I pulled on leggings, an oversized sweater, and my winter hat.
I padded back into the bedroom and pressed a soft kiss to Saint’s cheek.He stirred and looked up at me sleepily.“Time to make the gingerbread?”he asked softly.
I smiled.“Yeah, but just sleep.This time tomorrow I’ll be sleeping right next to you.”
He leaned up and pressed a kiss to my lips.“Sounds like a plan.I’ll be by with breakfast later, okay?”
“Okay.I’m going to take the boys with me.”
“Good,” Saint grunted.“Pepper hogs the bed.”
I giggled and pressed one last kiss to his lips.“I’ll see you later.”I padded to the front door, and Pepper and Salt were up the second they heard the jingle of their leashes.Pepper spun in a circle, nails tapping against the floor, while Salt sat and waited like he was judging me for taking so long.
“Relax,” I muttered and clipped them on.“We’re going.”
Outside, the world looked like it had been dusted with powdered sugar overnight.The air bit at my cheeks, and the streetlights still glowed.The only sound was Pepper’s excited huffing and Salt’s steady, measured trot beside me.
Cookie Haven waited four blocks away.
I unlocked the door and flipped on the lights.Warmth wrapped around us instantly.The smell of yesterday’s cinnamon and clove still lingered, like the bakery never really slept.
Pepper took off toward the front window like he needed to make sure the world was still out there.Salt headed straight for his spot near the register, the furry hall monitor back on duty.
I should have gone straight to the kitchen.
I should have started mixing dough.
Instead, my feet carried me toward the small office tucked behind the prep area.The one room that did not smell like sugar or feel like comfort.The one place where numbers lived.
I didn’t go in there often.I didn’t like it.
But today, I had to.
I shut the door behind me, sat down at the desk, and opened the notebook where I tracked everything by hand—online orders, catering invoices, walk-in sales, payroll, ingredient costs.I could have used software like a normal business owner, but writing it out made it feel real.Like if I touched the numbers, they would behave.
They never did.
I clicked on the small desk lamp, pulled my calculator closer, and started adding.
Week one.
Week two.
Week three.
Week four.
It should have looked good.It was good.Cookie Haven had been slammed all month.I had never worked harder in my life.
But then I subtracted ingredients.Payroll.Utility spikes from running ovens nonstop.Supplies.Packaging.The stupid little expenses that multiplied like mice.
My pencil tapped against the notebook as the total stared back at me.
I ran it again, like the second time would magically create more money.
It didn’t.
My stomach sank.
