"Well, Wes, I’m afraid you can’t do that.”
“Why?” My brows furrowed as I took another bite.
“Because you’re evicting the poor man who makes them.” She fell back into one of the chairs across from my desk.
“Avila’s? These are from Avila’s?”
“Yes. Those cinnamon rolls are their signature pastry. Mr. Avila’s been making them longer than you’ve been alive. People line up every morning down the street, waiting for him to open the doors so they can get their cinnamon roll fix. I was in there once, and Mrs. Avila, may her soul rest in peace, made a grown man cry when she told him they were sold out.”
“Why are you doing this?” I stared at her.
“Why are you?” Her brow arched. “That bakery has been there for forty-two years and is beloved by everyone in the community.”
“I know,” I said.
“Forty-two years, Wes.”
“I can do math, Samantha.”
“Can you, though? Because right now, you’re acting like a sociopath.”
I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my forehead. “This is business. It isn’t personal.”
“He has customers who have been going there for decades. He knows everyone’s name, including mine, and he gives free cookies to the kids who come in. He let me cry in the back when I found out about Gym Girl Brittany.”
“What?” My brows furrowed. “Why would you tell a random stranger about that?”
“I told you, and you’re a stranger. And besides, I’ve known Mr. Avila since I was a kid. He gave me free cookies back in the day. I went in there to drown my sorrows in pastries. He’d noticed I’d been crying and asked what was wrong. I lost it and told him. He grabbed a cinnamon roll, a blueberry muffin, a cherry turnover, a few donuts, and took me in the back.”
“That’s a lot of pastries.”
“It was a difficult day,” she said, and I smiled. She leaned over my desk. “Mr. Avila matters, Wes.”
I stared into her beautiful eyes.
“He isn’t just a tenant. He’s part of the neighborhood. He’s a legend in the community. Everybody knows him. He sponsored Little League teams. He donated pastries to schools. Hell, he even remembers birthdays. And now some giant real estate company wants to kick him out because a spreadsheet says his rent needs to increase three times the amount he’s already paying. If Mr. Avila goes, those cinnamon rolls go, and your dream of having them in the office every morning is gone. Poof. Bye-bye, cinnamon rolls.”
I ran my hand down my face.
“I’ll take it under advisement,” I said.
“You won’t.”
“I will,” I sighed. “I promise.”
“The community is counting on you, Wes.” She stood from her chair, gripping the strap of her purse.
“It was good to see you again, Samantha.”
“You can call me Sam.” She walked out of my office.
I looked down at the second cinnamon roll, almost completely devoured.
“Rose,” I shouted from my office. “Get Finn in here.”
A few moments later, Finn walked in. “What’s up?”
“Taste this.” I handed him what was left of the second cinnamon roll.
