Page 22 of Lizzie Blake's Best Mistake
Lizzie collapsed back onto her bed, exhaustion overwhelming her before her day had even really begun.
She’d been sleepy all week, but a sudden touch of queasiness made her squeeze her eyes shut.
She lay there for a few minutes, halfway asleep when some underused entity of executive function decided to do its job and suddenly jolt her internal alarm.
Her eyes snapped open as she grabbed her phone and looked at the time.
S.H.I.T.
Lizzie was running late. Like,really fucking late.
She tumbled off the side of her bed, speed-crawling across her floor as she searched for her work shirt and a clean pair of underwear. Ripping on the former and not able to find the latter, she slipped out of her pajama bottoms and hoisted her thighs into the closest pair of jeans.
Lizzie sprinted out of her room, her sock-clad feet nearly slipping out from beneath her as she dived for her shoes and hopped into them, grabbing her purse and continuing her breakneck speed out of the apartment.
Stupid stupid stupid, she cursed as she sprinted down the block.
George, her boss, was about to ream her a new clock-shaped asshole for being late again. And, to top it off, she still needed to put finishing touches on a blueberry-kale cake monstrosity that was being picked up in twenty minutes. If George’s recipewasn’t gross enough, the customer wanted#BLESSEDwritten on top. The thought of having to subject her beautiful buttercream to such depravity made Lizzie’s hands recoil.
Lizzie skidded to a stop in front of her work, Baking Me Crazy, and yanked open the door, her ridiculously sweaty body instantly chilled by the over-cranked air conditioner and the heinously contrived minimalistic vibe of the bakery.
She dashed to the back, pushing through the swinging door and into the kitchen toward the lockers. She wondered if she herself was #blessed and could have her ridiculous lateness go unnoticed when George stepped in front of her path and she almost slammed into his plaid-decked body. While they didn’t exactly belly-slap, she did cause him to lose his balance, and he dropped his mason jar of cold brew, droplets smattering both of their legs.
Lizzie and George stared down at the mess before their gazes slowly lifted and merged, George looking furious, Lizzie looking guilty.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” George asked, ripping an AirPod from his ear.
“I know I’m late and I’m sorry. I’m so so so so so sorry. Very sorry. I swear it won’t happen again. Deadass.”
“You literally said that exact same thing last week,” George grumbled, scratching at his patchy chin-strap beard. Lizzie stared at the bald spots that ebbed and flowed around the random tufts of hair. She was constantly distracted by the damn thing, wondering why he didn’t just shave it off since he scratched at it so much.
George waved a hand in front of her face, breaking her train of thoughts. “Are you even listening to me?”
Her eyes snapped up to his as she realized he’d kept talking.
No.“Yes.”
“Really?” George said, raising an eyebrow. “What did I say?”
The question caught Lizzie off guard, and she sucked in agiant breath, trying to think on her feet. (Un)fortunately, she also sucked down a bunch of spittle, causing her to double over as she coughed and choked on air.
“Sorry, George,”—cough—“I don’t”—hack, cough, grunt—“hold on—”
By the time she regained her breath and stood up, eyes watering, George looked more weary and resigned than furious, and Lizzie jumped on that. “Sorry, don’t know where that came from. What were you saying?”
George pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. He looked at her. “You’re an excellent baker, Lizzie. Truly. And I’d be willing to let you incorporate your own recipes here more and take on bigger projects if you could only figure out how to get your head out of your ass and your feet in the door on time.”
Lizzie swallowed against the pinpricks of shame that needled at her throat. “I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice, meaning it.
She hated the all-too-familiar look of exasperation that George was giving her. It was so damn frustrating that her mind was a constant tangled scribble that she could never seem to unravel.
“Am I fired?”
George stared at her for a hard moment before his features softened and he scratched again at his patchy beard. “This is your last warning. I mean it. Late again like this and you’re done. I’ll be watching you closely. Every shift, every break, you better get here on time.”
“Oh fuck, thank you, George. I won’t let you down,” she said, bouncing on her toes as though the relief of still having a job could lift her from the ground.
George dismissed her with a weak flap of his wrist. “Don’t leave this either,” he said, waving at the shards of glass and spilled cold brew. “Grab a mop or something,” he said, walking into his office.