“Yeah, I’m done here,” I said, looking from the cupcakes to Fiona.

Her eyes flared as she looked down. “Okay, you better not be shipping those out anywhere or putting them on sale before I have at least two.”

I grinned, leaning over to grab the plate I’d set aside for her. “Way ahead of you.” I winked, wiping my hands on my apron before brushing my cheek with the back of my hand out of habit.

Though I’d been baking for years—my whole life pretty much—I still had not perfected the art of looking like Nigella Lawson after I was done, all flawless and goddess-like. No, my auburn hair was usually escaping from the tight bun at the top of my head, chocolate was staining my fingertips, and flour ended up… pretty much everywhere.

When I first opened the bakery five years ago, I’d tried really hard to not only be the baker but also the face of the place, painstakingly crafting my appearance after spending hours in the kitchen. I’d battle with my wild burgundy locks, trying to wrestle them into a slick bun. I’d attempt to put on makeup, slathering it over my freckles, wear white dresses that molded over my considerable curves… the whole thing.

But that quickly went to shit.

You could not wear white and be a baker. Or maybe other bakers could. You couldn’t be me and wear white.

I wasn’t exactly the kind of person who would talk myself up, but even I couldn’t escape the wild success of my business and my food, so I knew that I was a good baker. Maybe even a great one. But I was not orderly, put together nor organized like a lot of my contemporaries at pastry school had been. In every other aspect of my life, I was meticulous, careful, purposeful. In the kitchen, I was not. Sure, I adhered to correct measurements—most of the time, at least—but other than that, I was like a hurricane.

I’d gotten the nickname ‘the chaotic baker’ in school which was an apt way to describe me.

Trying to fight it had almost driven me mad, so I’d embraced the chaos and no longer tried to make myself look perfect. My hair was clean, brushed and somewhat tamed when I made it to the front of the house. Makeup was a thing of the past. The closest I got was the tinted strawberry lip balm I swiped across my lips after I’d wiped the flour off my face, or if I had extra time in the morning, I’d brush mascara on to accentuate my large green eyes.

Fiona was leaning on the arch between the kitchen and the front of the house, regarding me with perfectly manicured brows.

Fiona, despite spending her day waiting on people, looked like she could’ve just strutted off a runway or from a Sports Illustrated shoot. Her blonde hair brushed her shoulders with perfect beach waves which never turned frizzy, never stuck up or out of place and always looked intentionally mussed. Her tanned skin was always glowing like she’d just spent a week sunning herself in the Caribbean, even in the dead of winter. She was tall, much taller than my 5′5′′ and had curves that seemed to defy physics itself. On top of all that, she had a sweet tooth that should’ve wreaked havoc on those curves but did nothing but improve them.