“You turned down their offer,” she points out. “So instead of buying you out, they bury you in compliance.”
I sink onto the stool behind the counter. “But I can’t fix all of this in two weeks,” I say. “Not without money. And I don’t have it. Not like that.”
Ashton’s voice softens. “Okay. Breathe. We’ll figure something out.”
But my head is already spinning.
Nathan.
Taylor.
The silence.
And now this.
It feels like the walls are quietly, efficiently closing in.
I look at the notice again.
FAILURE TO COMPLY MAY RESULT IN CLOSURE.
Cup & Cake isn’t just my job. It’s my anchor. And for the first time since it opened, I’m staring at the very real possibility that someone is trying to take it from me.
Chapter 20
Ella
It’s barely seven a.m., and the bakery smells like flour, vanilla, and panic.
We don’t open for another hour, but I’ve been here since before six, trying to make a dent in a list that feels longer every time I look at it.
The storage room looks like a game of Tetris played by someone having a nervous breakdown. I’m crouched on the floor with a tape measure, checking the width of the aisle between the shelving units because the notice used the phraseminimum clearance for egress,and now that phrase lives in my head rent-free.
I shift the metal shelf two inches to the left, then another inch, then check again. The aisle is wider now, but it also means half our paper goods are stacked on the prep table, because apparently, cardboard boxes are a fire hazard if they're in the wrong place.
The fire extinguisher is sitting on the counter instead of its bracket because it has to be mounted at a specific height and within a specific distance from the back door, and when I moved the shelving, it no longer met both requirements. The bracketis on the floor next to a drill I don’t remember buying and definitely don’t trust myself to use.
The exit sign is still lit, but it flickers every few minutes, which it did not do before yesterday. Now, I’m convinced it’s just waiting to fail during the reinspection, like it has a personal vendetta.
In the back, the refrigerator hums while I stare at the thermometer taped inside it like we’re in a standoff. I started a new temperature log this morning because apparently “sometimes” and “usually” are not acceptable answers. I’ve already written today’s date three times, just to prove I’m trying.
On the prep shelf, I’m dumping flour and sugar into new containers because dry goods can’t be in their original packaging. Everything has to be labeled, dated, and sealed, which is fine, except it takes forever, and my handwriting gets worse the more nervous I am.
None of this is dramatic.
None of this is fake.
And all of it, together, is enough to close me down.
I keep thinking of the word they used.Non-compliant, like the bakery is a badly behaved child.
Cup & Cake isn’t just my business. It’s my life raft. And now I’m walking around it with a label maker and a measuring tape, like that’s all that stands between me and losing it.
I seal another container, stick on another label, and tell myself to breathe.
And of course, that’s when my brain, traitor that it is, drifts to Nathan.
To Taylor.
