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I locked the back door after she left, and then I sat down in the small office. I didn’t want to look at spreadsheets or bills, but I’d pushed things as far as I could. It was uncomfortable, living with outstanding loans over your head. One unforeseen setback and the banks could bury you.
There was just enough money in my business account to pay the monthly loan payment I’d taken out using the building as collateral. The building was paid off, but I’d borrowed against it to renovate the upstairs apartment, upgrade the electrical and plumbing and convert Dad’s old leather workshop and studio into a bakery.
I’d put the health-code violation fine on a business credit card, and I was floating most of my other expenses. If only I could clone myself so I could take every catering job that came my way, I just might have a shot at saving the place I’d inherited after my father passed.
My phone rang, startling me out of my reverie.
It was a number I didn’t recognize, but so many people had been calling recently to discuss potential catering jobs that I didn’t hesitate to answer.
“Hello?”
“Hello,” a male voice said. “This is Kurt Antol.”
I instinctively looked around like I expected to see him loitering outside the bakery. “Hello. What can I do for you?”
“Nothing. It’s what I can do for you.”
“I don’t need anything.”
“I noticed your bakery has been closed the last few days. That wouldn’t have anything to do with your recent health inspection, would it?”
“How did you know about the health inspection?”
“You have aGrade Pendingsign in your window,” he reminded me.
“Why did you call?” I asked.
He paused for a moment and then said, “I’d like to make you an offer. An offer to buy your building.”
“It’s not for sale.”
Kurt chuckled. “Everything’s for sale. Call me anytime to discuss this further.”
“I won’t call you.”
“We’ll see.”
* * *
I didn’t set an alarm. I turned my phone on silent, ensuring that nothing was going to wake me up. I slept in for the first time in months, and it felt glorious. When I did finally come to, I looked at my phone and snorted in amusement.
Apparently, sleeping in for me was seven-fifteen.
I sat up in bed. My stomach churned immediately and I ran for the bathroom.
Clammy with my muscles quivering, I wiped my mouth and rinsed it out.
My phone pinged.
I slathered my toothbrush with toothpaste and stuck it into my mouth and walked back to the bed and nightstand.
The screen was lit up with a message from Slash.
Buy you breakfast?
My stomach lurched again—this time out of nerves, not morning sickness.
To dine or not to dine with Slash?
