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You only get out of something what you put into it, so when it comes to making sure my lover’s satisfied, I leave it all on the field. I’m a gentleman, at least in that regard, and a gentleman always makes sure a lady comes first.
And hard.
And often.
But timing isn’t only paramount in the bedroom, it’s critical with professional choices, as well. You must take the proper steps at the proper time to ensure success.
And success will be mine. Again. But this time, on my terms.
I stayed the course when I was younger. When I graduated from university, I did what was expected, plugging away in the family business. But when I hit my goals, it was time to pivot.
And pivot I did, from London to New York City.
It might seem a huge risk to up and move across the pond, but I’ve been prepping for years. Everything is in place, and now the stars have aligned and the timing is right. I’m in New York, ready to execute my precisely laid plans.
And then a gorgeous, brilliant, Rubik’s-Cube-wielding redhead sashays into my life. There’s no other way to describe the way this woman moves—like life’s a dance and she’s relishing every minute of it.
Too bad it turns out she’s the last woman I should be dancing—or anything else—with.
Timing is everything. And this timing is about to go tits up.
1
GIGI
The new cases were installed today, and they look amazing.
The pie specials are prepped for tomorrow and Calliope is coming in early to start the ovens so I can sleep in.
The money is counted, the shop is spotless, and all is right with the world.
I pat the counter and blow a kiss to Sweetie Pies as I go. “Love you, darling," I say, dragging down the metal gate in front of the door and locking up for the night.
As I head down the sidewalk, I remind myself of all the good things in life. It’s a nightly ritual I’ve done since I was a little girl.
I have my friends. My brother, Harrison. My gram. And the most fantastic business and customers in the entire world.
And it’s party time!
I can’t remember the last time I went to a party. Or the last time I stayed out past ten o’clock. Much like a real offspring, my bakery baby requires certain sacrifices. I’m out of bed at five most mornings and up to my elbows in dough by five fifteen. I moved to an apartment a two-minute walk from Sweetie Pies in order to be closer to my darling girl. I love being able to stick my head out my kitchen window and see her sitting safely there on the corner, looking adorable and delicious.
Ruby teases me about being a helicopter pie shop parent, but I just feel better when the things and people I love are close.
If I had my way, Harrison and Gram would move into the apartment above mine and Ruby and her true love, Jesse, would move into the empty building across the street from Sweetie Pies.
Or they could have moved in a month ago if some wretched tea-peddling human hadn’t snatched it up.
Ugh. Tea. It’s like drinking grass juice with lemon on top.
I hate it. And I really hate people who intend to sell tea and sweet treats right across the street from my pie shop.
I fold my arms, shivering as I pass the building in question, looking menacing and ominous with its “Tea and Empathy Opening Soon” sign taped in the front window.
Why? Why must competition move in right across the street at the exact moment I’m primed to achieve total dessert domination of Greenpoint and greater Brooklyn at large?
Deep breath. Everything will be fine.
The tea peddler will probably be a horrible baker who does a piddling little business that won’t interfere with mine. But as I start up the steps to my apartment, I do wish things were different.
If Ruby and Jesse had bought the place, we could have had coffee and slices together at two twenty-five each afternoon—two twenty-five being the perfect time for an afternoon treat. It’s not too close to lunch and still leaves time to work up an appetite for a healthy dinner.
Or a handful of spinach eaten straight from the bag and an only slightly expired cheese wheel you dig out from behind the butter sticks in the fridge, if, say, you haven’t had time to go shopping for yourself in ages.
As I bustle around my apartment, munching soggy spinach while running a bath and laying out my party dress, I promise I’ll do that on my day off tomorrow. Grocery shopping isn’t nearly as much fun as getting one’s nails done or popping into a favorite consignment shop to try on crinolines, but it’s a necessity.
And I do like to eat things other than pie.
