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“Tell us how we can make it up to you.” Then she glanced at Penelope, who had continued to stare wide-eyed, and nodded toward Thorne. “Why don’t you help Mr. Roberts to whatever he’d like to try on the house.”
“That’s not necessary.” Thorne raised his hand, the innocent act wearing thin.
“I insist,” Mom said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to have a word with my daughter,” she said, her tone overly polite, which was more ominous than if she had screamed it at me.
Before she gave him time to respond, she yanked my arm and pulled me aside, all the while giving him her most winning smile. But the second we were out of earshot, she hiss-whispered, “Why didn’t you tell me about the order? We would’ve made it work!”
“Um, because their request was impossible. I was here by myself.” I ticked the reasons off on my fingers. “I would’ve had to stay up all night. You and Dad always tell me no exceptions. And most of all, because I didn’t know Pushy Lady was his assistant. Not that it matters.”
“How does it not matter?”
“Would we have made it work for anyone else, hmm?” I asked, the heat of anger rising to my cheeks. “What about for that guy?” I pointed to the portly man sitting at the bistro table, sipping a coffee and eating a sticky bun. “Or what about these people?” I motioned toward two women who just walked in the door. “Or that couple that was just in here?”
“Well . . .” Mom fidgeted.
“The answer is no.” I fumed. “So why should it be any different for him? Just because he’s important. Just because he’s famous doesn’t mean we need to acquiesce to his every demand. Though I’m certain that’s what he’s used to since he’s obviously come all this way to complain.”
The self-righteous jerk.
“We might’ve gotten some positive press out of it. What if he would’ve taken a photo with one of our cakes and posted it on Picturegram, or whatever it’s called.”
“It’s Instagram, Mom.”
“Whatever.” Mom waved a hand. “Could you imagine what it would do for our business to have Thorne Robert’s name attached to our products?”
I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling myself deflate just a little. She had a point. But I refused to admit it because I was still right about the special treatment part. “Well, then he can order two weeks in advance like everyone else.”
“Whatever,” she said, straightening. “What’s done is done, but now you’re going to make it right.”
“What?” I asked, incredulous. “How?”
“Hey, Alma,” Dad yelled from the kitchen, “you have a second?”
“Cover for me a moment?” she asked, even as I scowled. “And remember, whatever he wants, he gets. We need to make it up to him.”
I opened my mouth to protest that this man with deep pockets would get whatever he wanted FOR FREE, but Mom stopped me with a glare. “Right now is not the time to be choosy and rigid. Now is the time to bend over backward for our customers, especially when they’re Thorne Roberts.” She flicked her gaze to the display cases where he currently pursued the baked goods with little enthusiasm, and I groaned.
“Go.” She nudged me, then disappeared behind the double doors.
With a sigh, I headed toward the counter on wooden legs. “What do you want?” I asked, realizing too late that probably wasn’t what Mom had in mind when she told me to accommodate him.
Ooops.
To compensate, I plastered on the fakest smile I could muster as I waited for his answer.
“I want the cupcakes and cookies for next weekend instead.”
I shook my head, holding my ground. “We book two weeks out.”
“It’s for kids at the children’s hospital.”
Even though the children’s hospital was a noble cause, it still irked me we were bending the rules for him just because he was famous. Regardless, Mom would skin my hide if she returned and found out I turned him away, so caving was my only recourse; however, I drew the line at offering it for free.
“Fine,” I said in a tight tone as I reached behind the counter and grabbed the notebook for custom orders.
No way was I helping with these, I thought, before I slid the pad toward him and explained how to fill it out.
“Are you always wound so tightly?” he asked, glancing up from the order form.
