Instead, all I feel is a cold, sickening dread. A feeling like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff.
Leaving Chicago. Leaving Holly. Leaving what we’ve just started to build.
Three weeks ago, this call would have been a no-brainer. A relief. The culmination of years of hard work and laser focus.
Now? Now it feels like the most dangerous gamble I’ve ever faced. The risk isn’t financial instability or career uncertainty. The risk is losingthis. The warmth. The light. The imperfect, breathtaking joy Holly has brought crashing back into my life. Into Tabby’s life. The risk is going back to my sterile life, the rigid control, the lack of emotions… and knowing exactly what I’m missing.
I turn, bracing my hands on the cool countertop, head hanging. The scent of pine is suddenly overwhelming. I close my eyes, but it’s no use. All I see is Holly’s face. Smiling, flushed from the cold, eyes bright.
I am totally fucking screwed.
Chapter 27
Holly
The surge in business since that photo went viral has been incredible. I can barely keep up with the number of cookie orders that have been pouring in.
Denton’s promise –I’ll handle it– echoes in my mind, solid and reassuring as granite. Tony Taviani feels like a bad dream fading in the morning light and I couldn’t be happier.
“Order for Henderson Hardware!” I call out, taping the last box shut. It’s Mr. Henderson’s annual treat for his staff. “Charlie, can you…?”
“On it, boss!” Charlie swoops in, grabbing the stack of boxes with her usual efficiency. Her apron is streaked with red icing from the Santa cookies she’s been decorating.
“Mrs. Gable just ordered another dozen peppermint bark brownies for her book club. She said you’re a baking wizard.” She winks.
I laugh, the sound mingling with Bing Crosby’s White Christmas coming out of my portable speaker. “Tell her wizardry has its limits.”
This is the good kind of busy. The kind that makes your heart feel light and makes you sleep like the dead.
I swipe a hand across my cheek, probably leaving a streak of white, and reach for another stack of flat-pack boxes. The rhythm is comforting: fold, line, nestle cookies, fold, tape. I start humming again to the song.Later we'll have some pumpkin pie, and we'll do some caroling…
The bell over the door chimes. I glance up, expecting another bundled-up neighbor seeking warmth and sugar. Instead, it’s a man in a dark courier jacket, holding a thick manila envelope.
His expression is devoid of all holiday cheer or cookie-induced delight. He scans the bakery, his gaze skipping over the festive decorations, and lands on me behind the counter.
“Holly James?” he asks, his voice flat.
The humming dies in my throat. “That’s me.”
He steps forward, places the envelope on the counter between a tray of gingerbread men and a bowl of rainbow sprinkles. It looks starkly out of place. “I need your signature.”
My fingers feel suddenly cold and clammy. I wipe them hastily on my apron – the one with the dancing gingerbread men – and pick up the pen he offers and sign my name on the electronic pad.
“Have a good day,” the courier says, already turning.
The envelope sits there, heavy and ominous, on the counter. My heart, which had been thumping a steady, happy rhythm, stutters against my ribs.
It’s thick. Too thick for another predatory ‘offer’ letter from Tony. Those were usually single sheets of expensive paper, smelling faintly of his cloying cologne. This feels… like something else.
Don’t panic. It could be anything. Permits. Inspections. Something routine.The optimistic voice in my head sounds desperate. Denton’s face flashes in my mind – his steady gaze, the fierce certainty.I’ll handle it.He promised.
But my hands are already trembling as I pick up the stiff envelope. The return address is printed on the label: Taviani Holdings, LLC. Legal Department. The words blur for a second before snapping back into sharp focus.
I tear the flap open. Inside are several pages, headed by bold, black letters that seem to leap off the page:
FINAL NOTICE: EVICTION
TO: Holly James, Tenant/Occupant
