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“Do you have a chantilly cake?” I asked.
“That’s one of my favorites to make! I use fresh strawberries, vanilla frosting for the interior, and vanilla meringue accents for the outside frosting.
“That sounds amazing. Could I try that as well?”
Evette popped behind the counter and cut me a fresh slice in response. I stuck my fork in it, the meringue melted in my mouth, and the strawberries were lush and fresh. The cake was spongy and decadent; this was Evette at her full talent.
“That’s divine,” I said. I slid my plate over to Sebastian, and he grabbed a forkful. His eyes rolled back into his head when he took the first bite.
“This is unreal,” he said.
Evette grinned from ear to ear. “Sometimes I use fresh blueberries for the filling too, to give it a berry medley kind of feeling,” she explained.
“That’s fantastic! I pointed my fork at the slice. “I think this is the one, yeah?” I asked. Sebastian nodded in agreement. We tried the red velvet, but we both agreed that the cream cheese frosting was too heavy. The chantilly cake was light and airy. My mother couldn’t throw as big of a conniption if she knew there was fruit in the filling. Plus, Evette was eyeing her wearily. Something told me that Evette was catching on to my mother’s games.
“I like that you use blueberries for the filling. That’s a brilliant idea. Have you ever tried a lemon blueberry cake?” I asked, unable to resist the urge to talk shop. I was in the middle of perfecting a lemon blueberry cookie.
“Yes! But it’s quite arduous because I zest the lemons myself rather than using lemon juice. I don’t like how artificial it tastes,” she explained.
I tried to be stealthy as I retrieved my bag from the back of my chair and dug out my notepad. I jotted down “zest lemons yourself” and stuffed my notepad back in my bag when I noticed my mother glaring at me.
“That’s a great idea,” I said.
“Do you bake, dear?” Evette asked.
“Sometimes, it’s a hobby,” I said.
Sebastian slung his arm over my shoulder. “She’s being modest. She’s a brilliant baker. She needs her own bakery.”
“Don’t encourage her!” my mother hissed.
She turned to Evette and smiled warmly, “I’ve always told Becca she needs to find a less calorically dense hobby. I said, ‘Becca dear, most people get hobbies to burn calories, not hoard them,’” My mother gushed.
I felt Sebastian stiffen beside me. “I think it’s cool that Becca bakes. Baking’s like a science. It’s not like you can throw things into a skillet and see what happens,” he said.
Evette smiled. “Exactly. I always tell my husband, ‘Never underestimate the power of a woman with a rolling pin.”
I laughed. “Hear that, Mother?”
My mother balked, unable to come up with a sufficient comeback. She closed her mouth and continued to pick at the low-fat cake.
Now that Sebastian finally knew about The Cookie Cove, I figured my stress levels would finally sink down to manageable rather than constantly on the verge of collapse.
Apparently, the prolonged stress of keeping a secret from my fiancé and mother took more of a toll on my body than I realized. By the end of June, I was constantly exhausted. I went to bed at eight every night because I wanted to, even on the days when I didn’t open, and I slept like the dead. I even slept through my alarm one morning. Mortified, I switched all my shifts from open to mid or closing shifts because I was so ashamed.
That worked out, though, with most of my staff on Summer Vacation, they were hungry for early-morning tips. Plus, Sebastian was often working onsite in Dover. We developed a routine. I spent more and more time at his Penthouse, so he drove us both to work and back home.
There was something so quaint and almost sitcom-like about our parallel morning routines; how I started keeping a jug of cold brew at his apartment and his weekly demand for a fresh batch of breakfast cookies. To my surprise, Sebastian loved to visit The Cookie Cove. Eventually, it became an integral part of his tour of Dover for potential investors.
“And if you’re looking for any local sweet treats while you’re here, I’d recommend The Cookie Cove. Although, I am a little biased. My fiancé owns the place,” he’d boom as he walked through the door, forcing suit-clad yuppies to peruse the treat case. But those yuppies told their friends. Soon, between Sebastian’s word-of-mouth, the start of tourist season, and our spot at the Farmer’s Market, we were selling out of certain cookies multiple times a week.
Out of curiosity, I checked last year's profits, and we’d more than doubled our revenue. It was thrilling that Sebastian wasn’t the only one who could use this marriage to improve their business prospects!
My alarm trilled for the third time that morning, and I finally forced myself to get up out of bed. I felt a wave of nausea rock my stomach and took a deep breath to steady myself as I yawned, still exhausted despite my ten hours of sleep.
I got up and slipped into a pair of leggings and a fresh Cookie Cove T-shirt. Despite my decreased appetite, I had gained weight. I now had to fight to zip up jeans that barely fit me last summer. I grabbed a tote bag and stuffed a sundress in there so I could change for our date with Jack and Olivia tonight.
I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and applied a swipe of mascara. I’d be working in the back for most of the day. Dover Delights, the local supermarket, had placed its first bulk order with The Cookie Cove.
