Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Elodie: You’re bad.
Gage: And you had no complaints Friday night.
Elodie: Or last night when I replayed it.
Gage: With The Command Performance?
Elodie: Of course.
Gage: Did you name it after me?
Elodie: If your name is oh god.
Gage: Now who’s enjoying the loophole?
Elodie: I guess I’m bad too. But seriously, is it crazy trying to pull off this new venture?
Gage: No, it’s a good idea. Trust me. It’s such a good idea that I’m willing to keep my hands off you. And don’t think for a second I don’t want to fuck you. I do. Badly. I want to take you out on another date and then put you on your hands and knees and give you ten more screaming orgasms, but I also really want to make sure my daughter never winds up in the financial holes I’ve been in. And oh, yeah, I’d like to pay health insurance for my employees for a long, long time to come. And I think this is the way.
Elodie: Yup, responsible is hot.
On Sunday night as I’m wiping down tables in the back of the shop, I steal a moment to read our recent text exchange one more time. Nearly forty-eight hours and several brainstorm calls later, during which we also talked about our weekends—he did a beach cleanup with Eliza, and I took Amanda to check out a new ceramics shop in Noe Valley, then she insisted I learn to play a new trivia game with her since she’s obsessed with trivia games—and Gage and I have a plan and an appointment at The Escape in the morning.
It feels a little crazy, but it feels right too.
I had the weekend to weigh mojitos and martinis, truffles and toffee. What started as pillow talk turned into something even sexier—a bold idea for a new business that can solve both our problems, even if it means setting aside the spark I felt for him. There’s so much more at stake than sparks. The shared space can drive business to our existing businesses—and that’s what we both need. I can potentially gain more customers for my chocolates at the shop, pay off the loan, and keep growing Elodie’s Chocolates. And Gage can use the pop-up to get customers excited for the higher-end bar in a more cocktail-centric location that he wants to open. It’s a win-win.
I even talked to my friends about Special Edition over our pancake brunch, during which they teased me for locking it up with Gage.
But the reality is this—banging your new business partner is a bad idea, so Gage and I agreed to put our attraction on ice. Something about Special Edition feels right. Right in a way The Chocolate Connoisseur offer never did. I return to the counter, so Kenji and I can finish cleaning up the shop on Sunday night. When we’re done, my second-in-command shoots me an expectant look as he undoes his apron and hangs it up. “So, did you decide, mama?”
Nerves rush through me, chased by excitement. He’s got a lot at stake here too. A first generation Japanese American, he helps pay the bills for his family, who all moved and live here in the Bay Area too. If I took The Chocolate Connoisseur offer, I’m not sure there’d be a job for him.
“I did,” I say, then add a smile. “Wish me luck saying no.”
He mimes putting a tiara on me. “Queen.”
“Get out of here,” I say, and he leaves first.
When I lock up a few minutes later, I gaze at the sign above the shop feeling something like certainty when I see my name. That’s something I don’t always feel, but right now I cherish it, I clutch it.
And I need it.
Amanda’s at home, making a salad for us, since she swears she’s only eating salads for the rest of her life, and that’s that. I take out my phone to call Sebastian on the way, passing the perfume shop next to my store right as the owner steps out for the night too.
Samira Haddid also owns the retail space itself for my shop, her shop, and for the lingerie store next door to Scents & Sensibility. A real estate investor and a perfumier, I like to say. She’s older than me, probably in her sixties, with warm brown skin, weathered from the years. Her voice is melodic. “Elodie, it’s trading time soon. I have new scents for you. Do you have some salted caramels for me?”
“Always, and they’re on the house. But why won’t you ever let me buy your perfumes, Samira? I’d happily do that.”
She shakes her head adamantly. “It’s best to be fair.”
“If you insist.”
“I do,” she says, then waves and heads the other way.
As I walk home, I dial Sebastian’s number.
He answers on the first ring. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a Sunday night call? I hope it’s a yes.”