I know it’s ten o’clock in the morning on a Wednesday in April. I don’t care. My pajamas are comfortable, and there’s a holiday baking competition on a streaming service and a spot on my couch that’s calling my name. Curling up with my softest blanket and a mug of hot coffee, I start the first episode.

Baking competitions are a bit of a guilty pleasure of mine. Actually, I shouldn’t say “guilty.” I feel absolutely zero guilt about it. But I love them probably more than a reasonable, well-adjusted adult should. Though the jury’s still out on whether or not I’m reasonable or well-adjusted.

All of this is to say that I could—and sometimes do—spend an entire day binging baking shows, especially between writing and editing projects. This particular season has haunted me since I got serious about finishing the draft of my book in November. I told myself I wouldn’t watch it until the draft was finished. By the time I’ve gotten to the fourth episode and downed another cup of coffee, I’m settled in with my reward, and it feels so sweet. Pun intended.

That is, it’s sweet until a banging sounds at my front door. It surprises me so much that I jump and hot coffee sloshes over the rim of my mug and onto my soft, white blanket.

“Son of a bitch,” I curse, holding the mug up as if that’s going to help anything and shaking my free hand to soothe the sting caused by the coffee.

The banging comes again, more urgent this time. My heart starts racing; I don’t think I’ve scheduled anything for today. In fact, I know I didn’t because I was very serious about my date with the holiday baking competition. But I also notoriously need a calendar. Or an assistant. I used to have both, but now that I haven’t done anything of note in a while, I haven’t seen the need for either.

“Open up, Scarlett. I know you’re in there. I can hear the baking show,” Trina shouts from the other side of the door.

I breathe out a sigh of relief at knowing who is out there before tensing up again because what the fuck is Trina doing at my apartment at two o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon without scheduling an appointment?

Gingerly, I remove the coffee-soaked blanket from my lap and set my mug down on the end table before marching the few steps to the door and throwing it open as violently as I dare. The poor thing isn’t really meant for aggressive gestures, and I can’t afford a new front door.

“There she is,” Trina says with fake cheer, tilting her head to the side and smiling so wide, her signature bright red lips pull tight over her teeth. Platinum-blonde hair falls over her shoulder with the motion.