“I–I’m not sure, Miss. Probably four hundred calories? Maybe three. We bake them from scratch,” the young woman offered apologetically. She wiped her hands on her apron and expertly straightened a cruller. While in training, she had spent many hours straightening.
Margaret Hooper looked flustered. “Can you have the owner get back to me? This is important. I broke the Internet over your raisin muffin.” Her phone buzzed, dancing within her coat pocket.
“Oh, not your fault.” Margaret’s eyes sprinkled. “It was Jolene Millman, and now Leo can’t email due to baked goods. I need answers!”