I suppose Beth is right to question our so-called relationship. But, as I rack my brain with how to respond, Harley suddenly speaks up, surprising me. “You know what they say,” he begins, offering me a conspiratorial wink. “Opposites attract.”

I relax a little, releasing the breath I’d been holding, and I turn back to wipe the already spotless glass.

“Anyway …” Beth stands from her chair, obviously finished with the conversation, her handbag dangling from the crook of her elbow. “So, we’ve decided on the red velvet?” She looks to Harley who is still stuffing his face full of cake.

He nods.

“Well, actually, it’ll be black velvet.” I step forward, suddenly nervous for some reason. I don’t know why. This is my business; it’s what I do for a living. But Beth is intimidating, and I hate that girls like her have this effect on me. “I just have to perfect the color ratio.”

“Black cake?” Beth looks at me in disgust, her already pinched face scrunched up even more.

I nod. “Yeah, it’s something new I’m trying. Black velvet, black fondant with a gold leaf press, and a gold drip.”

Harley looks unbothered, but Beth continues eyeing me, unconvinced. “Whatever.” She finally shrugs. “I’m going to get a pedicure.” And with that, she’s gone, leaving an air of arrogance in her wake as the screen door slams shut with her hasty exit, causing the bell above to jingle violently.

“Ugh.” I cringe, watching her walk past the store window with her chin held high in the air as if she’s better than everyone. “What an asshole.”

Harley suddenly chokes on a mouthful, punching his fist against his chest as he coughs and splutters before finally bringing up the morsel of dislodged cake from the back of his throat. Immediately, the awkward silence of the store is inundated by his roaring laughter, and I look at him incredulously. I don’t normally cuss, and I’ve never been known to cuss anyone out, but that girl gets to me in a way I’ve never felt before. “There really is no other way to describe a person like that.” I shrug, turning and walking through to the kitchen.

He continues chuckling as I tidy the countertop.

“Do you mind if I take the rest of this cake back to the bar to give to the staff?” Harley calls from the front. “They love your baking, Murph.”

I stop, freezing on the spot. “The laxative!” I hiss under my breath as if I’ve somehow forgotten about the ill-fated cake in just a matter of minutes. My jaw drops and I cover my gaping mouth with a hand, shaking my head. Poor Harley. He’s had at least half of it.

“Um …” I consider his question out loud. “Actually, no. I n-need it to—” I panic a moment as I try to think of an excuse. “I need to keep it so I can see how it sits overnight,” I lie as convincingly as I can on the spot. “You can take the éclairs from the front window, if you want.”