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CHAPTER
ONE
SHAWN
As I stare at the cupcakes and cookies in my case, I wonder if this is it. Is this the month when I surrender to the fact that I’ve completely failed? Eight hours today of staring at the front door and not one customer.
I’ve done everything my online research has told me to do. I’m not sure what else could even be done at this point. I’ve paid for help. Gone to wedding shows and attended different community events, but there’s been nothing.
I have even built my social media up as much as I can and have about five hundred followers, but it’s to no avail. I am completely and totally forgettable.
So are my treats.
Letting out a sigh, I lift my gaze to the hot-pink neon sign that has Filthy Sweet Treats scrawled in cursive across it hanging on my wall. How many more days like this can I handle?
The answer is simple—none. I cannot continue like this. No customers means no money, and no money means that I can’t pay my rent or a single bill. If I don’t get some customers or orders soon, I’m going to have to go back to the grocery store bakery.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
But this bakery was supposed to be my big break. The way for me to make something out of myself. I’ve scrimped and saved since I was fifteen years old to do this. I hid every cent I ever made away from my family while I worked my ass off, too.
Finally, I’m doing it… except I’m epically failing at it, and all I want to do is cry—all the time.
I reach into the case and take out an organic chocolate cupcake that is filled with thick organic peanut buttercream, topped with grass-fed organic vanilla buttercream, drizzled with organic chocolate, and then has little crumbles of homemade dupe organic Butterfinger candy on top.
I think this could be my problem.
Everything in my shop is organic and grass-fed. It’s all gluten-free, with several vegan options daily. And everything I make is artificial dye–free, including sprinkles and decorations.
But I have a feeling that people are missing the fact that organic, gluten-free, vegan, and dye-free doesn’t mean taste-free, especially in my small town of Pineville in East Texas.
My cakes and treats are out-of-this-world flavor bombs of delicious sweetness, but nobody is giving them, or me, a chance. Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I stare straight ahead at the front door at the passersby.
It’s Saturday, late afternoon. I’ve had no customers at all today, but yesterday, I had three. All of whom bought a single cookie. I think it was just to be nice because they clearly weren’t excited about anything after I told them all about my products.
I doubt they even ate them. They probably threw them in the trash can right outside the door. I couldn’t bear to watch them once they left my bakery, though, to find out.
Turning my back to the door, I start to clean up for the night. Another disappointing day all around, and then I’ll go home to my disappointing small apartment, living my disappointing life.
I’m twenty-three, single, failing, and just plain sad.
Letting out another sigh, I move through the bakery, a place where I’ve spent more hours than anywhere else day after day. This is more my home than my apartment, which is just a place where I sleep at night. But this, this is my life.
A single tear trickles down my cheek as the realization settles over me that I’ve epically failed.
How absolutely depressing.
No wonder I’m single. I wouldn’t want to be with me right now. I can’t blame any man for turning his nose up at me or not even glancing in my direction. Which they don’t. I can’t even remember the last time I went on a date.
I’m pathetic in so many ways, and unless I change something, my circumstances will stay the same.
I walk toward the door, reach for the lock, and flip it into place, then tug on the small chain that turns off the cursive neon-pink Open sign. Giving downtown one last scan, I let out a sigh and begin to close the window shades.
I bought some of those inexpensive pull-down honeycomb shades. I love them, not just because they were cheap, but because they’re just cute. I love everything about my little bakery, and I feel like I’m going to shrivel up and feel sorry for myself if I have to close my doors permanently.
With yet another heavy sigh, I gather my things, finish locking everything down, and head home. I don’t even have a car. That’s how much of my money I’ve sunk into my bakery. Not that I could drive a car if I had one. I walk and take the bus, and thankfully, the little town I live in is safe enough for me to do that.
Hitching my purse over my shoulder, I take my phone out of my pocket and scroll through social media as I walk home. I only live about a mile from the bakery, so I can make it home in about fifteen minutes or less.
