dirty, filthy kiss. But when I grab my phone from my back pocket, I see it’s the banker guy I’m meeting with tomorrow before my volunteer shift at the animal rescue.
“Hello?” I’m wary since I wasn’t expecting a call.
“Hey, Mabel, it’s Jonas over at Neighborhood Capital Trust and Loan. How the heck are you?”
I’ve never spoken to Jonas before. We’ve only emailed. I didn’t realize he was so laid-back. So easygoing. What a change from Ronnie. “I’m fine,” I say, careful but hopeful. “Everything set for tomorrow?”
I plan to make my pitch in person, even though I’ve already emailed him my business plan.
“Actually, the committee meets today to finalize our small business loan portfolio for this quarter. Any chance I could convince you to drop by in the next half hour or so? Just need you to sign this proof of income. Cross the t’s and dot the i’s, and all.”
Sunshine floods my chest. That’s good news. Maybe that means I got the last spot for the quarter. I cross my fingers. “Of course. I can be there by four-thirty.”
“Sweet. Perfect timing.”
“It is,” I say and hang up. This is wild. My grandmother always said timing is everything. She always encouraged me to chase my dreams, whatever they were. She always said, You’ll know when things are right. This feels right.
I hustle down the aisle toward the exit of the romance fair, and I spot Corbin up ahead, headed the same way. He’s walking with two guys who also look like they juggle couches for fun. One’s in a sapphire blue suit with a plaid print, the other’s in dark purple. I can’t tell from the back who exactly they are, but I know they must be his teammates.
My pulse goes haywire, but it’s not simply residual excitement. I don’t have time right now for awkward conversations with Corbin and the guys, especially with my panties still annoyingly damp.
I hope he walks quickly, and then I won’t have to pass him. But they’re doing that athlete swagger, taking their sweet-ass time as they stroll, knowing they don’t have to rush unless they’re on the ice.
Meanwhile, I’m trying out for the Olympic race-walking event.
Head down, I push ahead, hoping to avoid him without being a dick. But as I near the trio, Corbin notices me out of the corner of his eye and lifts a finger toward me. Our eyes connect, and he gives me a nod.
A fucking nod.
Like a Thanks for the good times nod?
Or a Don’t acknowledge me nod?
I don’t know. But it doesn't matter. Even though that kiss was insanely good—and almost a whole lot more than a kiss—it wasn’t a start-of-an-indecent-affair kiss. I barely wave at him, then I just…sail out of there, aiming to put that trailer incident behind me, because an in-person meeting with a banker has to be a good sign. Maybe my frosting fiasco has appeared online but people are admiring how I saved it with the smash-cake comment. Perhaps the bank’s excited about my ability to improvise.
I race to the parking garage then hop in my car, ready to scurry across town. Once I hand over the parking voucher, I hit my friend Remy’s name on my phone. I need to process this loan news with a friend, and she’s one of those people who knows a little bit about everything because her job involves research into, well, everything.