Chapter 1
As I stare at mysuitcase that’s splayed open on top of my bed, I wonder, not for the firsttime, if maybe I shouldn’t have signed up for this thing. The Small BusinessConvention is held in Phoenix, Arizona every year, and every year since Iopened my bakery I told myself I would go. But I was only twenty years old thefirst time so I felt unprepared. Now, at twenty-two, with two full years ofbusiness ownership under my belt, I am still exactly as unprepared as ever.
I have no clue whatI’m doing.
The convention issupposed to be a way to network with other business owners, and find newproducts and services that will help you streamline your work and make moreprofit. It all looks amazing online, and on the social media photos I stalkevery year. There’s a large vender area where people give away samples of allkinds of things from T-shirts to iPads. I want to go just for the free swag,not to mention the networking opportunity. My business is doing well, but Ilive in a small town and I’m probably missing out on so much valuableinformation to help my business grow.
I heave a sigh andtell myself I’ve got this. I’m probably the most positive person out of all ofmy friends. I’m upbeat and cheerful and I’m pretty much always smiling,especially at work where I need to make a good impression on my customers. Butthat’s not hard because I love my job.
Sweets Bakery is mytiny little piece of the world, (the only thing I truly own since I rent my apartmentand have a loan on my car), and I’m proud of it. Wearing an apron and a baker’shat is my idea of dressing for success. Maybe that’s why I’m having such a hardtime right now.
“I have no ideawhat to wear to this thing,” I say, scrunching up my face as if my suitcasejust insulted me with its emptiness.
My best friendLivi, who has been busying herself by trying on my clothes, looks up at me. Ablack dress dangles off her small frame, making her look like a child trying onmommy’s clothes. I’m more of a curvier woman, and Livi is thin. I know sheloves my dresses, but she’s kidding herself if she thinks she can actually wearany of them.
Livi pretends thedress isn’t swallowing her whole and walks up to me, peering into my suitcase.
“The only thing inhere is sleep clothes and a bathing suit,” she says, holding up the purplebikini top. “This is a business convention, right?”
I take the bikinitop and shove it back in the suitcase. “The hotel has a pool…” I say stupidly. Imean you never know when you’ll need a bathing suit, and Arizona is hot. Then Iput my hands on my hips. “You’re smart, Livi. Help me.”
She snorts. “Idropped out of college and have been helping you at the bakery for six months.“I know nothing about business. But… I think you need some slacks, and maybe anice pencil skirt. Some button up shirts, maybe?”
I nod along, butinside I’m freaking out. My wardrobe is mostly leggings and baggy shirts andthe floral print dresses I love so much. They’re whimsical and colorful andjust don’t seem right for a business convention. “I think I own likeonepair of slacks,” I say, heading backinto my closet. I have to go to the way back of it, where the clothes I neverwear are hidden away.
I retrieve the uglythings and toss them across the room to Livi, who catches them and folds themneatly into my suitcase. I peer back in my closet at my shirts, looking forsomething without a graphic print on it. After a painstaking journey throughthe forgotten parts of my closet, we find a few nice shirts that could pass forbusiness casual. I choose my most professional dresses that are in duller, lessvibrant colors and bring them, too, plus some sandals and heels.
“Alexa,” Livi saysafter we’ve folded and stuffed everything into my suitcase. Her voice isserious and she’s staring me right in the eyes like she’s about to give me someimportant talk.
“Yes?”
She tucks a strandof blonde hair behind her ear. “Try not to stress about it. It’s just aconvention for business owners—which youare,by the way—and it’s not like a job interview or anything. You don’t have toimpress these people. If anything, the vendors need to impressyou. And all the big-wig presenters whoare giving keynote speeches are too rich and famous to care about anyone in thecrowd.”
I laugh. Shecontinues, “So just wear whatever you want, and soak up their fancy rich peopleadvice, and then come back here and keep kicking ass like you do. You don’tneed to stress about it.”
“Thanks, Liv,” Isay, feeling truly grateful. She’s right—I know she is. I should just bemyself. Hell, I had to pay a hundred and fifty dollars just to get into this convention,so I shouldn’t have to impress them as well. This convention is to help meimprove my small business. I’m really excited about it, even though I’m still alittle nervous. This will be the first time I’m flying somewhere by myself.Getting a taxi by myself … a hotel by myself.
I know I can handleit, but it just sucks because sometimes I hate being so independent. After mymom died, I became independent and self-reliant as a way to trick myself intothinking that I’m totally okay. I was just a kid back then, but I told myselfI’d be fine, even when I didn’t believe it.
My internal liesworked for the most part. I can do anything alone, but that doesn’t mean Iactually enjoy it. After Mom’s passing, I started to lean on my cousin Masonfor support, and he became my best friend. He taught me how to drive, and hetook me to my junior prom when I didn’t have a date. He used his trust fund topay for culinary school, and then he helped me start the bakery. He was alwaysthere for me. Then with a little help from me, he started dating Livi, and nowthey’re both like my family. They’re my support group, and my favorite peopleall wrapped up into one.
Still, I always actlike I can do anything, because like I said, I’m the upbeat positive one. Iwant people to believe in me. That’s why I don’t tell Livi that she and Masonshould buy a plane ticket and come with me so I won’t be alone. I swallow downmy fears and tell myself I’ve got this.
“So, Keesha’s allset for coming in early, right?”I ask,even though I know the answer. Now that I’m about to leave for my three daylong trip, I’m getting nervous about leaving my bakery in the hands of someoneelse.
“Yep, she’s allset. She’s stoked about the extra hours,” Livi says as she zips up my suitcase.She’s still wearing my dress, and it does look a little cute on her, eventhough it fits way different on me. When I wear it, it’s a form fitting dress.On her, it’s flowy like a bathing suit coverup.
“And you’ve got allthe recipes laminated and ready?” I ask. Years ago, I learned the hard way thatif you don’t laminate a recipe card, it will get destroyed in the kitchen.
“Yep,” Livi says.
This is the first timein my entire business-owning life that I’m leaving my bakery to run without methere to run it. Livi has mastered my main recipes lately and I know she’ll dowell with them. And Keesha is my teenage part time cashier, and she’s excellentwith the customers. She knows the cash register and how to fix it if itfreezes, and she knows how to set up the front of the bakery and make it alllook nice. With Livi baking the food, and Keesha taking care of my customers, everythingshould be fine.
I limited the menudown to the top five basic items that my customers love the most. That way Livican handle it, and when I get back I’ll start making my custom creations again.I totally trust my best friend to take care of my store while I’m gone.
“You have the key,right?” I ask.
“Wait, I need akey?” she asks with a sly grin. “I was just going to smash out a window so Icould get inside.”
