isn’t it? You honestly put together the most amazing flavor combinations.”
I wave off the compliment, getting emotional about the whole thing. While I’m not going to miss the cramped quarters of the cupcake truck, we’ve been working together for a long time and he’s been a good friend and partner.
He gives me a side hug, grabs the Tupperware and heads out. I’ll see him at the crack of dawn on opening morning so I can decorate the cupcakes and make sure everything is picture perfect.
A few hours later, Lumberjerk passes by my front window, waving jovially.
Such a jerk.
As the week progresses I decide that my disdain for Ronan is completely justified. He’s a dick. A giant, stupidly attractive dick who always wears long-sleeved plaid shirts—yes, I totally made up the flannel part—rolled up to his elbows with another shirt underneath it. And jeans. And work boots. Every damn day.
How do I know this?
Because every single day he passes my storefront at some point and makes a big show of waving exuberantly while shouting hello.
And yesterday he was wearing a pair of black, thick-rimmed glasses. It’s all too much. And annoying.
Especially since he seems to love getting under my skin.
Every day I find a flyer tucked into one of my flowerpots for some kind of class or session to help “calm the restless soul.” One has a coupon for three free yoga sessions, which I’d be tempted to use if I actually had time for yoga. The next day he leaves me a brochure warning me about the effects of too much sugar and caffeine. It’s even accompanied with lavender oil.
But what really takes the cupcake are the contents of the cardboard box I find sitting in front of my door this morning. I’m hesitant to open it, assuming something is going to jump out at me. I’m relieved to find nothing living, or dead, inside the box. That relief is short-lived, though, because inside the box is my unicorn martini glass. Except it’s been reassembled ass backward—quite literally. There are now plaid accents and a little logo with a guy in a suit of armor wearing one of those old-school nightcaps where its eyes used to be. Also, the horn is sticking out of its butt.
Half of me is annoyed and the other half is impressed that he took the time to do this to needle me. Again. It’s a hideous, yet quite amazing work of art. Not that I would ever admit that to his face.
On the upside, the constant banging seems to have stopped. The paper is still on the windows, so I’m assuming it’s going to be a while before the place opens. Although a new sign was put up yesterday boasting the name THE KNIGHT CAP in masculine gold letters. I’m almost surprised there isn’t some kind of plaid on the signage. I’m sure there will be loads of it making the interior extra gaudy.
But today I could care less about Lumberjerk, because it’s my grand opening and it’s going to be amazing. My Instagram following is already over one thousand, my Facebook page has double that. More than two hundred and fifty coupons have been downloaded.
I’ve been here since four in the morning frosting and decorating cupcakes. We have hundreds ready to roll, and Paul has a contingency plan should I be a little too hopeful about opening day. The display case is perfectly organized and prepared; the specials board is a work of art.
I make sure today’s featured cupcakes and drinks are front and center in the showcase: a lemon drop cupcake with lemon curd filling and a tangy lemon buttercream complemented by a delicious, tart, lemon drop martini. Its counterpart is a bourbon bacon cupcake with maple buttercream icing paired with a smoky bourbon old-fashioned topped with a strip of maple candy bacon. Yes, I’ve already Instagrammed them.
The sandwich menu is simple, yet the variety is pleasing enough for every palate and the array of savory and sweet scones, plus coffee and tea options, make this the only cupcake cocktail café of its kind.
I step outside and set up my A-frame sign boasting today’s specials and my quote of the day:
“WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS MAKE LEMON DROP MARTINIS!”
I double and triple check that the bar is stocked, the coffee is ready to be poured, the hot water is prepped for tea and Callie is comfortable with her counter duties. She’s my only employee—because one person is all I can reasonably afford to