“You’re hardcore,” I say without thinking. “I like it.”
“No, I’m jaded.” She huffs a loud breath. “Like why don’t guys spend six months planning what they’re going to wear at a wedding or what color the flowers should be? Because someone will do it for them, and then it’s ‘cute’ when ads show her having to chase him. I still have no idea how that ever sells a dress. I mean, nothing screams romance from the rafters like the notion that I should beg to be good enough for some guy who supposedly wants to be my husband.”
She’s gone all ranty.
I’m smiling like a dumbstruck fool.
“Damn. That was the wrong question, I see,” I tell her, trying to save face.
“Hey, you knew it was a sore spot, bossman.”
I chuckle. “It’s hard to believe you called me to apologize.”
“You’re right. But I am sincerely sorry.” She pauses. “Technically, you’re still a complete freak over breakfast rolls, but we’re cool even if we’re not exactly friendly. I’ll see you next week with less attitude.”
“I hope you’ll continue being a little psycho, Miss Poe. For the sake of good creative, of course,” I say.
“Psycho? Am not!”
“Are,” I growl.
“Dude. I’m not the one flipping out over a cinnamon—you know what? No. I’m not getting baited into going around in circles again. I apologized. Good night, Mr. Burns.”
She’s exasperated and I’m enjoying it far too much.
Shit, maybe I really do have a screw or ten loose.
“You turned down five hundred dollars for a ball of dough for your pride. That’s objectively crazier than offering five hundred dollars for said dough.” I still maintain if she knew why I needed the cinnamon roll, she’d stop calling me a lunatic.
“I was having a bad day,” she says absently.
“Why?” I grip my empty glass, hating that I suddenly care.
“None of your business.”
I say nothing, knowing I’m teetering on the edge of another blowout.
“Burns? I just told you—”
“What’s the first rule of dealing with clients in copywriting?” I blurt out.
“First rule? I don’t know. I was a creative writing major. I only turned to copy and marketing because poetry doesn’t pay the rent. I never went to business school.”
“How have you made it this far without knowing that?” I scratch my face, far too warm. Blame it on the booze.
“I’m good at writing. I don’t do peopling unless I have to.”
I pause, thinking over my words, because I mean this and I’m not sure how she’ll take it.
“To move up in this industry—to reach your full potential—you may have to get over that,” I say carefully.
“I know but...I’m okay with making a steady income and focusing on my poetry. I’m not a ladder climber. I probably shouldn’t have bothered telling you that.”
“It’s fine. I just hope you reconsider somewhere along the way,” I say. “You know you’re talented, Poe. The first rule of talking to a copy client is this—you have to go three whys deep. Your first reason for refusing to accept five hundred for a lump of flour, sugar, and cinnamon is that you were having a bad day. That could be anything from ‘I tripped leaving the house’ to ‘I just got hit by a truck.’ So, if you want to shut me up, give me one more why.”
“It should have been—” She pauses. “Would have been my wedding anniversary.”
“I see.”
Dammit, I’m a clod. A total buffalo-brain.
She was left at the fucking altar. I should’ve known. Also, I have an inexplicable urge to punch the guy who left her stranded and humiliated.
“Mr. Burns?”
“We don’t need to go three whys deep,” I say sharply. “I get it now.”
She’s quiet for a heady moment.
“Why did you really want that cinnamon roll so badly?”
Face, meet floor. I made my own bed, didn’t I? And I just taught her how to not let up.
“I was starving,” I lie.
“Are you on a cinnamon-sugar diet? You had options. There was a case full of bear claws,” she reminds me.
I glower at the screen.
“Would you believe I’m allergic to almonds?”
“Not at all.”
Didn’t think so.
“Fine. You got me. It was for my mother,” I say with a twist of my guts. It’s not technically a lie. If there were two rolls, I definitely would have saved one for Ma.
I just wouldn’t have pitched a fucking fit over it.
“Your mom only eats Sweeter Grind?” she asks incredulously.
She’s getting warmer. Closer to the truth.
“She has fond memories of head-sized cinnamon rolls growing up in old Seattle. Sweeter Grind’s are the closest, even if they’re a newer shop.” Again, not a total lie since it’s truly why Ma fell in love with them. Still a lie by omission.
“Why?”
Fuck, I have no idea how to spin this further.
“We used to share them when I was a kid,” I tell her.
“Oh, and your mom was jonesing for memories to the tune of five hundred bucks?”