She was always filming me baking or decorating cakes. I was fine with that until she told me to “up the cleavage,” then I’d banned her from putting me in any pictures or videos.

I definitely did not need that kind of business.

Anyway, we were busy. Consistently busy. But even consistently busy, successful bakeries had lulls.

Because I was meticulous about tasks, charts and cleanliness, there wasn’t much to be done in said lulls. The cookies for when the kids got out of school and their moms took them here for a sugar fix were already in the oven. The counters were cleaned. The dishwasher was going. Plates were cleared from tables. Takeout boxes were stocked.

Free time.

It was an enemy that I usually battled off.

Free time meant thinking. Thinking meant second-guessing what I had previously thought were sound decisions or convincing myself I had a life-threatening health condition.

I’d had my near-death experience for the day, so now it was time for questioning decisions.

“Did I make a mistake?” I asked myself in a small voice, biting my lip as I packaged up a cake. I smoothed my hand over the script, ‘Innocent pleasures – food without morals’ logo in bright pink, sloping script, a little cherub eating a cupcake below it. The Chaotic Baker was in small serif font below it.

My eyes found Fiona’s. She was leaning against the pink granite countertop that cost way too much but was worth every penny. “Breaking up with him,” I clarified.

“Fuck no!” she replied loudly.

I quickly hurried to the counter to give the older couple their cake, smiling in apology for my employee’s outburst—one that was not at all uncommon but somehow didn’t seem to offend anyone because it was spoken in her endearing accent.

“He was a piece of shit,” Fiona continued, inspecting her nails. “He cared only about himself yet was really good at making it look like he cared about you… except in all the places that mattered. For example, making sure you had all the orgasms you deserve, which, my darling, a fuck of a lot… minimum.”

My cheeks warmed as I looked around, thankful for the lull, all of our customers seated around tables, out of earshot.

Fiona, for her part, wasn’t the least bit embarrassed about discussing orgasms—granted mine, not hers—at her place of work.

“Yeah, but he was handsome, had a stable job, owned his own home,” I rattled off the qualities, my stomach swirling with unease. “He treated his mother well…” I struggled to find more positive examples. “I’ve never seen him hit a dog with his car,” I offered weakly.

Fiona rolled her eyes. “Oh wow, he was a decent human being who didn’t murder animals. That’s the bar, babe?” She shook her head. “No. He was an asshole when you told him, gently, that he needed to make a little more effort in the bedroom. Too gently, likely,” she added with narrowed eyes, knowing me far too well.