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“We always vote for Jon,” Mira told Beth Montgomery. “Thank you and have a nice—”
“Wait, this isn’t a political call,” Beth said. “I’ll only take a moment of your time, I swear.”
“Okay.” Mira was still dubious, but she didn’t want to be rude to some staffer who probably spent most of her day having people treat her like shit. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m not sure if you know this, but Senator Richardson is a big fan of music, especially 1990s alternative rock. There are grunge band posters all over his office, and the break room, and the staff bathroom. So much flannel.”
“That’s…interesting,” Mira said slowly, not entirely sure how to respond to that random factoid about a state senator.
“Who is it?” Jen whispered. “What’s happening?”
Mira held up a finger while Beth Montgomery said, “The other day, a man named Cole Sanderson, he was apparently the drummer for a ’90s band called the Markers—”
“Makers,” Mira corrected the twenty-something sounding woman, her interest in the conversation abruptly sparked.
“Oh, right. Sorry. The Makers. Anyway, Mr. Sanderson posted a reel on Instagram about your bakery. Senator Richardson saw the reel and visited your website. Are you still making wedding cakes?”
Mira burst into laughter. “Is this a prank? Did Cole put you up to this?”
“No, ma’am. Senator Richardson would like to know if you still make wedding cakes.”
Mira blinked.
“What is it?” Jen whispered louder, leaning in to try to hear the conversation.
Putting the call on speaker, Mira set her phone on the counter between them.
“I realize this may seem like a strange call,” Beth said with a nervous laugh. “But the senator’s daughter is getting married next month in Bozeman, and he is very interested in having your bakery supply the wedding cake. He thinks your cakes are”—she cleared her throat—“‘fun, flirty, and original.’”
Jen’s hand flew to her mouth, covering her snort.
“He said that?” Mira had a hard time imagining Jon Richardson with his cowboy boots and his flattop haircut and his big farmer’s shoulders hopping off his tractor to call her baked goodsflirty.
“Verbatim. He doesn’t like being misquoted. But he does like promoting small businesses in Montana. He also said something about tagging Mr. Sanderson in a social media post with the cake to get ‘another degree closer to Eddie Vedder.’ I don’t remember his exact wording, so please don’t quote him—or me—on that.”
“She does make wedding cakes,” Jen said, leaning in. “Beautiful, amazing, one-of-a-kind wedding cakes.”
“That’s great.” Beth sounded more relieved than anything else. “If you accept the senator’s offer, we’ll include QR codes that link directly to your bakery on all the dessert napkins. We’ll also post professional pictures of the cake across all the Senator’s social media platforms as well as on his website. It will be great publicity for you.”
Raising her stunned gaze from her phone, Mira stared at Jen, who beamed back at her while bouncing on her toes. This was enormous, monumental, gargantuan, the biggest opportunity she’d ever had or would probably ever get.
“Unfortunately, we’re in a time crunch, and the senator needs an answer”—Beth cleared her throat again—“‘in two shakes of a lamb’s heinie.’ His words. Are you interested?”
“Yes!” Mira and Jen shouted at the same time.
“Fantastic. I’ll text you the senator’s daughter’s contact information. She’s expecting your call. Have a great day, and don’t forget to vote Jon!”
The call ended.
Jen’s eyes flared wide.
Mira shouted, “Holy shit!” Then she ran around the counter and grabbed Jen by her arms, and they jumped up and down like two tweens who’d scored Taylor Swift tickets.
“I can’t believe it,” Mira said.
“I totally can. But I need to stop jumping.”
“Why?”
