The sidewalk is already busy at a quarter after eight Monday morning as I make my usual trek down Fayette street, carefully juggling four coffee orders, my over-sized Coach bag, which just so happens to be the purchase that sent me over my spending limit two months ago, worth it, it’s fabulous, and the design binder I took home on Friday of Dylan’s.
I wanted to organize some of the notes she had penciled in over the past several years and make things more legible, pretty even. I used textured paper and script font. The letters and thank you cards she received since opening the bakery that had been stuffed into the back pocket for keepsakes are now laminated and on display for clients to read in a section titled ‘Sweet Testimonials.’
I’m honestly not sure how Dylan will take my modifications to the only thing she seems to study more than her husband. The thought of her hating what I’ve done, the one thing I haven’t cleared with her beforehand that involves her business, causes me to miss the giant crack in the pavement I’m usually careful to step over.
“Ow, shit!”
The binder goes down first, followed quickly by my Coach bag.
But the coffee? Ha! Not today, city of Chicago.
As I bend down, securing the leather strap on my shoulder, the binder pinched between my fingers, a car horn sounds and I lift my gaze to the street. Traffic clears. My eyes roam the row of shops on the west side of Fayette, until landing on one I haven’t seen before, or maybe, I just haven’t noticed.
No, this has to be new. I would’ve noticed this.
Sandwiched between a florist and a family-owned candle shop, the words Hot Yoga scream against the brick front in burnt-orange lettering. A simple logo swirls in the corner below the ‘a’.
Yoga?
“Yoga?”
I straighten and stare a little longer at the new business, which just so happens to be in direct line-of-sight from the bakery.
That’s almost laughable. Here, sweat your ass off, then skip across the street and stuff your face. Maybe we could go in with the owner and have some sort of a coupon-deal worked out.
Five sessions and you get a free cupcake?
I swallow down a giggle.
Look at me, all business savvy, trolling for ways to pull in new customers while helping to promote other local enterprises.
I should seriously run for president.
The door chimes as I step inside the bakery, the scent of sugar now mingling with the aromatics wafting from the four coffees in my hand. With an exhaustive sigh, I set the cardboard carrier on the glass display case, followed by my bag and the design binder.
Dylan perks up from behind the counter when she sees the latter.
“There it is! You know I tore this place apart this weekend looking for that? What the hell, Brooke?”
I flatten my hands on the glass, then hesitantly nudge the binder. “I, uh, did some reorganizing. I hope that’s okay.”
Her face remains expressionless. I take in a shallow breath.
Rule number one of life: Don’t piss off your employer, especially if that employer happens to be Dylan Carroll. She’s been known to go a little slap happy.
Moving closer, she flips back the cover, then a few more pages, running her finger along the edge of the new font. Silently judging, meticulously studying every alteration I’ve made. She halts at the back where the testimonial section begins.
I wipe a hand across my brow, relieved when I don’t feel the sweat I fear I’m releasing.
“Mm.”
I lean closer, staring at her mouth, the small crinkle in her nose. “Mm?”
God, why the hell didn’t I ask permission first? Could she fire me over this?