My motto has always been when life gives you lemons add some sugar, some gelatin, and whip up a batch of jelly beans. I mean, the hard, sour bits of life are always gonna be there. Always. But it’s all about perspective.

And right now, despite the fact I’m scraping by with exactly two hundred and twelve dollars in my business and checking account combined—I’m still standing here, on my own two feet, on the first day of my new life.

Though, to be perfectly honest, the morning has been a bit slow. Well, more than a bit. I’ve sold four lollipops, one bag of sour-drops, and have smiled so sweetly, so much that I think my mouth might go into a sugar-coma. Which is saying something for a woman with a sweet tooth.

I readjust my white apron for the hundredth time. The apron I made in my cramped apartment in Seattle before I took a leap of faith and drove East in an attempt to live my dreams. Exactly one week ago.

The apron I hand-embroidered—because one thing a girl learns when growing up with nothing besides her bootstraps—is that if you want something in life, you have to make it happen on your own. So, I stitched the name of my candy business in bright pink letters all by myself: Sweet Dreams.

I don’t have a shop of my own, yet. Right now I have a cart I built thanks to a YouTube tutorial and about four hundred trips to the home improvement store.

But one day I will have a shop of my own. I look down Main Street of the town I visited once as a girl and thought was the most magical place in the world. Not that I’d been many places in the world—but in my ten-year-old mind, the mountain-walled hamlet was everything my childhood wasn’t. The wooden balconies and two-toned timber frames of the houses made the village cozy and cheerful. A place that made me feel like anything was possible. The sweetest of dreams.

And one day, I’ll have a proper shop on Main Street. Complete with a kitchen in the back so I don’t have to rent space at the local commercial kitchen. A place where I can have open shelving, holding rows of big glass jars stocked with every brightly colored candy I can concoct. One day.

But before all that pie-in-sky-dreaming becomes reality I need to sell more than twenty dollars’ worth of lollipops.

Smile, Hazel, I tell myself. Be as sweet as the candy you’re selling.

I reach below my cart and grab a bin of rock candy on a stick hoping if I fill that canister to the brim it might look more appealing to customers.

“Miss,” an older woman asks, waving her wallet around. “Do you take cards?”

I grin and nod, and she begins filling her arms with all sorts of pretty treats. Rainbow fudge and gumdrops and sweet tarts. Bags and bags of each.

When I add up her total I feel my shoulders drop for the first time in forever. This is what hope feels like. If I have five sales like this each day, I’ll be able to afford the guest house I’m renting, because while I’ve paid first and last. I need to make enough sales to afford the months in between. And ten sales like this would mean I could pay for utilities and groceries. And twenty sales? That would mean I could start saving for my shop.

But I need to treat every customer like my best customer, not get lost in my daydreams. We chat for a few minutes as I bag up her treats and swipe her card on the reader attached to my phone. My first debit transaction!

And it seems like customers draw more customers because before I know it a few more tourists find their way to my cart and purchase an item or two.

The sun is shining and it’s after eleven a.m. which I realize, is probably when people are more in the mood for sugary sweets. An adorable little girl runs to the cart, her eyes wide with wonder, her blonde curls bouncing as she jumps up and down.

“I want it all,” she moans dramatically. “Just look at all these goodies!”

“Slow down, Lucy,” a man says coming up behind her, holding the hand of a younger boy. The boy is pretty adorable, but the man himself… wow!

He makes my cart look pitiful. Truth is, he’s the epitome of man candy. We’re talking a walking sugar rush. Biceps that make me want to be his Baby Ruth. I may be a twenty-three-year-old confectioner, but under the apron and honeyed smile, I have all sorts of ideas about what I could dip in chocolate.

And yes, I know that’s naughty, but one look at him and I know he is what my sweet dreams are made of.

The little boy tugs on his arm and I remember that I am not in a man-candy factory and am, in fact, a respectable businesswoman. “Can I have a jawbreaker?” the little guy asks.

“I don’t know what your mom would think of that, Milo.”

“Aww, she won’t be mad. You can just explain that we were hungry.”

The little girl faces the boy, who happens to be her spitting image. And with their light hair and bright blue eyes, they look just like the man with them. I swallow. My personal lollipop preference is their father.

“It’ll break your teeth. Get something softer, goose,” the little girl says.

I try not to let my misjudgment get in the way of a potential sale and I smile widely, pushing out the idea that I want to lick this mansicle. Well, actually his popsicle. He is a father after all.

I bite my bottom lip. I am so entirely inappropriate.

These children have a mother. And I am not her.

I am not a part of this familial equation.

But oh, my gosh, this girl called her little brother goose. These kids are just too adorable.

Turning my attention from the dad and laying it on with all-natural, organic cane sugar (no HFCS here!), like I initially intended, I point to a more suitable choice for the little man.

“How about the snakes?” I ask, pointing to a jar of six-inch gummy serpents.

Milo’s face lights up. “That’s perfect. Lucy hates snakes.”

I look at their father, and he just shakes his head. Pointing to the jar beside it, he says, “And you’re scared of spiders. Suppose Lucy gets those to torment you?”

Milo pushes his lips forward, thinking it through. “True. I promise to not let one bite you, ‘kay Luce?”

She smiles at him, then standing on her tiptoes she looks at each jar, debating her choices. “I want the candy necklace.”

“All right,” their father says. He may be a married man, but my eyes can’t help but look at his rear as he reaches for his wallet. Not wanting to be a creeper, I take out cellophane bags and package the candy for the kids. “I’m Clive, by the way. I work down the street at Forest Expeditions.”

“I’m Hazel.” I bite my bottom lip, immediately imagining myself going on an expedition with him. Getting lost in the woods. Oh, my gosh, get it together! “And I work here, obviously.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t stretch wide across his face. He may be unintentionally sending hot-tamale signals to every woman on this street—and yes, I’ve been watching. Every lady is checking him out. I can respect him for not engaging in the I-want-to-break-my-jaw-on-you vibes, considering he is married.

And with the next sentence out of his mouth, it’s clear his mind is certainly on her.

“Should we get your mom something?” he asks.

Lucy and Milo smile and my heart warms that he thought of getting his wife something. It’s no surprise that I’m pretty much in love with the idea of a man who is a sweetheart.

“What is her favorite candy?” I ask him.

He frowns and then shrugs. “I have no idea.”

I hold my tongue. How can a husband not know what his wife likes?

“Maybe something sour?” He looks at Lucy.

She shakes her head. “Mama hates sour anything.”

“That’s not true,” Milo argues. “She likes the lemon tarts Auntie Maggie makes.”

Lucy crosses her arms. “Not really. She just pretends she does.”

Not wanting them upset over nothing, and wanting to help turn them into loyal customers I suggest my grown-up line. “I have these champagne bears and peach Bellini hearts. Maybe your mother would like them?”

Lucy giggles. “Champagne!” She grins. “That’s perfect for Mama. She has a shirt that says Rosé All Day.”

“Even better, I have Rosé Roses.” I pull out the rosette-shaped gummies. “Pink roses are my favorite flower, and these candies are pretty much perfection.” Lucy nods, agreeing. “Now that that’s settled. What about something for your dad? We don’t want to leave him out.”

Immediately Lucy’s face crumbles and Milo looks at her with a heavy frown.

I look at the man in front of me not understanding my error.

“We don’t have a daddy,” she says. “Not anymore.”

The man clears his throat. Takes a deep breath. He leans closer to me and quietly says, “Their dad, he uh, died three years ago.”

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry…”

He cuts me off. “It’s okay. You didn’t know.”

I look down at the kids who are watching our exchange. “Well, um, should we get your, um, your...” I realize I don’t know how Clive fits in with the kids. Is he their mom’s boyfriend, their nanny, their neighbor?

Lucy helps me out. “We should totally get Uncle Clive something. He doesn’t like Rosé though. You like whiskey, right?”

He ruffles her hair as if wondering where she comes up with this information.

“What?” she asks laughing. “He does!”

I exhale, relieved that she helped me out of that one. He is Uncle Clive. Though the kids mentioned an aunt. He could still be married.

“Whiskey? Hmmm... Don’t have any of that. The closest I’ve got to that is root beer.”

“I’m good, actually,” he says, looking at the ground, the ease of our conversation gone. I feel terrible for bringing up a tough topic with the kids, and him—all of it. “Just ring these three up and we’ll be going.”

As I turn to ring up the order, a woman my age stops by and asks Clive if he has plans Saturday night.

With a curt nod, he says he’s busy. She frowns and then adds, “If you keep saying no to every date you’ll be single forever.”

She pats his arms and leaves and Lucy looks up at him, giggling. “You should have a girlfriend, Uncle Clive. Don’t you ever get lonely?”

I hand Clive back his debit card with a flutter in my belly. So, he is definitely single.

A few moments later they walk away, and I can’t resist checking him out. His ass is finer than any I’ve seen, and his sweet cheeks soften the cold hard fact that he doesn’t give me a second look. In all honesty, I don’t think he hardly gave me a first glance either.

He may be man candy, but it appears that his jar is on a shelf I won’t be able to reach anytime soon.