Author's Note: Thanks so much to VMarsTrek for this gorgeous cover for my story. Fanart of my fanart is my most favorite thing. She also made a killer Spotify playlist for this fic, which you can enjoy here: playlist/6678m81ldrlL0cwKFln4GO?si=5d576123f136424e
I'll have more song recs coming up for the big chapters, later.
Chapter 5: Meet Cute
Veronica
The next afternoon, we're snowed under. Thanks to Siella, who posted a picture of my storefront and pink awnings onto her Instagram story with the sparkling caption, "Something secret and special in the works…"
In the background, Logan's blue awnings and shop name taunt me. They're annoyingly visible, and bakeries are supposed to be wholesome, dammit. But people can't take a picture of my place without catching his in the background unless they back out into the street or angle it from the side that leaves a dirty alley on the edges. He's always there.
Still, if this is the kind of pull Siella has from an Insta story? What will the full bachelorette party do for my business?
I dash through the dining room, clearing cups and plates. Back into the kitchen as the timer blares for a new batch of dark chocolate orange muffins. No way am I wasting this spring tide of a rush on running out of stock, no matter what Tyana says about FOMO.
"Excuse me. You're out of creamer." A customer thrusts the thermos pitcher at me and I juggle the bussing tub to my hip to get a hand free and take it.
"Sorry about that. Back in a sec with more."
I loop back through the kitchen, pull the muffins out, then unload them onto a display tray without letting them cool, burning my fingers in the process. Refill the creamer, icing my scorched fingers for an instant on the cool carton, then head back up front to restock the case.
"Out of napkins," Tyana says. "And what will you have today, baby?" she asks the next customer, jewels flashing on her nails as she boots up a fresh screen on our iPad register.
I grab a fistful of napkins and weave through customers to the front coffee table. A big guy in a Saints jersey shoves his seat back as I pass and I jump out of the way, my hip slamming into something soft.
"Oh!"
I look up at the sound of the gasp and a customer's standing there, drenched in coffee. "I'm so sorry." I thrust out my hand. "Here."
She looks at me, and a grin pops onto her face. "I've got plenty of coffee, but maybe more cream is not the answer, yes?"
I look down, only to realize I've offered the creamer hand, not the napkin hand. Apparently, I'm so busy I can't even sort out my own limbs.
I swap hands, but instead of taking the napkins, she just laughs down at her coffee-soaked front. She has the kind of shiny black loose curls you usually only see on TV, lipstick so red not even I could pull it off, and the dress I just ruined is an adorable vintage fit-and-flare with…is that a narwhal print?
"Ah! I think this means you're the love of my life." She tosses her smushed cardboard cup at the trash can behind me and lands it, nothing but net.
Okay yeah, we did just have a real rom-com opener of a moment. Though my laugh is mostly out of relief that she doesn't seem like she's going to lay a hot coffee lawsuit on me, McDonald's style. I pass her some napkins and wet another from the ice water cooler on the table. "Sorry about the coffee. In the interest of honesty, though, I probably shouldn't wait for the break to Act II to tell you I don't come to bat for that color jersey."
"I like the whole rainbow of jerseys." She beams at me. "But I have come to believe that the aromantic, non-sexual relationships—especially the female ones—are the most important." She nods like it plops its own period on the end of that sentence. "Plus, I come with a bonus."
"Oh?" I set down the creamer and turn back to her. If she's hitting on me, it's the strangest angle anybody's ever taken. Full points for creativity. Logan will—I cut off my own thought. Logan and I used to compete for who got the weirdest lines when people would try to pick us up, but it's been a long time since we shared a laugh like that.
She holds up the Help Wanted sign from the window, several layers of yellowed and dusty tape poking up off the top. "I work for next to nothing. Seriously, I've never even heard of a union, that's how cheap I work for."
"Yes!" Tyana shouts over from the register. She's ringing somebody up with one hand and pulling scones out of the case with the other. The door's propped open by a line curving out down the sidewalk, and the waiting customers rise in a hump where the sidewalk's buckled by the roots of our big oak tree. For an instant, I have a peevish urge to go out there and redirect the line so they're queuing in front of Logan'swindow so he can't miss seeing how busy we are. I turn back to Meet Cute Girl.
"Experience?"
"Three years in my tía's bakery in high school, one year of culinary school. Three years in the trenches in New York restaurants before I burned out and ran south, trailing the shreds of my credit report behind me. Listen, New Orleans is my favorite. I've watched every movie set here at least one hundred times, please. Let me stay." She clasps her hands together in a cute little prayer position. "Please? It's the second stop on my destiny tour. I had a feeling when I saw your shop and the meet cute settles it. This is my place."
She sounds as batty as an attic, but this is New Orleans. It's kind of par for the course. Plus, she's got two working arms and she's young enough to move fast, especially if I caffeinate her a little. With the line we've got going, I'd rather have three or five arms, but I'll settle for even numbers if I have to.
"With a resume like that? You can start tomorrow."
"As your baker or your best friend?"
I pull cups off the abandoned table to my right and she grabs up the rag I left on the coffee refill station and wipes up behind me. Okay, she might be the love of my life. If she gets a mop, it's all over.
"You're better off sticking with the cakes," I warn her. "They're sweeter than I am."
She swipes a crumpled napkin off a chair that I missed and tucks the chair neatly back under the table before she follows me behind the bar. "My tía says the first mistake of pastries is that people make them too sweet. It's really about the texture and the flavors first, sugar second. Only enough to make the chemistry balance."
I stop dead and give her a narrow side-eye. I say the same thing about dark chocolate. "Sure, sure, we can be best friends."
"Really?" She lights up and yanks a sheet of paper out of her pocket. That cute dress has pockets? "That's number three on my bucket list!"
"Is that an actual bucket list? Like, in hard copy?"
She moves even farther behind the counter and snatches one of the Mardi Gras beaded pens. Slashes off the first three items.
Move to New Orleans
Get a job in a bakery
Find a BFF
She tilts her head, loose curls shining in the overhead lights. "Well, the first might not actually count yet. I do not have an apartment."
"Veronica's got a couch," Tyana says. "You can start today."
The last thing I want is a roommate, but if I don't clear this line, I won't have an apartment to share for much longer. "Just until you get on your feet. Or sell one foot on eBay to afford the deposit on a rental."
"Two crème brûlée cake slices, one raspberry muffin, and half-a-dozen chocolate chunk cookies," Tyana fires off. An alarm in the kitchen goes off. Meet Cute Girl's already elbow-deep in the pastry case, arranging the cookies in a windowed box. She needs to fill out an application, do a background check, and probably put all that hair up. I toss her an apron to cover the coffee spill and let the rest go.
"One condition," I tell her, backing toward the kitchen. "If you say a word about beignets, you're fired."
#
We sell out by 12:30, even with me pumping out second-round batches of baked goods from the kitchen every time I get ten seconds free from serving. I'm riding the glow that only comes from having a steep monthly rent, comfortably paid.
"Turn the sign, will you?" I call out to Meet Cute Girl, flipping off the front lights. "The Sold Out one, not the Closed one. It's hanging on the same peg."
"Got it, boss."
I love her. She might be nuts, but I'll take nuts, because it's four minutes after we sold our last muffin and the chairs are already up, floor swept, and she's halfway through mopping.
She turns from adjusting the sign, flipping the mop to its clean side and scrubbing hard at the high-traffic area just in front of the tiny doormat. The bell jingles as the door comes open. "We're—" I start, but then there's a familiar-sounding gasp and "Oops!" The door bumps her, she slips on the freshly-mopped tiles, and Logan catches her in a perfect bridal carry even though he's still got one foot out the door.
"Hi?" He cocks one eyebrow, holding up her weight in a full dip like he hasn't even noticed it. "Are you a mopping burglar?"
She laughs, and how did I not notice when I hired her that she has a laugh like bells and Santa's smile? I hate them.
"We're closed," I finish. "She just forgot to lock the door."
He sets her back on her feet, hands her the mop she dropped in the fall, and extends a hand. "Logan Echolls. Neighbor, de-facto mail deliverer, and proprietor of Sinsations."
"Boo, hiss," I add, pulling the cash drawer out even though I usually do that last. I want him to watch me count it all in front of him. "The villain of the piece."
She looks to me, looks to him, and pulls her hand back from the shake. "I'll take the mail."
She does the coldest hair toss I've ever seen outside of a telenovela and stares him down. Which would probably be more intimidating if she weren't cute as a button and wearing narwhals.
"I work here now. And I'm Veronica's best friend."
His mouth quirks. "Okay, now you overplayed the skit, mopping burglar."
"Rookie mistake," Tyana agrees from behind the counter, laughing. "Veronica doesn't believe in friends."
I point at Meet Cute Girl. "I love her. Hate you." I flick a hand at Tyana, then move it to Logan. "And you. Obviously."
They both ignore me.
"Baby, come on over and have a cookie," Tyana says. "You looking too thin and we sold out of just about everything else but broom straws today." She makes a show of wiping her forehead. "This girl's running me ragged, I don't mind telling you."
"You know I can send over somebody to cover your breaks if she's working you too hard," Logan says. "I've got plenty of staff."
"Too many." She frowns at him, like a disapproving mama accountant.
"Can't. Health codes," I snap at Logan. "I can't have them selling anal beads with one hand and coming straight over to hawk cookies for me. Plus, W-2's."
"They're not used anal beads," he says, as if we're discussing brands of cornflakes. "All sales final." He saunters toward the counter and Meet Cute Girl cuts him off, aggressively mopping his feet away from the plate of cookies.
"Oops, sorry!" she chirps. "I haven't mopped there yet. It's very important to get the floors very clean in a food service establishment."
Logan does a taunting little hop straight left onto the rug in front of the cash register, then sweeps a bow toward her. "By all means. I never like to stand in the way of being very…clean."
The wink at the end, he aims at me.
Under my jeans, my thighs heat right along with my temper, and I slam the cash drawer closed, forgetting I already pulled the insert. It bounces back and catches me in the elbow. "Ah!" I hiss, grabbing it.
"Karma's a bitch," Logan says blandly.
My new employee snatches the mail out of his hand and he yelps. She flinches right along with him, her eyes going wide.
"Paper cut." He waves her off. "I probably won't bleed out."
She paper-cutted him with the mail! I've been trying to pull off that move for weeks. Sold out by twelve-thirty, my shop pimped by an influencer, and Logan bleeding on my rug. It's all I can do not to burst into song.
Her scowl snaps right back on and she aggressively mops the floor all around his rug, backing herself out around the counter and mopping her way into the back with us, in solidarity. "Mail on the side desk with the other pile?" she asks me, already halfway there, and I nod unnecessarily.
"The door's unlocked," I tell Logan, because he's looking at me, and his eyes are that soft golden brown they get when he's happy. I don't know what he has to be so fucking happy about. I'm the one that had a good day, and I know he couldn't have missed seeing the line.
He folds his arms, which bulges his biceps very rudely. "Can't. I'm mopped in. Worked in retail long enough to know better than to dirty a floor that'll need to be mopped again."
"See, my boy's got manners. Here, have a cookie while you wait, Logan." Tyana pushes the plate toward him, only two of our freebie cookies and a lot of crumbs remaining on the huge platter. She pulls the first aid box from under the counter, and from the way Logan's looking at the cookies, he might just be wounded enough to need it. My eyes narrow, scenting weakness.
"Yes, Logan. Have a cookie." I smile, sweet like anti-freeze. "It's the least we can do for all the mail delivery."
His Adam's apple bobs. Sharp in that strong throat so there's no mistaking it. When he steals a glance at me, I'm already staring him down, and damn. I might actually win this one. Whatever thing he's got going with baked goods, he really doesn't want to eat a cookie. Logan wouldn't back down from a game of Crocodile Russian Roulette if I were the one daring him to stick his leg in that toothy mouth, but apparently he can be brought low by an oatmeal brown butter cookie. Noted. Filed for later nefarious use.
He takes it, brings it slowly to his mouth, and the veins in his temples flex when he bites down. His eyes close and out of nowhere, I remember the throaty groan that used to rasp out of him when he came especially hard.
"I'm fine," he says, voice a little hoarse. For a Twilight Zone second, I think he's reassuring me about his reaction to the cookie, but then I see Tyana's taken his other hand and is fussing over the tiny paper cut between his thumb and forefinger. She presses a frog-print Band-Aid to it before she'll let him go. He thanks her with one of the boyish smiles I never get, and he's out the door an instant later—hopping from rug to dry patch to entrance rug so he doesn't even smudge the floor. When he gets outside, he turns back and gestures to me and my overflowing cash drawer through the glass.
"Lock up," he mouths, but all I can see is that his eyes have gone dark as bittersweet chocolate. He's still carrying the uneaten half-cookie like one bite was all he could tolerate. I can't stop frowning, and a headache begins to brew behind my eyes.
"Tyana," I say abruptly. "Do you think he's getting some kind of eating disorder?"
"You don't get abs like that eating carbs, baby girl." Tyana bustles over and flips the lock, taking the mop with her so she can wipe out her footprints as she comes back.
"But in the meeting yesterday, I offered him some cake samples and you would have thought I asked him to chomp down on a live grenade."
"Oh, so you think his problem with your cooking is the calories?" Tyana laughs and bumps me out of the way with one hip so she can start counting out the drawer.
I drop my voice so our new employee won't overhear. "I'm serious."
"No, honey, he doesn't have an eating disorder." She pats me on the shoulder, her nails tickling my skin. "He took me and the wife out for pizza a couple weeks ago and ate half the pie his own self. His appetite's just fine."
A pang darts through me. "You guys go out for pizza?"
"When my refrigerator conked out, and all our food went bad."
"You called Logan instead of me?" I wave in disbelief at my huge commercial kitchen. "I could have fed you, Tyana."
"Sure, but little old you can't wiggle our old fridge out the kitchen and I ain't paying no deliveryman tips for that."
I don't realize I'm still staring until she starts to hum as she counts. Then I turn away and busy myself pulling empty crumb-and-waxed-paper lined trays out of the display case.
Tyana could call me if she needed help. She must know that? She's worked here since Day One. I try to think to the last time we saw each other outside of work. I always go to her and Diane's place for the Fat Tuesday barbecue, and I brought her cold medicine once when she was out for a few days. When was that? Last year? No, the one before.
Her laugh rings in my ears like it's happening all over again. Veronica doesn't believe in friends.
I turn and head for the back, perching my hip on one stainless steel countertop. "So what's the story behind that bucket list?"
My new employee finishes sorting the last piece of mail into five separate piles, and beams. "It's my destiny." She yanks it out of her pocket.
"Backstory?" I snap my fingers, hoping this story will land more on the side of "cute and quirky" rather than "coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs" because I really need the help and Tyana really needs a day off. Her bunions are only getting worse with all this time on her feet and she hasn't gotten to babysit her grand-babies in weeks.
"Well, I was working in New York City, and everybody I met was there to chase their dreams." She hops up on the counter next to me, her apron smeared with the same colors of icing as mine. "The restaurant I was working in was very fast-paced, see, so I was working so hard I didn't even notice at first. Then, one day I looked up and I realized, this isn't my dream."
Something pangs in me again, like a nickle hitting the bottom of a well and echoing all the way back up.
She shrugs, so gracefully it travels down her whole thin arm. "Everyone speaks of the opportunities in that city, the magic of it, but to me it was just cold. Expensive. Bah, too big. So I made a list! Every city I wanted to live in, that I had dreamed about since I was a little girl." She pushes the paper to me and I take it, my thumb smoothing a place where it's gone soft and pliable from being folded.
✔️Move to Nashville
✔️Get a job in a bar
✔️Find a BFF
✔️Fall in love
✔️Find the heart of the city
#
✔️Move to New Orleans
✔️Get a job in a bakery
✔️Find a BFF
Fall in love
Find the heart of the city
#
Move to Paris
Get a job in a chocolate shop
Find a BFF
Fall in love
Find the heart of the city.
I snort, softly. Fall in love and find a new BFF once a year? This flitting little butterfly isn't much for monogamy, but I have to applaud her dedication to a checklist.
"I made a list of how I wanted to live," she whispers. "One year in each place, then I move on." She snaps like that decides it. "Makes you live in the moment, yes? Not cling, like I was doing to the idea of New York. Then, at the end, I choose. Where I belong." She grins. "Or I pick three more cities. I don't know."
"One more thing, if I'm going to hire you. I should probably know your name?"
She bursts out laughing. "Oopsie. We've been so busy we haven't even been properly introduced." She grins, dark eyes gleaming. "I love busy. I am Amanita Araceli—Nita." Her slight accent dashes off the words beautifully.
I put out my hand to shake hers. "I'm Veronica Mars, and you've got yourself a best friend, Nita Araceli."
Logan and Tyana can eat crow together right on top of their damn pizza. See? I can make friends. Besides, what's the harm? She'll be gone in a year.
Author's Note: Amanita is named in honor of my favorite character in Sense8, which is an excellent show with the sexiest montages and best fight scenes, and should never have been cancelled. My Nita isn't much like Amanita on the show, except that they're both cute as a matched set of buttons.
Hey, if you have a favorite special baked good, drop it in the comments. I can use more ideas and if it sounds fancy enough, it might just show up somewhere in the fic!