Page 7 of Hot Shot
Taking a sip of coffee, I think about asking Rachel if I can work some of the later shifts. Having to go to bed so early every night makes it hard to have a social life or date.
Not that I’m ready to date yet but having a social life would be nice. But that would mean that I’d have to have someone to do something with, which unless you count my aunt or Rachel, I don’t have.
My thoughts drift to Hunter. I wonder what his story is.
From what I could tell, yes I checked him out so sue me, he was in amazing shape—his arms and legs were corded with muscles.
Is he obsessive about workouts or is it something to do with what he does for a living? Is he some secret billionaire recluse who’s going to meet a wild yoga instructor one day and fall in love? I laugh at the thought. I think I’m reading too many billionaire romance novels. Shaking my head and pushing away thoughts of the handsome stranger with a smile I can still picture when I close my eyes, I force myself to focus on my job.
The rest of the morning flies by and before I know it, Rachel is using her key to let herself in.
“Hey Madison. Morning.”
“Morning, Rachel. Everything’s all set.” I turn off my Kindle and turn on the coffee machine for her and Brandon, the other employee who will be arriving soon.
“Perfect. Thanks. What are you reading?” She grabs her apron off the hooks by the back door and ties it around her waist.
Rachel and I both love romance novels, specifically those written by indie authors, and we often chat about books in the mornings while we open the bakery. I tell her about the book I’m reading, and she asks me to text her the title so she can add it to her TBR—To Be Read—list.
“Not that it isn’t long enough. But what’s one more book? Besides, you haven’t steered me wrong yet.”
I chuckle and pull out my phone to text her. “Sent. How can I help?”
Rachel glances at the clock on the wall. “We should take these out front. Brandon will be here soon.”
We busy ourselves setting up the display cases, and at six thirty on the dot Rachel changes the Closed sign to Open and unlocks the door as Brandon comes out from the kitchen.
Crinkling my forehead, I take in his royal-blue shirt with some sort of cloud or storm on the front. “What are you wearing?”
“This?” he asks, tugging on his shirt. “It’s the Orlando Storm, our hockey team. You don’t know them?” He furrows his brow at me.
Great.Just what I need.
Before I can say anything, he rambles on, waving his hands around. “They’re good. Won their third Cup in a row about eight years ago. Haven’t won since, but they’ve made it to the playoffs the past couple of years. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of them, Madison.”
“I-I don’t care for hockey,” I mumble, wanting this conversation to end. “Too violent. Too much fighting.”
It’s not true at all. I love hockey. But hockey and I are on the outs right now. Have been since earlier this year so I settle for a little white lie to hopefully stop him from asking questions.
I can’t get a good read on the guy—he seems friendly enough, but he also has a penchant for gossip. When he found out I used to work in Nashville, he wanted to know which celebrities I’d made cakes for, if I’d ever gone to any celebrity parties, what tea I could spill.
Of which there was none. Even if there was, I wouldn’t tell him. I think he spends too much time on TMZ’s website. For all I know he reports for them.
“What are our drink specials today?” Rachel asks.
I breathe a sigh of relief as Brandon launches into a very animated explanation of his newest drink. Which apparently he’s calling the Summer Storm.
He’s a great barista. Customers are always raving about his drinks, and we usually sell a ton of whatever weekly special he comes up with. I just wish he wasn’t so interested in gossip because if he found out who I was connected to here in Orlando I know the questions would never stop.
I take that as my cue to slip back into the kitchen to finish a gender reveal cake that’s going to be picked up today.
A couple of hours later, I step back to admire my handiwork. The client—Jenna, a friend of the couple—had handed me a sealed envelope, telling me that the gender of the baby was in there and she wanted the inside of the cake to be either blue or pink, depending on the gender. She also told me that the party was hockey themed and she wanted the cake to go with the theme.
I’m proud of the final product. I made pucks out of chocolate covered Oreos and added a net and hockey sticks, all of which are edible. I used white chocolate icing for the ice and red and blue icing to draw the lines. The inside is a vanilla cake dyed blue.
“Madison.” Rachel peeks her head into the kitchen. “Your customer is here.”
“Perfect timing,” I say wiping my hands on my apron and stepping back to admire my decorating skills one last time before gently sliding the cake into a box and making my way out of the kitchen.
