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cydney

There’s dead quiet, and then there’s Gobble Me Up on a Tuesday morning.

The entire place feels like it took a valium and washed it down with warm milk. I’m not even kidding. It’s been two hours since the morning rush slowed down, and the only people in the shop are an elderly couple in matching windbreakers sipping black coffee, and a lone tech guy who’s been surgically fused to his laptop since we unlocked the doors.

Big mood.

I lean over the counter, humming along with the pop playlist dribbling out of the speakers as I wipe down the counters for the hundredth time in the last hour. I’m overcompensating, but all that leftover adrenaline from last night has to go somewhere. Scrubbing truly is my therapy.

Tessa’s stationed like a goddess at the pastry case, arranging muffins in perfect rows. Every few seconds, she stands back and squints, like she’s admiring her hard work.

The bell above the door gives a lethargic ding, barely audible over the low, steady burble of chill music. My first thought is please, let it be someone who tips well. My second thought, a split second later, is “Uh oh. That guy is definitely not here for sweet rolls.”

There’s a man in a gray courier uniform standing in the entryway. He’s got one of those faces that looks allergic to joy, and his clipboard is weaponized bureaucracy. He sweeps a tactical glance around the shop, zeroing in on the counter with surgical precision.

I brace myself for whatever is coming. “Morning! Here for coffee, or…?”

He ignores my attempt at charm, holding up a thick envelope like a cop flashing a badge. “Certified document delivery for Ms. Martinez and Ms. Matthews.”

I glance at Tessa, who’s already arching one eyebrow with Olympic-level skepticism. Both our names? That’s not ominous at all.

I force a smile and reach for the stylus he shoves across the counter. “Sure thing. Where do I sign?”

He points at the box and I scribble my name, watching as his eyes flick down to make sure I didn’t draw a smiley face or something equally scandalous.

He peels off a receipt, hands over the envelope, and then? He’s out. Not even a glance at the muffins. Mood.

I stare at the envelope for a second, heartbeat weirdly loud in my ears. The paper is heavy and official, and right under my name, it says, “Cydney Martinez, Owner,” and “Tessa Matthews, Co-owner.”

Double trouble.

Tessa sidles up, hands on her hips. “Well? Are you going to open it, or do I need to light a fire under your ass?”

I swallow and slip a thumb under the seal. The glue rips with a soft pop. Inside is a single page—a letter printed on fancy letterhead with the kind of serif font you only use if you want to ruin someone’s day.

I start to read. Line one: “Effective immediately, #1 Love Place is being listed for sale…”

My vision goes blurry for a hot second. I force myself to keep going. “…and while current tenants remain under their lease agreements, renewal is not guaranteed by new ownership. Please be advised that upon expiration of your lease, Gobble Me Up may be asked to vacate the premises.”

No.

No, no, no.

The room tilts. For a second, the sour tang of panic mixes with the cinnamon in the air, and all I can think is—this is it. The nightmare where I lose everything I’ve worked for.

My brain short-circuits, hands shaking so badly I almost drop the letter. I pass it to Tessa, but it’s like my fingers can’t let go, each one white-knuckled and sweating. When she finally pries it free, her eyes skate across the words with calm, measured precision.

She lets out a low whistle. “Those greedy fuckers.”

My stomach is somewhere around floor level. Maybe lower. “What if we get kicked out? This is the perfect location⁠—”

Tessa cuts me off with a gentle side-eye and the kind of voice she reserves for panicking freshmen and grown women on the verge of a meltdown. “Breathe, Cyd. Don’t panic yet. We’ll think of something.”

I take several deep breaths while terror flows through me on a constant loop. “We need to talk to someone about this,” I manage to mutter.

“Oliver might know something about this—he’s practically a real estate ninja,” Tessa reminds me.