I stand outside my bakery, staring at the letter that I found taped to the front door. The sun hasn’t even risen yet, and the birds chirping peacefully seem at odds with the disaster I’m holding in my hands.
Town Ordinance
Dear Small Business Owner,
Your building was constructed on a provisionally reserved city block (See attached form 231B). This location is scheduled to be converted into parking lot. Construction will begin in two month’s time. Appraisals value the property at $112,337. A check for this amount will be paid to you. This amount is subject to federal taxes.
If you wish to retain the property, please make a payment of $11,831 to the City of Oldeen. This amount will be used to procure a neighboring site as an alternate construction location.
Thank you for your cooperation,
Gerald Gordana, Mayor
I shake my head in disbelief after reading it again. I have no recollection of signing any kind of contract or being notified that this was a possibility. A thick layer of numbness blankets everything. Somewhere, just beneath the surface, I feel the despair, anger, and outrage that are struggling to break through. Except all I can do is stare blankly at the page, reading and re-reading it until my hands tremble.
I still remember how good it felt the day I signed the papers and made the bakery mine. It took weeks to get everything set up inside and get it all the way I wanted. I worked with Ed in his wood shop to design the letters hanging over the entrance. I even picked out the cute, loopy cursive font. Sandra’s Sweets. I spent forever browsing Craigslist to find the tables and chairs for a reasonable price. I bartered with a retired baker for my oven and dough mixer. Every last part of the building and its contents are the result of hours and hours of hard work, and they let me know it’s going to be taken away with a letter.
A hundred and twelve thousand dollars for my bakery? That’s not even half of what I paid. The price makes me want to throw up. I’m still making payments on the three hundred thousand dollar mortgage, and most of that money hasn’t even started working toward the principal. If they take my business and give me that check, I’ll be losing all the years I’ve spent chipping away at the interest payments. I’ll be losing everything.
There’s no place I could buy for that amount of money to restart my business either. I should know after all the time I spent finding this one for the price I did. All the years of saving carefully and working two jobs to save up for this. It feels like every moment of my life built up to getting this bakery and making my dream a reality. I was finally starting to let myself believe it was real, that it would last. Maybe I could have started actually focusing on finding a man to complete the picture. On making a baby.
Now this.
I turn and start walking back toward home, feeling numb. Jennifer and Lauren will be wondering why I haven’t shown up, but they’ve run a shift on their own before. I can’t stand to go inside right now knowing that it’s all going to be taken away. Stolen. And it’s going to be perfectly legal.
For the first time since my car wouldn’t start two days ago, I’m glad I don’t have it. I need the long walk back home to clear my head. The most maddening part is how easy it would be to fix this. I know exactly what my sister would do. She’d shoot a text to my parents asking for some money. She’d probably round up a hundred or two hundred thousand dollars. My father would make a call and the money would be in her account within hours. She’d pay the fee and maybe treat herself to a nice vacation for the inconvenience.
As much as I’ve worked to distance myself from my parents, I still know they would give me the money if I asked. But asking them would invalidate everything I’ve done. Right now, I can look in the mirror every morning and know I’m looking at a woman who made her own way. A strong, independent woman who didn’t need handouts to get where she is. A woman who I can be proud of. If I go crawling to my parents for help now, all that ends. Maybe that’s vain of me. But for better or worse, I’ve built my identity around my independence. If I give in now, who will I be?
Besides, I may have also told them a little white--okay, grayish--lie. I told them I was engaged to a wealthy businessman, but it was just to get them off my back. I regretted it after I said it, but when they stopped trying to set me up after they found out, it suddenly didn’t seem so bad. Except the part where they said they wanted to come visit and meet him “sometime.” Knowing them, sometime means never, but now I have that looming over my head too. Wonderful.
When I finally reach my house close to forty minutes later, I see Reid working on a car in front of the shop. He’s shirtless, of course, and his broad back is glistening with sweat. The way his dark hair falls in front of his face as he leans forward and the smears of grease on his powerful arms and chest just pisses me off. Why should such an asshole look so good? He looks like he shooting an ad for Chippendale’s, for God’s sake. He’s so sexy it’s almost ridiculous. I tear my gaze away from him and the way those blue jeans hug his tight ass, increasing my pace in hopes that he won’t notice me.
“Damn, sweetheart. That was the shortest workday I’ve ever seen,” shouts Reid.
I stop dead in my tracks, jaw clenched and sucking in quick breaths through my nose. “Fuck you, asshole,” I shout back.
I’m about to step inside when I hear something metallic slam down. When I look up, I see Reid stalking toward me, eyes ablaze. He rakes a hand through his thick black hair and pushes it out of his face, making every single muscle on his chiseled torso stand out. I open the door, suddenly afraid of what he’s going to do.
I get inside just as he storms up my porch. I try to shut the door, but it stops dead. His large hand is pressed against it, keeping me from closing the door. He pushes it back open, leaning in the doorway. He smells like metal. Sweat. Power. The man practically radiates sexuality, and I hate him for it. He doesn’t deserve it.
“I must have misheard you,” he says. His dark green eyes are locked on me unflinchingly.
I swallow, but refuse to back down. “I said. Fuck you. Asshole.” My voice is a little more muted than I would like, but I deliver the words convincingly enough.
His hand is on my shoulder, pushing me against the wall inside my house. His body looms over me, pressing against me. “Careful,” he rasps.
I see the hint of something other than anger cross his features. Something like hunger. Lust. I feel it, too, as much as I hate it. Something hard is pressing into my belly, and I’m not sure if it’s a huge wrench or his cock. The thought makes me feel a little lightheaded.
“Let me go,” I say, but my voice comes out as soft as a whisper.
He bites his lip. “You sure you want that?”