“Thank you, Miss Cunningham,” I say. “That’s a great suggestion—I’ll look into it. In the meantime, I’d love to tell you more about my specialty blends, and the cozy experience we offer our patrons, including our very own Mayor Singh, who’s one of Kettle and Cauldron’s most loyal customers.” I tap to a photo we shot yesterday featuring the mayor holding up her teacup to the camera, a huge smile on her face. The photo opp was her idea. She thought it would help.
Unfortunately, she’s not on the committee, and judging from the looks on their faces, I’m pretty sure she just lost their vote in the next election, too.
“Miss Pepperdine,” Brandt says stiffly, as if he didn’t spend the better part of last year assaulting my left labia like a scratch-off lotto ticket while asking me repeatedly if I was, quote-unquote, almost there. “Your passion for tea is admirable, but passion is not collateral. Not for the kind of financing we’re looking to invest.”
I want to ask him what kind of financingwouldallow me to use passion as collateral, and by the way, do you even know what passion is, and furthermore,you’re lucky my witchy zone of genius is magical tea instead of ex-hexes, or you’d wake up tomorrow with a worm in place of that glorified cocktail weenie currently dangling between your legs…
Also, I’m 99% sure he just likes throwing out words like “collateral” because he thinks it makes him sound smart and impressive. This is a grant presentation, not a loan application.
Swallowing back my annoyance, I tap to the next slide and say, “I understand your trepidation, but if you’ll take a look at my projected revenue forecast, page three, section six, you’ll see some of the ways in which the grant can help the business thrive into next year and beyond. I think you’ll all agree—”
“Next year is notthisyear.” Brandt taps a manicured finger against the still-unopened binder before him. “Let me be frank, Miss Pepperdine. Your application wasn’t as outstanding as some of the other businesses we’re considering. Not by a long shot.”
Dread drops in my gut like a hot rock. He’s icing me out. Just like I thought he would.
“I agreed to attend this presentation as a courtesy to you,” he continues, “given our previous… association, and the fact that you are a valued member of our community. But you’re asking this committee to pass up on other viable business applications and invest a sizable amount of money in a business that after two years running has yet to turn a profit. A business that’s still very much in debt with no clear-cut path to solvency.”
The others nod their agreement—Miss Cunningham, who’s now smiling at something on her phone, only half paying attention to my slides. Former Police Commissioner Wembly, who’s only on the committee because his wife got tired of him moping around at home after retirement and forced him to join something. The mayor’s assistant Margo Kip, a closeted vampire who’s been gunning for her boss’s job for the last three years. And a middle-aged witch whose name is a mystery, even among magical circles, because she allegedly only speaks to animals.
So. Not great odds here, with Brandt manning the ship.
“The grantisthe path to solvency.” I fight to keep my frustration in check as I tap to another slide. “As I’ve outlined here, with multiple levels of Roman numbers and bullet points, this grant will allow me to pay off the café’s debts while providing additional capital to invest in a new employee or two, lease better equipment, and expand our offerings to include—”
Bzzz.Bzzz bzzzzz.
“—a new lunch menu and late-night café service on weekends, to start.”
Bzzzz.
All heads turn to my empty chair, and the purse I draped over it, from which the strange, insistent buzzing emanates.
Bzzzzzzzzz.
“Do you… need to get that?” Brandt asks, clearly annoyed. Then, showcasing his mastery of air quotes, “It might be your new…friend.”
It’s not. Devlin is right out in the hall waiting for me, and he’d never call me during this meeting. No way. Besides, I could’ve sworn I silenced my phone on the way here, right after I touched up my lipstick. IknowI did.
And…hello. I’ve got my phone in hand, using it to control my slides. So what the hell is—
Bzzzz! BzzzZZZ! BZZZZ!
I strain to listen again. So familiar, yet so…
Oh, goddess. No. No no no no no!
Realization crashes down on me like a ton of bricks. My makeup bag… Goddess, I was running late this morning. Wasn’t even paying attention when I grabbed the stuff out of the nightstand. Just scooped and dropped, claw-game style. Blushes and eyeshadows I probably got from Jos’s old stage makeup kits back when I still lived at the house. Mascara one of my sisters left in my bathroom. Lipstick from who knows where. And apparently—desperate for more attention than he’s been getting at home since Devlin’s tongue took center stage—Mr. Wiggles.
And today, hedefinitelywants his truth to be heard.
BZZZZ!
“It’s… my phone,” I mutter, forcing a smile. “Sorry about that. As I was saying, the—”
“But you’re holding your phone,” the keenly observant Mr. Wembly says.
“Am I? I mean, I am! I meant myotherphone. My… emergency one. Just ignore it.”
Bzzz bzzz bzzzz….
