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Of course, that’s how she knows me. That’s how everyone knows me.
And for a split second, I wonder if I’ll ever be known as anything else or if I’ll always be doomed to be Mayor Turner's oldest daughter.
Strange how moments ago, I was worried I’d be remembered for some unrelated, embarrassing incident, and now, that sounds almost preferable to what I’ve always been known as.
Strange how just a year ago, I don’t think I would have felt that way.
“Quite the zoo you had there yesterday,” she says, wiping her mouth with a pretty white napkin stamped with my logo in pink. “But I can see why. This cupcake is freaking amazing!” I smile.
This I can do. Talking about baked goods and receiving compliments on them? I can do that.
“Thank you. Yeah, it was . . . a bit much.”
“It was cool—all those reporters, your dad, the ribbon cutting. That shit’s impressive!” She moves to the reception desk, putting both hands to it and lifting herself up on the desk, kicking her feet that are encased in a pair of clunky Doc Martens like she’s a kid sitting on the ledge of a jungle gym instead of a heavily tattooed badass.
This woman is a conundrum.
“So you’re from here, obviously. You’ve got your dad and a sister, right? I think?”
“Yeah, Lilah.”
“Your mom likes Ls,” she says and laughs. Her laugh’s a tinkling sweet thing that I can imagine would draw men to her like a dinner bell.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I’m Hattie; I can’t remember if I said that already.” I nod with a tight awkward smile because I’m now trying to figure out what to do next. Do I ask for Mr. Coleman or . . . “I work for Ben. I have for years. We started at the same shop together. I also do tattoos and all the piercings here.” She winks like it’s a come-on of some sort.
“Anyway, you’re not here to talk to me.” I blink. “You want to talk to Ben.” Her eyes gleam like she’s got some kind of master plan that only she knows.
“BENJAMIN!” Hattie shouts, the words reverberating up my spine and into my brain, ringing there, and that doubt keeps creeping in. “I heard you two already met, yeah?” My entire body burns with embarrassment as I try and decide what to say, how to scrap this entire interaction, when a deep voice calls from the other side of the shop.
“WHAT?!” She smiles, finishing a bite of a cookie.
This is . . . an interesting place. Don’t they have, like, clients or something?
“Shops empty. We’re all on break right now,” she says to me like she can read my mind. “YOU HAVE A VISITOR!” she shouts back. If the tattoo shop is the same as my bakery, there shouldn’t be that much room behind her—the businesses aren’t huge. I can’t imagine shouting is necessary.
“I’m on the phone!”
“Well, when you’re done, come say hi!” she says and then smiles at me with a triumphant look. “He hates when I do that.” I smile back, unsure of how to respond. “He hates a lot of things. He’s like a really grumpy old man.” My eyes widen in acknowledgment of that in a “no shit” kind of way.
“Yeah, I’ve noticed that.” Now, why the fuck did I say that? Her eyes go wide with excitement.
“Ohhh, tea! Spill! He said you’d met but didn’t give any deets! But that blush? Give it to me.” She leans back on her hands, chewing and looking at me expectantly.
Normally, I don’t “spill.”
I was raisedneverto spill. It’s been my job since I was young to keep all stories and secrets close to my chest.
But something about this woman makes me want to show my hand.
So . . . I do.
Kind of.
“I’ve met him.”
“And?” I scrunch up my nose and try to decide just how much to tell this relative stranger,
