“You mean you thought it would be better for you since I’d already done the work to bring people to the area. If you really thought it would be better for both of us you should’ve approached me, but you didn’t.”

He crosses his arms. “Well maybe I would have if you’d been more approachable.”

I prop a fist on my hip. “And you think playing pranks on me would accomplish that.”

“Okay. So I should’ve told you my plan—”

I cut him off, triumphant that he’s finally admitted he’s wrong. “Of course you’ll admit it was a mistake now, when the damage is already done.”

His eyes go wide, as if he’s trying to look innocent. “I can see how this might look to you, but I really wasn’t trying to steal your customers. Besides, it’s not like people can survive on cupcakes and alcohol indefinitely—”

He did not just say that. “Do not try and justify your actions to me.” I point a finger at his face. “I see right through you. Just remember, Ronan, you threw the first axe.”

“What? I didn’t throw anything.”

“It’s an expression.” I roll my eyes. “I’m being cheeky. You threw the first stone, took the first shot. It’s on.” And with that I yank open the door. “You may have started the war, but I’ll be the one taking you down, one sweet treat at a time.” I wink and sashay through the bar, slipping my hand into my apron. I pull out a handful of my own coupons and toss them on tables, inviting customers to stop by before they head home so they can bring their loved ones something delightful to sink their teeth into.

chapter four

I’m Number One

Blaire

Things heat up with my neighbor post–grand opening. A little not-quite-friendly competition, so to speak. Things like, when Ronan has a special, I try to make mine better. On Friday night I hand out two-for-one cocktail coupons to combat his half-price draft beer and house wine. Everyone knows that house wine is the cheap crappy stuff.

So what if the two-for-one martinis aren’t made with the premium vodka? They’re also full of things like crème de cacao and other sweet, minty, chocolaty, or fruity booze and juice, so it hides the taste and does the trick.

Twentysomething-year-old guys might not mind cheap draft beer, but most women in their late twenties would much rather sip a pretty martini over a cheap glass of wine any day of the week. How do I know this? I polled my followers, of course.

And don’t think Ronan is an innocent. His prankster ways continue—this week I stepped in what I believed was poop—again—but it just happened to be poop-shaped Play-Doh. It also contained sparkles, which I got on my hands and which subsequently were all over everything I own for the next three days.

In addition to the fake sparkle poop, Ronan has taken to dropping off a daily coupon for me, except they’re modified to whatever it is he’s been serving to customers that day. He always includes some kind of tongue-in-cheek comment about what he regards as my less-than-friendly personality. I am friendly. Just not with him. Today’s coupon was for half-priced salt-and-vinegar fish and chips and some honey lager—which I hate to admit sounds kind of yummy. He scrawled a note on the back about drawing more flies with honey than vinegar.

Two weeks in, and things are going well on the business end. Better than well, actually. We’re busy throughout the day, we have orders for pickup and takeout all the time, the cupcakes are flying off the shelves and people love our daily cupcake cocktail themes. My social media feeds are full of tags and picture perfect photos of B&B, of groups of friends gathered together in the café, and of delighted smiles and rave reviews.

Even so, I’m barely eking by right now. On the upside, I’m close to being able to cover my expenses without digging too deeply into my line of credit. Am I eating a lot of leftover cupcakes and close-to-the-expiration-date sandwiches that would otherwise be destined for the garbage? Most definitely. But I knew finances were going to be tough at the beginning.

It can take up to three years for a business to grow its legs and with the way things are looking, there is a chance I’ll be able to turn a profit within the next few years. Notwithstanding an annoying neighbor who is taking some of my business.

“This is amazing. You must be on top of the world right now!” Daphne sips her salted caramel martini while scrolling through the Instagram feed.

The last customer left about twenty minutes ago, probably heading next door for whatever Lumberjerk has planned for tonight. I closed up shop and made us a drink and now we’re relaxing at the back of the café, stretched out on the comfy couches and chairs.

Daphne snaps a photo of me lounging on the couch and Paul returns from the bathroom in time to peek over her shoulder. “Definitely post that.”

“Right? It’ll get tons of likes,” Daphne agrees.

Paul comes by first thing in the mornings to drop off the cupcakes for the day, giving me plenty of time to decorate them before opening. But tomorrow he has an out of town event, so he dropped everything off this evening and I convinced him to stay for a drink. There’s no way I could’ve made this work without his help and I’m eternally grateful for his friendship over the past several years.

I wait for Daphne to pass her camera over. “Can I at least see it before you post it? What if I look like a shrew?”

“As if I would post a bad picture of you.” Daphne is appropriately offended; she and I have spent a ridiculous amount of time perfecting posed photos over the past several weeks.

I hold my hands up in supplication. “I know. It’s a conditioned response. I got a message earlier in the week from my sister telling me she thinks my right side is more flattering.”

Daphne’s lip curls in disdain. “I hope you told her to suck it.”

“It’s her way of trying to be helpful.”

“It’s her way of being a bitch,” Daphne argues.

I shrug. Maddy is pretty much always a bitch. I’ve spent my entire life dealing with her, so her random comments are nothing in comparison to some of her other antics.

“Anyway, the only time I’ve seen you possess shrewlike qualities was when you and Raphael broke up,” Daphne continues.

I glare at her. “We do not talk about Raphael.”

“Raphael? How come I’ve never heard of this guy?” Paul asks.

“You have. He’s more commonly known as The Douche.”

“Oh. You mean the guy who was boning you and three other chefs at the same time?” Paul drops into the chair beside mine.

“The one and only. And can we not discuss him, please? It was years ago, before you came along and made me realize there’s more to life than kobe beef and truffle fries. Unlike you, he was more interested in showing me his bratwurst than he was in teaching me anything of value.” I pat Paul on the arm. One of the things I appreciate most about Paul is the fact that our relationship has always been strictly professional and platonic. Which was what I needed after the nightmare that was Raphael.

“Back when you were still trying to please Mummy and Daddy.” He takes a swig of his Manhattan.