Free Tasty by Bella Cruise Page B

buy
anything?”
    “I’m
afraid not, Ms. Rockwell,” he says, with a stern shake of his
head. I slide my key into the door and start unlocking it, trying to
stay calm. But inside, my mind is a jumble of panic. “It seems
we’ve received a complaint about your shop.”
    I
force a laugh, even though I’m terrified. Stores have been shut
down over anonymous complaints, and Reynolds is a notorious hard-ass
on the South Florida restaurant circuit.
    “That
can’t be true,” I say. When I glance at him, I see how
he’s knit his brow.
    “Are
you calling me a liar?”
    “Why,
uh, no. Of course not,” I say quickly. He gives his head a
stout nod.
    “Good.
I’ll need to conduct an inspection.”
    “Of
course,” I say. I go to stand behind the counter, where I wait
awkwardly. I can’t figure out what to do with my hands as I
watch him turn every crumb and cupcake plate over. Finally, I fold
them in my lap. I feel like a schoolgirl who has done something
naughty, like I should be apologizing. But why? I haven’t done
a thing!
    “What
year was this stove built, Ms. Rockwell?” he demands, in a
voice that’s less a question and more of a command. I shake my
head.
    “I’m
not sure. 1965 or ’66. I forget . . .”
    His
gaze tells me that I should know this. He opens the oven and peeks
inside. Then he pulls out a Q-tip, swabs it along the griddle, and
holds it up to the light.
    “There’s
some sort of residue. I’ll have to send it in for analysis . .
.”
    He
drops the Q-tip in a plastic baggie. Then he turns back toward our
employee bathroom.
    “I’ll
need to check that you have appropriate signage regarding
hand-washing over the toilet.”
    “O
. . .kay,” I say slowly. Our signs are bolted to the wall.
Where does he think they might have gone in four months? But soon he
disappears behind the door anyway. I’m relieved to be out of
his presence for a few moments—even more relieved when the door
swings open and a young woman steps inside.
    “Hi!”
she says cheerfully, “I was wondering if you make birthday
cakes?”
    I
brighten. It’s been weeks since I’ve gotten to do any big
projects, not since Mrs. O’Gilligan’s Pink Surprise
order, in fact.
    “Of
course we do,” I tell her, and bring out my portfolio book,
which is filled with big, colorful photos of all of my best cakes. I
try to ignore Mr. Reynolds when he steps back into the store and
toward my stock room. Instead, I open the book to a few designs.
    “What
are you looking for?”
    “Um,
like a sheet cake, I think? It’s for my husband. He’s
turning thirty.”
    “Lucky
man,” I say with a grin. “What kind of cake does he
like?”
    “Um,
yellow? I think . . .” She starts to page slowly through the
designs. Usually, uncertain customers drive me batty. I prefer people
who know what they want, so I can give them exactly what they ask
for. But I’m so glad to have any business that I don’t
mind at all. I pore over the designs with her.
    “This
looks nice,” she says softly, pointing at a cake covered in
white frosting, with a sweet strawberry filling sandwiched between
the layers. It’s simple, traditional. A breath of fresh air
after so much time spent thinking about Cal McKenzie’s gourmet
cupcake monstrosities.
    But
then Mr. Reynolds appears from the back room, holding a jar of
something brown.
    “Ms.
Rockwell!” he exclaims, shaking the jar. “Is this mouse
feces?”
    I
glance at the customer. Her jaw’s dropped in horror.
    “Um,
I think I should . . .” And without even finishing her
sentence, she rushes from the store. I lift my hands to my face.
    “Those
are chocolate
jimmies !”
I exclaim. Mr. Reynolds uncaps the jar, and sniffs at the contents.
Then he nods, satisfied.
    “Quite
right,” he says curtly.
    That’s
when I spot a figure outside the shop window. Tall, muscular, with
rakish hair and a wicked grin at my expense. I stalk outside, leaving
Mr. Reynolds to take apart my cupcake case.
    “You!”
I roar.