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I look at the second cupcake and smile. I was planning to.

* * *

Baylor

By Monday afternoon, I’ve answered three calls about birthday orders, returned a message to the leasing agent, and decided that Wolf’s opinion about caramel filling is mostly an opinion about having more caramel.

Not useless. Just predictable.

I’m measuring sugar for another batch when a number I don’t recognize comes up on my phone. I wipe my hands, turn the mixer off, and answer before it goes to voicemail.

"Sprinkles, this is Baylor."

"Hi, Baylor. Juliet Haynes. I’m an event planner in the area, and I have an event I would like to see if you’d like to provide desserts for. Have I caught you at a bad time?"

I look at the bowl. "No. I’m baking, but I can talk."

"I’m calling about a dessert contract. I’ve had your cupcakes at Serendipity’s, and I wanted to ask whether you take larger events."

"I do. How large are we talking?" I grab my notebook from beside the fridge and open it to a clean page. This is why it lives up here now instead of at the bottom of my bag. "And what’s the date?"

She gives me the Friday date, two days after the Seattle–San Diego game, then says five hundred guests, needing one thousand desserts. I write the number down and underline it before asking what she wants served. That’s a massive number. I’ve never come close to an event this size.

"We’re planning a display rather than a plated dessert," she tells me. "A few choices, easy to take back to the tables. We’d need delivery, setup, and someone there to keep the display stocked."

"Cupcakes and cake pops could work. I do smaller cupcakes for events like that too, if you’d like people to try more than one flavor. Do you have a theme or colors?"

"I’ll send the details. This is for the Second Shift Sports Foundation’s spring gala."

My pen stops halfway through writing display.

"The Second Shift Sports Foundation?"

"Yes. Are you familiar with it?"

"Very." I look down at the half-finished word, then put the pen on the notebook. "They helped my brother. A few years ago. Beau Fairbanks. He plays for San Diego now."

"Then you know why we’re doing this." Her voice is warm. "We’re hoping for a good turnout. The dessert table has been popular, and I’d like to offer something a little different this year."

I rest my hand against the counter. I remember Mom at the dining room table with a stack of envelopes she wouldn’t let me open. Beau was upstairs after another procedure, Dad was taking a call in the garage, and she was trying to make the numbers on two different pages agree. Then the foundation called. She asked the same question three times because she didn’t believe the answer. They paid for the next surgery and the therapy afterward. Beau could keep going instead of having one more conversation about whether the family could afford the next part. I never forgot the name. Now someone is asking me to bake for their gala.

"Baylor?" Juliet asks.

"I’m here. Sorry. Yes, I’d love to do it." I pick up the pen. "I’ll put together a proposal. What budget are you working with?"

She gives me a range, and I write that down too. It’s more than the birthday parties I usually do, but five hundred guests, multiple desserts, totally one thousand cupcakes and cake pops, plus delivery, setup, and help for the evening would use plenty of it.

I need to do the math before I get carried away. I’m already getting carried away.

"I’d want a tasting before we confirm," she says. "Can you bring a few options next week to my office?"

"Yes." I check the order page in my notebook. "Next Wednesday afternoon?"

"That works. I’ll email the time and location. And if the quantities don’t fit your capacity, tell me. I’d rather know now than the week of the event."

"Of course." I look at the ovens. Bigger than mine and working, unlike mine. My own kitchen is supposed to be finished two days before the gala, which isn’t much room for a delay. "I’ll send suggested quantities and pricing by Friday. Then we can adjust after the tasting."

"Perfect. What email should I use?"