Morning smelled like burnt sugar and disappointment.
I was elbow-deep in a half-wrecked order and already halfway through losing my voice, standing outside The Sweet Theory with my apron crusted in flour and my patience hanging by a thread.
“You said before seven,” I snapped, pointing at the dented back of a van that smelled suspiciously like onions. “That was the agreement. Not seven fifteen. Not whenever-you-felt-like-crawling-out-of-bed o’clock. Seven. Sharp.”
The delivery guy, a teenager with too many piercings and not enough caffeine, scratched the back of his neck. “Traffic was hell, okay? And Derek had to switch vans with me because the regular one got towed. I’m doing my best.”
“Your best is currently giving me wilted strawberries and the wrong kind of chocolate. Again.”
He he
