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"Tell me that's part of the process," he says.

"It is not part of the process," I reply, the words coming out considerably more strained than intended. The machine sitting by me isn't just any mixer — it's the industrial one, the largest in the bakery, the one currently responsible for producing enough desserts for the Willow Creek Spring Gala. The biggest catering order Sweetbell has received in months, the kind that makes suppliers answer calls faster and lets you pay bills without performing complicated financial gymnastics. The kind I desperately need. And it just died.

I hit the restart switch and the machine wheezes — a sound that reminds me of a dying goat — and then stops again. "Come on," I mutter, trying once more, and nothing happens, and I know that sound well enough to understand what it means.

"Threatening it might help," Ollie offers.

"I'm not threatening it," I retort. "I'm encouraging it."

"Very aggressively," he replies, and I ignore him and grab my phone. "Call the repair company."

"They're already booked through spring," he responds.

"Call anyway," I tell him, and he moves immediately. Good. Panic later, work now — that's always been the rule. I move to another station and start adjusting schedules, reassigning tasks, making calculations that don't quite add up no matter how I arrange them. For a while it almost works.

Then my laptop chimes, and I see the sender — Willow Creek Events — and my chest tightens before I've even opened it. The message isn't long. It doesn't need to be.

After reviewing recent concerns regarding your business, we've decided to move forward with another vendor.

I read it again, and then again, and the meaning remains exactly the same.

Ollie returns and sees my face and crosses the kitchen immediately. I turn the screen toward him without speaking, and he reads it and his jaw clenches.

"They canceled?" he asks, and I nod, the movement feeling mechanical and detached, like I'm watching someone else live this moment. "The order was already confirmed," he says, and I tell him I know, and he starts to say they can't just do that and stops himself, because they did. The evidence is right there on the screen. Months of desperately needing this, weeks of preparation, hours of work — gone. Not because of anything real. Because of recent concerns, which is polite language for rumors that someone is working very hard to keep circulating.

The rule has always been simple — work now, panic later — and I hold onto it as I push through the kitchen door before anyone notices how close I am to losing my composure entirely.

The bakery floor is quiet when I push through the door. A young woman stands near the cupcake display with another girl tugging persistently at her sleeve.

"Come on," the second girl whispers.

"I just want one cupcake," the first replies.

I move behind the counter, and the customer points toward the strawberry cupcakes. "Can I get one of those?"

Before I can answer, her friend groans.

"You actually want food from here?" The words hit tougher than anticipated, because they sound certain rather than curious, rehearsed rather than spontaneous.

"Did I miss something?" I ask carefully, and both girls freeze — the customer looks embarrassed, her friend less so.

"We heard about the violations," the second girl says, folding her arms.

The word lands heavily. Not complaint, not inspection — violations, spoken as though they've already become an established fact.

"What violations?" I ask.

"The health ones," she replies, and I tell her there aren't any health violations, and she looks surprised and then suspicious and tells me that's not what people are saying. People. The most dangerous word in a small town. I ask who exactly is saying it and she hesitates, the confidence flickering briefly.

"I don't know," she admits, and that answer tells me everything — rumors traveling without a source, which means someone is seeding them carefully enough that the origin has already been obscured. Neither girl buys anything, and a minute later they leave, and I remain staring at the door while the bell settles into silence. Health violations. We're adding imaginary food safety concerns to the list now.

The kitchen door opens and two employees wheel the broken mixer into view, and I grab one side and push, and the wheels squeak and the machine inches forward with considerable resistance.

"That looks inefficient," says a voice from the doorway, and I know it immediately.

Brock Winn stands outside the bakery, his gaze moving from the mixer to me and back again.

"I had it under control," I tell him.