Her All Along

Wow. “You’ve already filled the other two?”

It’d been her birthday present from her folks this year. Once I’d gotten her the larger tempering machine, Pipsqueak had begged and pleaded to be a festival vendor, so Mary and James had agreed to pay for the table—or tent, rather—and the rental of equipment. Which apparently included three big fridges.

“Ethan thinks I might need more.” Pipsqueak widened her eyes at me. Then she left the table and went over to the counter and dug through the cardboard box. “I don’t know if he’s messing with me because he’s irritated with me, or if he genuinely thinks I’m gonna sell that many.”

“Why is he irritated?”

“Because I want to charge fifty cents a piece, and he thinks they should be a dollar.” She returned to the table and handed me a…ah, her menu for the festival. Or the selection she would be selling.

“Well, what does it cost you to make one?” I asked, squinting at the items. She’d given each treat its own name, but I focused on the fillings. Strawberry cream, lemon cheesecake, salted caramel, French nougat…

“Um, about thirty cents if I include the time it takes to make it,” she replied.

“And you definitely should,” I told her. “What about the rental of the equipment? The customers won’t know it was a birthday present from your folks.” I could tell by her expression that she hadn’t considered that. “You have to include every expense. The time you put in, the supplies, the equipment—and, one day, rent, tax, and the cost of everything you’ll pay to get your store up and running.” I paused. “Don’t forget your education either—it won’t be cheap. When you start your own business, you’ll be in the red for years to come. So, you have to add that to the price of the product.”

She frowned to herself.

“Ethan is right. You should charge a dollar.” It wasn’t an outrageous cost for artisanal treats anyway.

“That’s what professionals charge at chocolatiers. I’m not a professional, Avery.”

“You still need a profit margin, hon. I suggest you try it for three days—and throw in some festival offers. Assortments. Maybe a dozen pieces for the price of ten, and so on. And if that doesn’t work, you can make some changes for the remaining four days.” I returned to scanning the fillings of the various treats. S’mores, toffee crisp… My brows went up when I saw she’d named one The Mister. “You named a truffle after me?”

“Huh? Oh—yeah.” She grinned sheepishly. “It’s for those poor suckers who were born without a sweet tooth. The shell is dark chocolate, eighty-eight percent, and it has a ganache filling with dark toffee crisp and whiskey.”

Hot fucking damn, that sounded good. To the point where my mouth watered a little.

“You make me sound delicious,” I joked, and she giggled. “I’m offended you haven’t used me as a guinea pig.”

She shrugged lightly and smiled. “You know where to find me. You’re the one who said you didn’t like chocolate. If you suddenly want to try it, you have to say something.”

Oh, so that’s what’s up.

I guessed that was fair.

“I’ll be first in line on Saturday when the festival begins,” I promised.

She grinned. “Is that before or after you get an eye exam to see if you need glasses, Mr. Squinter?”

I narrowed my eyes. That smug little—

“Yeah, just like that!” she laughed.

I huffed.

That first Saturday of the festival turned out to be something I’d needed more than I’d thought. After helping Pipsqueak set up her tent on the busiest street for vendors, Darius, Ethan, and I left her with James and Mary to grab an early lunch.

The sun was beaming down on the crowded cobblestone streets of the Valley, and we ended up at a barbecue place’s outdoor seating area. Darius and I didn’t give a fuck about the time and ordered beer with our ribs, whereas Ethan—that fucking health freak—ordered water with his chicken salad.

One beer turned into two and three and four.

“You’re acting like it’s the last time we meet up,” Ethan bitched. “The dude’s having a kid—he’s not moving to Mars.”

I laughed and slid down my shades from the top of my head.

“What’s the difference?” Darius demanded. “I’m serious—hear me out. This is how it’s gonna go. The first year, he’ll be understandably tired, and he’ll be boring as fuck.”

“Hey!” I got defensive.

“Shut up,” he told me, then turned to Ethan again. “When the kid is around two, Ave will wake up one morning with a shitload of energy. He’ll call us up, we’ll make plans to go out, and he’ll get wasted after two beers because he hasn’t had a drop of alcohol since the baby was born. He’ll be in bed by eleven.”

I snorted and shook my head.

“He’ll come out a few more times,” Darius went on. “He’ll push himself ’cause he doesn’t wanna be that guy—he’s too young, he’ll think. But then after another Friday at the bar, he’ll give up. He’ll come to terms with the fact that he’s not young anymore, and that’s it. He’ll meet someone. He’ll have another couple crumb snatchers, because why not?”