“And I’m telling you, Martha, I don’t know. The rent is pretty steep,” I told her (again) as I wended my way through Cherry Creek North toward my shop. “Maybe we should look into something on The Mall or lower LoDo around My Brother’s Bar?”

“I get where you’re coming from but that location is Tessa’s Cakes,” she replied. “Already, you’re in Cherry Creek and that isn’t exactly shantytown.”

This was true. My rent for my current bakery was also a whack.

Martha kept going. “The Mall is out. It’s cool but it’s not Tessa’s Cakes. And lower LoDo is awesome but it isn’t established awesome like Writer Square, unless you’re talking about Brother’s or Paris on the Platte, which are only established because they’ve been there yonks. Not to mention, foot traffic is way less. Practically every shop in Writer Square is fabulous and they’ve all been there for years. And they have flair. You’ll fit right in.”

She was right about that, all of it.

Eek!

“Tessa,” she went on and I could tell by her voice she was facing me. I could also tell by her voice she’d hit her “listen to me, I’m being deadly serious” mode. “Your cakes don’t say 16th Street Mall and they don’t say lower LoDo. They say Larimer Square but you’ve nixed that because of the rent so the next best thing is Writer Square. This is perfect, honey. This is you.”

She was right about that too. All of it.

Yikes.

Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to hire someone who knew me and understood my vision. Maybe it was scary.

Damn.

Oh well. Nighties and sanity were on the line. And I didn’t hire Martha to do payroll and create schedules. I hired Martha to help me expand and then to look after my vision when I did.

There was nothing for it.

“Okay, call them and tell them we want it.”

“Yee ha!” she shrieked.

Dear God.

I pulled into the parking lot beside my bakery and parked in the spot that had the sign “Reserved for Tessa, you park here, you don’t get cake” on the building in front of it. I switched off the ignition and my phone rang.

Martha, holding my purse in her lap, dug through it, nosily looked at it, and mumbled, “Bad-boy hot guy,” then handed me the phone and started to exit the car, finishing, “I’m gonna go make the call now.”

Then she was gone.

I took Brock’s call.

“Hey.”

“Well?”

He knew I was viewing the location.

“It’s fabulous,” I answered his mostly unasked question.

“And?”

I grinned at my dash.

“My guess is, even though she was exiting my car with great haste while the phone was ringing with this call from you, still, Martha’s right now on the phone in the office with the landlord saying we’ll take it.”

Silence, then, “Good, baby.”

“I’m scared out of my mind, Brock,” I admitted.