days,” she said. Normally, she never would've spoken of her coworkers that way, but he'd pissed her off.
“A wait list,” he chuckled, rubbing at the side of his jaw. His very smoothly shaven jaw. Katya refused to be taken in by his good looks again and looked away from that jaw. Into his disgustingly blue eyes.
“I'm sorry, but I'm very busy today. If you'd like to look at my portfolio, I can give you our website, or I can you give you the phone numbers of some other very good bakeries,” she offered, moving to grab a card from the counter top.
“No, no, three months is fine. We're having a party in about five months time, so if you think you can pencil me in, that would be great,” he said.
Katya got him an order form, and while his assistant filled it out, he prattled off some details, what kind of design he wanted, other desserts he might be interested in ordering. The whole time, his eyes wandered over the display cases, or his phone, or his assistant's tablet. He hardly even looked at her, and certainly didn't recognize her. Didn't even ask for her name. By the end of the exchange, Katya was ready to shoot fire from her nostrils.
A whole summer I practically lived at his house. Fetched him food and drinks at his every command, and he doesn't even fucking remember me.
“I think that'll be it. My assistant will be in touch if we need to add anything else to the order,” he said as they wrapped everything up.
“You have until four weeks before the delivery date to change your order – after that, we charge a fee. One week before, no changes allowed. We'll expect a deposit on your order in the next week. No refunds for cancellations,” she said, handing her card over to the silent assistant.
“Sounds good. We'll be in touch about the deposit.”
And with that, he walked out of the bakery. No goodbye, no thank you, no nothing. The assistant followed in his wake, still poking at her tablet. The door slammed shut behind them, jingling the bell.
“Prick,” Katya muttered, resting her elbows on the counter and massaging her fingertips against her forehead. The bell above the door sounded again and before she could stand upright, she heard quick footsteps moving across the floor.
“Hi,” Katya started. “Welcome to ...”
Her voice trailed off as she watched the smartly dressed assistant hurrying towards her at a clipped pace. The other woman was tiny, even in her heels, and she had to stretch to reach her arm over the display case. She had a card pinched between her fingers and Katya tentatively took it.
“Mr. Stone said to meet him here at seven o'clock,” she said in a sharp voice. Katya stared down at the card. It was simple, all white, and had a restaurant's name written on the back of it.
“I'm sorry … what?” Katya was confused as she flipped the card over, taking in the impressive name and even more impressive job title.
“Seven o'clock. Sharp – Mr. Stone does not like to be kept waiting,” the assistant said, then started moving back towards the door.
“What's going on?” Katya demanded. “Is this about the order? I don't meet clients outside of work hours.”
“No, Ms. Tocci,” the assistant replied, shocking Katya. She'd never said her last name. “This is not about the order. Seven, sharp. Please don't be late.”
Katya stared at the door, long after the assistant had disappeared through it. Long after the black town car had pulled away from the curb. Ms. Tocci . The assistant had known her name. Known it because someone must have told her what it was, someone who'd known Katya. Someone who'd remembered her, after all. She finally shook her head and looked back down at the card. The Stone Agency was embossed big bold letters at the top. An address was at the bottom in regular print. In between the two was a name, with the letters “CEO” after it. A name she hadn't heard in almost a decade.
Wulfric Stone.
6
Katya left work early in order to go home and
“A wait list,” he chuckled, rubbing at the side of his jaw. His very smoothly shaven jaw. Katya refused to be taken in by his good looks again and looked away from that jaw. Into his disgustingly blue eyes.
“I'm sorry, but I'm very busy today. If you'd like to look at my portfolio, I can give you our website, or I can you give you the phone numbers of some other very good bakeries,” she offered, moving to grab a card from the counter top.
“No, no, three months is fine. We're having a party in about five months time, so if you think you can pencil me in, that would be great,” he said.
Katya got him an order form, and while his assistant filled it out, he prattled off some details, what kind of design he wanted, other desserts he might be interested in ordering. The whole time, his eyes wandered over the display cases, or his phone, or his assistant's tablet. He hardly even looked at her, and certainly didn't recognize her. Didn't even ask for her name. By the end of the exchange, Katya was ready to shoot fire from her nostrils.
A whole summer I practically lived at his house. Fetched him food and drinks at his every command, and he doesn't even fucking remember me.
“I think that'll be it. My assistant will be in touch if we need to add anything else to the order,” he said as they wrapped everything up.
“You have until four weeks before the delivery date to change your order – after that, we charge a fee. One week before, no changes allowed. We'll expect a deposit on your order in the next week. No refunds for cancellations,” she said, handing her card over to the silent assistant.
“Sounds good. We'll be in touch about the deposit.”
And with that, he walked out of the bakery. No goodbye, no thank you, no nothing. The assistant followed in his wake, still poking at her tablet. The door slammed shut behind them, jingling the bell.
“Prick,” Katya muttered, resting her elbows on the counter and massaging her fingertips against her forehead. The bell above the door sounded again and before she could stand upright, she heard quick footsteps moving across the floor.
“Hi,” Katya started. “Welcome to ...”
Her voice trailed off as she watched the smartly dressed assistant hurrying towards her at a clipped pace. The other woman was tiny, even in her heels, and she had to stretch to reach her arm over the display case. She had a card pinched between her fingers and Katya tentatively took it.
“Mr. Stone said to meet him here at seven o'clock,” she said in a sharp voice. Katya stared down at the card. It was simple, all white, and had a restaurant's name written on the back of it.
“I'm sorry … what?” Katya was confused as she flipped the card over, taking in the impressive name and even more impressive job title.
“Seven o'clock. Sharp – Mr. Stone does not like to be kept waiting,” the assistant said, then started moving back towards the door.
“What's going on?” Katya demanded. “Is this about the order? I don't meet clients outside of work hours.”
“No, Ms. Tocci,” the assistant replied, shocking Katya. She'd never said her last name. “This is not about the order. Seven, sharp. Please don't be late.”
Katya stared at the door, long after the assistant had disappeared through it. Long after the black town car had pulled away from the curb. Ms. Tocci . The assistant had known her name. Known it because someone must have told her what it was, someone who'd known Katya. Someone who'd remembered her, after all. She finally shook her head and looked back down at the card. The Stone Agency was embossed big bold letters at the top. An address was at the bottom in regular print. In between the two was a name, with the letters “CEO” after it. A name she hadn't heard in almost a decade.
Wulfric Stone.
6
Katya left work early in order to go home and
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