I lunge for the boxes, grabbing the top one – fifty pounds of flour – and heave it backwards onto a dry patch of floor near the center island. It lands with a heavy thud. I grab another box – granulated sugar. Heave. Thud. The cardboard bottom is already darkening, soggy.
I drop to my knees, ignoring the icy shock soaking through my jeans, and shove my head and shoulders into the cramped cabinet under the sink. Water sprays directly into my face, blinding me, soaking my hair. I gasp, sputtering.
My fingers, numb with cold, fumble blindly along the pipes. Which one? Which one is the culprit? I find a valve. Turn it. Nothing changes. The roaring spray continues.
Tears of frustration mingle with the icy water on my face. I feel another valve, smaller, tucked away. I wrench it clockwise with all my strength.
The geyser sputters… coughs… and dies.
I slump back onto my heels, gasping, dripping wet, freezing cold. Relief washes over me, so potent it makes me dizzy. I did it. I stopped it.
Then I look around.
The relief evaporates, replaced by a fresh wave of dread.
The kitchen floor is a lake. An inch, maybe two, of water covers at least a third of the space. Boxes are soaked halfway up, their contents surely ruined.
"Oh god," I whisper, my voice trembling. The sheer scale of it all is paralyzing.
Move, Holly. Move!
I scramble to my feet, icy water sloshing around my boots. Towels. I need towels.
I sprint to the laundry closet near the back door, yanking it open. I grab armfuls of clean bar towels, the rough cotton instantly soaked as I throw them onto the wettest patches near the burst pipe. They disappear under the water like sinking ships.
I grab the industrial mop and bucket from under the sink. The bucket fills almost instantly as I try to sop up the water. It’s hopeless. Like trying to empty Lake Michigan with a teaspoon.
A sob threatens to break loose, but I choke it back.
I slosh through the water back to the utility closet, grabbing the wet-dry vacuum Charlie insisted I buy after the Great Sprinkles Spill last summer. It’s heavy, unwieldy.
I wrestle it out, plug it into an outlet on the island – thankfully still dry – and plunge the hose into the water. The machine roars to life, a comforting, powerful sound. It sucks greedily, pulling water into its tank.
I drag the hose through the flood, aiming for the deepest pools near the burst pipe. The vacuum tank fills quickly. I have to stop, wrestle the heavy, sloshing tank off, carry it to the utility sink, and dump it. Then repeat. Lift, carry, dump. Lift, carry, dump.
My arms scream. My back aches. My wet clothes cling to me, sapping my body heat. The cold is seeping into my bones. Outside, the storm rages on, the wind howling like a pack of wolves.
The enormity of it crashes over me between trips to the sink. The ruined supplies. The potential electrical hazard. The cost of repairs. The sheer, back-breaking labor just to get the waterout, never mind dealing with the soaked drywall, the ruined flooring…
My eyes sting from the crushing weight of it all – the bakery’s financial freefall, Tony Taviani’s threats, the emotional rollercoaster with Denton, and now this. This literal flood washing away my last reserves of resilience.
I sink onto a stool near the center island, the wet-dry vacuum hose dangling uselessly from my numb hand. Exhaustion and despair swamp me. I’ve fought so hard. For this place. For my dream. And now? It feels like the universe is actively conspiring against me
A hot tear escapes, tracing a warm path down my cold cheek. It’s too much. It’s just… too much.
The service door in the back of the kitchen opens suddenly.
The sound is so unexpected, so utterly impossible in the midst of the storm and my private disaster, that it takes a full three seconds to register. My head snaps up. Who on earth would be opening the door?
I turn, my heart hammering painfully in my chest.
Standing in the open doorway, silhouetted against the swirling snow, is Denton Blake.
He’s covered head to toe in snow. Flakes cling to his dark hair, dust his shoulders, melt into the thick wool of his black coat.
His sharp gaze sweeps the disaster zone: the flooded floor, the soaked boxes, the frantic wet-dry vacuum still roaring… and finally lands on me – sitting on a stool, dripping wet.
Grim determination settles onto his features, etching lines of purpose around his eyes and mouth. He steps inside, kickingsnow from his boots, and shuts the door firmly against the howling wind.
