How to Eat a Cupcake by Meg Donohue

if I didn’t include it, Annie would balk. Better to keep things businesslike than to let on that the return on investment for me would be related to mental stability, not money.
    â€œIf the shop does well, which I’m sure it will,” I continued, “the schedule will be such that you’ll buy out my investment over the course of about three years. On the opposite end of the spectrum, if the cupcakery were to fail, you wouldn’t be required to repay me anything.”
    â€œThat seems generous,” Annie said, eyes narrowed. I could hear her foot anxiously tapping the floor below the table.
    â€œNot really. This isn’t charity,” I said hurriedly. “Like any business investment, there’s risk and the possibility of reward. The risk is one I’m more than willing to take after tasting your cupcakes and doing a little market research.”
    Still, Annie seemed skeptical. “And all of this is in the contract?”
    What does she take me for? A criminal? “Yes, in explicit detail.” I handed her the document. “You should have a lawyer look it over so you feel completely comfortable proceeding.”
    Under the table, Annie’s foot was still at last. “Sounds fine,” she said. “I’ll have a lawyer friend look it over.”
    â€œGood. Let’s move on to lighter topics.” I swept my fingers along the laptop keyboard. “I’ve already scoped out a few retail spaces on Chestnut, Union, and Fillmore streets. The one on Fillmore was most recently a restaurant, so the kitchen is—”
    â€œWait,” she interrupted. “Fillmore Street? I don’t want the cupcakery to be in Pacific Heights.”
    â€œOh,” I said. I took a slow sip of latte, leaving a glossy peach rosebud on the glass. I’d envisioned the latest generation of Devon Prep girls strolling down the bustling shopping street, dropping into the shop on a daily basis to fritter their sizable allowances on cupcakes and coffee. Now I realized that that very clientele was probably Annie’s worst nightmare. Still, those girls had money, and Annie’s ample psychological baggage shouldn’t take priority over the cupcakery’s bottom line. “Where were you thinking?”
    Without hesitating, Annie responded: “The Mission.”
    I sighed.
    â€œThe Mission,” she repeated, jutting her chin into the air in a manner I remembered well from childhood. “It’s perfect.”
    I took a bite of a macaroon, stalling as I worked to formulate a response. I was not one to pussyfoot when it came to matters of business, but I knew that Annie—who, stereotype or not, did seem to have a quintessentially Latin temper—required a certain deft approach. “It’s just,” I began carefully, swallowing a final bite of cookie, “we’re aiming for a very specific clientele. A three-dollars-and-fifty-cents-cupcake-eating clientele, to be precise.”
    â€œThree dollars and fifty cents!”
    â€œI ran the numbers. Three dollars and fifty cents per cupcake with a nice discount for a dozen. People spend forty dollars on a cake that feeds twelve, so why not forty dollars for a dozen cupcakes? These aren’t just any old cupcakes.”
    Annie looked at me and shrugged. “Okay, fine. I’ll leave the pricing up to you. But the Mission is nonnegotiable.” She popped a macaroon into her mouth and chewed fiercely.
    Now, I bristled. “Nonnegotiable? Annie, come on. We’re just getting started— everything is negotiable.”
    Annie’s nostrils flared. I resisted the urge to reach out and brush away the crumbs that littered her large chest, thinking, as I clutched my hands in my lap, that a good tailor could have done wonders for the way that silly yellow jumper buckled and gaped around her curves.
    â€œHave you ever even been to the Mission?” she asked, still chewing. “You