Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
The woman with the cart gives me a brilliant, customer-service-like smile as I approach. “Hi there! Can I interest you in some delicious baked goods?”
I cross my arms over my chest and slowly walk around the cart, eyeing everything. There are flat, puddle-like cookies. The saddest-looking tiny pies with even sadder crusts. A set of discs on a stick that I don’t know what they’re supposed to be. Muffins that look like rocks.
“You made all this?” I ask.
Her sunny smile remains. “I did.”
“Wow.”
“What would you like?” she prompts, picking up a pair of tongs.
“None of it.”
Her face falls, the cheerful smile disappearing under something hard and defensive. “If you don’t have something nice to say, then go away.” At her side, the carinoux tenses, sensing her distress. She flicks the tongs at me in a shooing motion. “Let me spend my time with paying customers.”
“Whatever they’re paying, it’s too much,” I retort as I walk away.
The nerve of some people, making a quick buck off of the nostalgia of others.
CHAPTER
TWO
RUTH-ANN
The baker continues to bother me every time I see her. And since I go off-ship and into Port on a daily basis, her presence bothers me every morning, noon, and night. The moment I see that shitty cart of hers, a low, burning anger takes over my brain.
She has a carinoux, so she obviously has money. But it’s clear that she’s not sinking that cash into her business. Her cart looks like it’s on its last legs. The umbrella? Limp. Her branding? Even limper than the umbrella.
She has customers every day. Every flipping day, her cart sells out of baked goods. I know there are other people in town that bake. I know that anyone can start a business and the locals will support it. I’ve bought hand-made soaps and hand-poured candles in every scent this planet makes. I’ve bought jams out the ass. I buy green vegetables and local milk every time it’s in the shop. I buy butter. I support a cottage industry, damn it.
Just not a shitty, low-effort one.
“You’re glaring again,” Zaemen says as we head toward the cantina.
“I’m not,” I protest, but I totally am. I can feel my face tightening the moment the baker’s laughter floats down the street. And since she seems to be happy all the time, I hear her laughing a lot. It grates on my nerves, because her smile fools everyone into buying her terrible cookies and the burned monstrosities she calls brownies.
I slow my steps as the bakery cart comes into sight. She has a line. A freaking line. It’s like people can’t wait to get their hands on the world’s worst muffins.
“You are,” Zaemen says. “Come on. I need to get this saw over to the cantina and it’s heavy. I’m not a clone built for heavy lifting.”
“Just…give me a moment.”
“No, Ruth-Ann,” he groans. “We don’t have to go by the cart every day—”
“I’ll just be a moment.” I ignore his protests and the large saw-thing in his arms with all the cords. He’s totally built for carrying things, and it’s not like I’m going to be long. I’m not going to get close enough that her carinoux growls. I just want to see what Simone has for sale today.
So I can judge silently.
A woman walks away with a bag of pastries, and Simone turns her cheery smile to the next customer in line. Her gaze flicks over to me and then she just as quickly looks away again. That’s fine. She can ignore me all she likes. It’s not like I’m trying to buy any of her food.
“What can I get you, Mel?” She beams a mega-watt smile at the woman in front of the cart. “The thumbprint cookies were made just this morning.”
“Ooh.” Mel leans in, eyeing the baked goods. I slide in beside her so I can get a look, too. Thumbprint cookies are supposed to be dainty little things, a white sugar cookie with a dollop of jam in the center. These, I’m unsurprised to see, are large and flat, with a huge wad of jam in the center. She’s shaped it like a clumsy heart, which would be cute if she was a toddler. But she’s not, and all I can see are the flaws.
“Those are huge,” I point out helpfully. “Not really a thumbprint. Unless you’re using your carinoux’s thumbs.”
Simone’s gaze shoots daggers at me. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
“No rush. I’m not buying anything.” I smirk at her and walk away, feeling satisfied. At least she knows what she’s done wrong now. She can fix it for the future.
Really, I’m just doing her a favor.
“Can we please keffing go now,” Zaemen asks, juggling the bulky saw in his arms. The cords are trailing down on the ground around him, and he looks highly annoyed. “Are you done with your flirting?”