Kiss My Cupcake(7)

I consider flipping him the bird, but that would mean stooping to his level and I’m unwilling to play his game. “Kiss my cupcake!” I shout over my shoulder, wishing my wit had kicked in earlier. I stalk angrily down the sidewalk and nearly lose my footing for what seems like the hundredth time this morning when I step in something slippery. I glance down and gag, then tip my chin up to the sky. “Seriously?”

Of course I stepped in the dog-doo.

Because today hasn’t been ruined enough by my new jerk of a neighbor.

I remove the offending shoe—the yellow flower is stuck to the bottom—and try not to breathe in the noxious odor. Daphne looks up from the bar where she’s currently on her phone posting photos when I hobble back into my shop, my soiled shoe dangling from my finger.

Daphne’s expression is somewhere between incredulous and questioning as she gives me a quick once-over. “Who are you and what have you done with my friend Blaire?”

“What?”

“Since when do you go around confronting complete strangers?”

She makes a good point. “Since I don’t have enough money to replace that stupid glass. Everything I have is tied up in here.” I wave my poopy shoe around. “I need this place to do well, Daph. I want to prove I can succeed on my own—with your help, obviously, and Paul’s—but this needs to work out. I can’t go to my family for help. They’re too…”

“Crazy? Meddling? Impossible to deal with?” Daphne suggests.

“Exactly.”

“Well, I gotta say, this new, bolder you is something I can definitely get used to. You’re finally growing into your lady balls.” She grins and nods to the shoe still dangling from my finger. “What happened?”

“I stepped in crap. Literally.”

“Next door?”

“No. Out there.” I motion to the sidewalk and hobble-weave my way through the tables all the way to the back door. I throw it open angrily and debate whether I should toss the shoe. I leave it outside, fairly confident no one is going to touch it.

I wash my hands before I return barefoot and still very much annoyed. Especially when the banging starts up again, and it seems like it’s even more vigorous than it was before.

“So what’s going on over there?”

“The lumberjerk next door is putting in an axe-throwing enclosure.”

Daphne’s eyes flare. “Lumberjerk?”

“He was wearing a plaid flannel shirt, wandering around with an axe. And get this: His name is Ronan, totally a hipster, right? He probably changed it from something far more pedestrian, like Robert or Bill. His hair looks like it’s styled with pomade. All he was missing was the lumber-beard and the black-rimmed glasses.”

Daphne holds up a hand. “Wait. Flannel in August?” Daphne asks. I’m glad she seems appropriately horrified by that fashion travesty.

“Or maybe it was plaid and I’m making up the flannel part. Regardless, he was wearing a plaid long-sleeved shirt with another shirt under it. In August. Totally ridiculous. And he’s a completely condescending jerk! Can you believe he had the nerve to tell me I should move my shelf because he’s putting in an axe-throwing enclosure? Who even likes throwing axes other than barbarians?”

“Uh, axe throwing is pretty popular these days.”

I give her a look that tells her how much I don’t appreciate her opinion on this. Or the fact that she is most certainly correct. “That’s not the point. The point is he’s inconveniencing me by using our adjoining wall for his freaking axe throwing! Why should I have to move my glassware for him? Moving that shelf means I’ll have to adjust the entire layout. What a selfish bastard.”

“Or do you mean shelf-ish bastard?” Daphne grins, and I fight one of my own.

“That was ridiculously lame.”

“And yet, still funny.”

I roll my eyes. “I need to tackle the shelf.”

“Leave the shelf where it is.”

“Why? We can’t even put anything on it. Or hang stuff from that freaking wall if Lumberjerk is going to be throwing axes at it. And there’s still a bar in there! How can they serve alcohol and wield axes? That seems outlandishly unsafe.”

“There’s protocol. And inspections.”

I tap my lip, considering my options. “Inspections?”

Daphne shakes her head and raises a hand. “Don’t start a war before you’ve even opened your doors, Blaire.”

“You didn’t meet him. He’s a grade-A a-hole extraordinaire.” Although, she does have a point. “I’ll tuck that piece of information in my pocket in case I need it.”

Later, when I’m heading home for the day, I find a flyer tucked under my windshield wipers, which is odd, since I’m parked in the alley behind all the shops, where only the owners and employees are allowed. I lift the wiper and flip it over, curious and hoping that I don’t have to fight a parking ticket I can’t afford. It’s definitely not a ticket, but it’s dusk, and shadowy back here, so I climb into my SUV and toss it on the seat beside me.

It isn’t until I get home and the interior light comes on that I finally realize what’s on the flyer. It’s an advertisement for anger-management therapy. At the top, in semi-legible man-scrawl is a note: