His eyes sweep the bakery – the lights, the crowded tables, the display cases gleaming with gingerbread reindeer and snowman macarons – but his gaze holds no appreciation.
The knitting needles in the corner nook fall silent. Mrs. Gable’s friends exchange worried glances. The usual comforting symphony of the bakery – the hiss of the espresso machine, the clatter of plates, the low murmur of conversation – seems to hush.
I force my fingers not to tremble as I set down the piping bag. “Mr. Taviani,” I say, my voice miraculously steady, though it feels tight in my throat. “What can I do for you today?”
“I’m here to follow-up on our little chat.” He nods almost imperceptibly to the suit, who steps forward and places the leather portfolio on the counter with a soft thud. It lands right beside the half-finished tray of peppermint-swirled buttercream cupcakes.
My knuckles whiten where I grip the edge of the counter.Breathe, Holly. Just breathe.
“As we discussed,” Tony continues smoothly, flipping open the portfolio with a practiced flick of his wrist, “time is of the essence. Progress waits for no one.” He slides a single sheet of thick, cream-colored paper towards me. Official letterhead. Taviani Development Group. The numbers printed neatly near the bottom make my vision swim. It’s lower. Significantly lower than his last insulting offer.
“This,” he taps the paper with a forefinger, his silver cufflink glinting coldly, “reflects the current market realities. And the…acceleratedtimeline for our revitalization project.” He leans in slightly, lowering his voice, though every ear in the bakery is straining to hear.
“Consider it a final gesture of goodwill. A chance to walk away cleanly before the landscape changes… irrevocably.” His gaze holds mine, devoid of warmth, devoid of anything resembling goodwill.
“After the New Year, Holly, the terms become… less accommodating. Legalities can be such a drain on resources, wouldn’t you agree? Resources a small operation like yours can ill afford.”
The words land like punches.Final gesture. Walk away cleanly. Legalities.This isn’t an offer. It’s a shove off a cliff, wrapped in expensive paper.
My bakery. My dream. The heart of this little corner of the neighborhood… reduced to a number on a page. A number designed to crush me.
I stare at the paper, the neat black type blurring. My voice, when I find it, is thin, scraped raw. “This… this isn’t negotiation, Mr. Taviani.” I look up, meeting his cold eyes. I refuse to let him see the tremor I feel resonating through my core. “This is extortion.”
He doesn’t flinch. His smile widens fractionally, a predator pleased with the cornered prey’s defiance. “Such a harsh word, Holly. It’s just business.”
He gestures vaguely towards the window, towards the bustling street beyond. “Think about your future. Really think.”
He closes the portfolio with a soft snap that echoes in the sudden silence of the bakery. “The offer stands until December 26that midnight.”
He gives me one last, lingering look, his gaze sweeping over my flour-dusted apron and the smear of red frosting on my cheek. Then he turns on his polished heel. The young suit scoops up the portfolio and follows him out without a backward glance.
I stare at the paper Tony left behind, my hands trembling visibly now. The numbers swim before my eyes again. The knot in my stomach feels like a cold, hard fist.
How do I fight this? How do I save Sugar Rush? The weight of it presses down, crushing the air from my lungs. I lean heavily on the counter, the cool steel the only solid thing in a world tilting dangerously.
“Holly? Sweetheart?” Mrs. Gable’s voice is gentle, concerned. “What was that about?”
I can’t look at her. Can’t face the pity in her eyes. I manage a weak shake of my head, plastering on a smile that feels like cracked plaster. “Just… business, Mrs. G. Everything’s fine.”
I turn away, busying myself with the abandoned buttercream, quickly scraping it back into the bowl. My movements are jerky, automatic.Focus on the task. Don’t think about the offer. Don’t think about losing everything.
The bell above the door chimes again.
I flinch, my whole body tensing. Not him. Please, not him back again. I can’t. I just can’t. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, bracing myself for another dose of corporate venom.
I slowly open my eyes, and I see them. Tabby, bundled in her pink coat, pointing eagerly at the giant gingerbread castle display. And behind her, filling the doorway, is Denton Blake.
His usual grumpy scowl is firmly in place as he scans the bakery, his eyes taking in the scene – the subdued customers, the tense atmosphere I haven’t managed to dispel, and finally, landing on me.
I know I’m a mess. Flour dusts my hair, the red frosting smear is probably still on my cheek, and my eyes… I can feel the tell-tale sheen of unshed tears I’m desperately fighting back.
Denton’s gaze locks onto mine. For a fraction of a second, his scowl deepens, the familiar lines of disapproval etching deeper around his mouth. But then something shifts.
His eyes narrow, scanning my face, reading the panic I can’t hide, the tremor I can’t control. His whole posture changes. The grumpiness doesn’t vanish; it sharpens, changing into something else entirely.
His shoulders square, his spine straightens, his chin lifts slightly. It’s the posture of a defenseman spotting an incoming threat. The relaxed, slightly annoyed father vanishes, replaced by a sudden, focused intensity that radiates off him like heat.
He looks from my face to the door Tony just exited, then back to me. His jaw tightens.
