Tabby, oblivious, skips towards the counter, beaming. “Hi, Holly! We couldn’t wait until Wednesday!”
Denton finally moves. He doesn’t rush, but his stride is purposeful, covering the distance to the counter in a few long steps. He places a large hand gently on Tabby’s shoulder. “Just a minute, Tabby Cat,” he murmurs, his voice surprisingly soft.
He stops directly in front of me, on the customer side of the counter.
His gaze drops for a fleeting second to the paper next to the cupcakes, then snaps back to my face. His voice, when he speaks, is a low sound from deep in his chest.
“You okay?”
Two words. Simple. Direct. Utterly unexpected. I can’t speak. I can only manage a tiny, jerky shake of my head, my gaze dropping to the countertop.No. No, I’m not okay. I’m terrified.
He watches me, his intense expression unreadable. Then he shifts his stance. Just a fraction. He moves slightly to his left, placing himself more squarely between me and the front door – the door Tony Taviani had just walked out of moments before.
It’s a small movement, but deliberate. A shield. His gaze flicks back towards the door, then returns to mine, darker now, shadowed with a question that carries the weight of the cold envelope on the counter.
“Who was that?”
I force a smile. “Oh, him?” My voice is too bright, too cheerful. “Just… a pushy salesman.” I wave a hand dismissively towards the door. “Trying to sell me… industrial mixers.” I turn away abruptly, busying myself with cleaning the countertop. I knew if I didn’t, I’d start crying right there in front of both of them.
Chapter 8
Holly
My fingers fumble with the light switch. The soft glow from the mismatched lamps I found at a flea market last summer washes over the small living room in my apartment above the bakery. I look around at the bookshelves overflowing with cookbooks and well-loved novels, a worn velvet sofa draped in a chunky knit throw the color of cinnamon, framed black and white photos on the walls. This place feels tired. Like me.
I shrug off my cardigan, the one with the slightly unraveling sleeve, and let it drop onto the arm of the sofa. I wrap my arms around myself, acutely feeling all the stress of the day.
The image of that piece of paper on my counter flashes through my mind. How do I fight this? How do I save this place that I’ve poured everything into?
My gaze drifts to the small, framed photo on the bookshelf: me and Mom, grinning like fools, on the opening day of Sugar Rush. Her eyes, the same warm brown as mine, sparkled with the same impossible hope I’d felt that day.
I need a friendly voice. Someone who knows what I’m going through. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I sink onto the sofa and tap Charlie’s name. She answers on the second ring.
“Hey, girl. How was the rest of your day?”
A weak laugh escapes me. “Pretty good until Tony Taviani showed up. Again…”
Silence for a beat. “Again? When? What did that slimeball want?”
I curl my legs under me, pulling the throw around my shoulders. The soft yarn is a small comfort. “He came by this afternoon after you left. With another guy.”
I swallow, forcing the words out. “He delivered a new offer. Lower. Much lower.” My voice cracks on the last word. “He said it was a ‘final gesture of goodwill’ before the New Year. After that…” I trail off.“He basically said I need to take it, or things are going to get really bad for me.”
“Thatvulture,” Charlie hisses, the sound crackling down the line. “He can’t just bully you like this! We’ll fight him, Hols. We’ll… we’ll start a petition! Get the neighborhood involved! Bake protest cookies!”
Her outrage is a warm ember in the cold pit of my stomach. “Protest cookies,” I murmur, a small smile touching my lips. “I like it. Maybe with ‘Hands Off Sugar Rush’ piped in angry red icing.” The image is absurd, but for a second, it pushes back the panic. Charlie always knows how to make me feel better.
“Exactly!” she declares. Then her voice softens. “But seriously, Hols. This is bad. Did he actually threaten legal stuff?”
“He used the word ‘legalities’. Said they’d be a drain on resources ‘a small operation like yours can ill afford’.” I parrot his oily tone, the memory making my skin crawl.
“He made it sound inevitable. Like resisting is just… delaying the inevitable.” The fear I’d held at bay in the bakery surges back.
My fingers twist in the soft yarn of the throw. “Charlie, what if he’s right? What if I’m just… clinging to a sinking ship?” The admission, voiced aloud to my best friend, feels terrifyingly real.
“Stop it,” Charlie commands, her voice firm. “He’snotright. We’ll figure this out. We always do. Remember the Great Fondant Flood of ’19? Or when the health inspector tried to shut us down because of Reginald?” Reginald was our briefly adopted, slightly feral bakery cat. “We survived. We’ll survive Tony the Terrible, too.”
I take a shaky breath, pulling the throw tighter. “Thanks, Char. I needed that.”
