coffee, and put aspirin beside my bed. Ugh, the jerk.
When you say it all together like that, it paints him as the knight in shining armor just like he wants. It’s his tactic—I know it—and I will not aid his campaign of complete world domination.
Once I finish talking with Mama, I pull on my sexy new sweatshirt (That’s right, fellas. I’m single and totally ready to mingle) and go back inside. Unfortunately, Ryan is still on my mind. I need to get him out. So, only to prove to myself how much I really don’t care about Ryan, I find the clutch I carried with me last night and dig through it, intending to pull out my secret weapon: random guy’s number.
Sure, I don’t remember what he looks like…I think he had brown hair? And I don’t remember if I told myself to throw his number away or call him first thing in the morning, so I think I’ll split the difference and text him. A fun dinner date with a cute guy is exactly what I need to remind myself that Ryan means nothing to me anymore.
Except the phone number is not here. It’s been replaced with a note from a psychopath.
He was a tool. You can thank me later.
I won’t thank him later. I will replace his shampoo with Elmer’s glue later.
I pull into the parking lot of Darlin’ Donuts around 6 AM, see my employee Nichole’s car, and thank my lucky stars that I no longer have to do the graveyard shift. Perks of being an owner: I never have to work from 3 AM to 6 AM prepping the dough if I don’t want to—which I never do. Having to be here at six is bad enough. And honestly, right now I would give this whole bakery up to the highest bidder if it meant I could just go home and sleep. Five whole dollars?! Sure, why not! Can I go home now?
Too bad it’s so early that I don’t even pass anyone on the street to give them the purchasing option. Plus, there’s already a space for sale across the street from us. Pretty sure if someone was in the market, they’d snatch that little shack up in a heartbeat. And I must really be hungover to keep dwelling on this ridiculous hypothetical.
Instead of being relieved of my bakery-owner duties, I’m forced to nurse my head all morning as I’m rolling out dough, resisting the urge to toss up my cookies at the smell of donuts in the fryer.
Sometime around ten o’clock, after the morning rush has faded out and we are nearly sold out of our most popular donuts, I see Stacy enter the bakery. She’s wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap, and her blonde ponytail is waving down her back with leftover curls from last night. She looks like a celebrity trying to sneak in a few thousand calories with no one knowing she actually eats food.
“You’re brave, showing your face around here,” I say as she approaches the counter.
“Ugh. I feel like someone tried to kill me but then decided to keep me alive just enough so they could continue torturing my body slowly and painfully.”
“Really? I feel amazing.”
“You do?!”
I don’t have the luxury of wearing sunglasses to aid my pounding head, so Stacy has a front-row seat to my icy glare. “No! I got two hours of sleep before I had to wake up and open the shop. Gosh, I’m never touching alcohol again. It’s prune juice for this grandma from now on.”
Stacy has the audacity to laugh, because apparently, she’s hoping to get punched today. “It’s your own fault. No one forced those last few Jell-O shots down your throat.”
“No, it’s your fault for planning a bachelorette party on a Sunday night!”
Stacy shrugs a shoulder. “Sunday nights are less busy.”
“Yeah, no kidding. No sensible person wants to show up to work hungover the next day.”
“Don’t be mad at me because you lost your cool around Ryan McHotChef.”
I point a finger at her. “First, that’s a terrible nickname. Second, you’re already on thin ice, ma’am. Keep it up and you’ll need to give your heart to Jesus.”
“I already have, and you sound just like Bonnie.”
“Thank you.”
She chuckles and rounds the donut counter to stand next to me. Brave move. “Okay, time to get your panties out of a wad, because we need to talk.” Something in her voice makes me feel like we are about to break up. And I say