Chapter 11 Cydney
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.
I blink.
She’s right. If anyone can untangle this, it’s Oliver Burkhardt, the man who literally makes business drama his breakfast. I barely have a second to bask in the comfort of having a real estate ninja boyfriend.
She gives my hand a quick squeeze, then tucks the letter back into its envelope with the kind of reverence usually reserved for death threats and overdue bills. “It’s dead in here. Why don’t you take this to him now and let him have a look?”
“You’re right.” I grab the letter and my purse, adrenaline already starting to fizz in my veins.
“Can you say that again so I can record it?” Tessa teases, easing the tension a little. “For future use.”
I pause by the prep table, just long enough to mask my nerves with a little bravado. “Don’t press your luck.”
Tessa grins, already spinning into action behind the counter. “Get out of here while I bask in the glow of your admission.”
I take a final look around the shop. This is my home.
No way am I letting it slip away without a fight.
I square my shoulders, force my chin up, and stride through the lobby, the letter clamped tight in my fist.
It’s go time.
The ride to Oliver’s office only takes ten minutes, but it still feels like forever. I stride through the chrome and steel lobby and press the elevator button. One of the shiny doors opens immediately, and I step in.
My knee starts bouncing the second I hit the button for the top floor, and the ride feels like it takes a literal century. I clutch the envelope so tightly it cuts into my palm, and every time the numbers blink, my stomach does a full somersault.
Come on, come on, come on.
When the doors finally ping open, it’s straight out of a luxury business magazine.
Holy wow. The reception area outside Oliver’s office is nothing but sleek lines and muted drama: gray walls, glass accents, warm golden lighting.
There are precisely arranged chairs that look too expensive to actually sit in, and a giant abstract painting that probably cost more than my entire shop fit-out.
But the queen behind the front desk is basically the best part.
She’s maybe late fifties or early sixties, salt-and-pepper hair in a sharp pixie cut, and reading glasses perched just so on the bridge of her nose.
Her outfit is a killer combo of navy blazer, silk scarf, and the kind of necklace you’d steal from your mom’s jewelry drawer if you had the guts.
She glances up the second I step in. A warm, real-deal smile flashes across her face, easing the tension.
“Hello. How can I help you?” Her voice is smooth and comforting.
I nearly fumble the reply. “I need to see Oliver Burkhardt.”
“Does he know you’re coming, Cydney?” Her gaze flickers to the envelope clutched tight in my hand, and a sharp pinch of embarrassment runs through me. I should have called or sent a text first. Total rookie move.
But then her question lands. “How do you know my name?” The envelope burning my palm fades from my mind, curiosity sparking instead.
She grins, slow and easy. “Oliver has a picture of you on his desk.” My insides melt into syrup, a heavy swell of sweet warmth almost making me forget why I’m here. Almost.
“I need to show him this letter. It’s urgent.” I wave the damn envelope, the edges biting into my fingers.
She gives me a knowing smile, reassuring—a warm hand on my nerves. “Hold on one second, and I’ll let him know you’re here.”
She turns, voice low and smooth. “Oliver, your adorable girlfriend is here. She has an urgent document you’ll want to see.”
She listens, nods, then flashes me a discreet little thumbs up. “He’ll see you right away. Follow me and I’ll take you to his office.”
I exhale so hard my vision wobbles for a second.
She moves with the kind of controlled grace that only comes from decades of not putting up with anyone’s nonsense. “I’m Helen. In case you need anything else, just let me know.” Her smile is a conspiratorial little secret between new allies, and honestly, I want to hug her.
“Thank you,” I breathe as she leads me down a wide hallway, shoes making these soft, exact clicks on the polished floors.
The walls are lined with framed certificates and awards—some are big, glossy deal trophies with company names I barely recognize, but a few are old-school. Businessman of the Year, Regional Rising Star, and some photo of Oliver shaking hands with a politician.
It’s a documentary reel of Oliver’s rise to the top, one perfectly matted document at a time.
For a second, it kind of punches me. He’s always so relaxed with me, all warm hands and dirty jokes and soft murmurs, but here?
This is his arena. His turf. He runs every inch of this place, and yeah, I know he’s a genius at what he does, but being here makes it feel… bigger. Permanent.
Like, holy hell, this is the guy who whispers dirty words in my ear and kisses the hickey on my neck before breakfast, and he’s also the guy who built this empire out of nothing. I grip the envelope tighter, heart thumping in a weird new way.
The hallways twist and turn, every corner more intimidating than the last, until Helen finally stops in front of a set of double doors. She gives me the tiniest wink and pushes the handle.
“Go on in. He’s waiting for you.”
For the next ten seconds, I’m frozen in the doorway, staring at the sunlight pouring through Oliver’s floor-to-ceiling windows, the real-deal mahogany desk, the whole Worthington Hills skyline spread out behind him.
And then I step inside, taking one last deep breath, letter in hand, ready for whatever happens next.
The door closes with a soft thunk behind me, but Oliver’s already on his feet.
He’s pure alpha right now—tall, looming behind that slab of a desk, all intense eyes and crisp lines. The city sprawls behind him through glass walls, a sun-drenched sea of rooftops and neat little grids, but he doesn’t even glance at it. He’s locked in on me, chin set, eyes soft with concern.
“Cydney, is everything all right?” There’s a note of protectiveness that hits me right in the sternum.
I take two steps onto the extra-thick carpet and try to look less like I just ran a marathon on pure caffeine and existential dread.
“I, um… not really. I got a letter this morning. The building’s being sold.
” I hand over the envelope and blurt out in a rush, “It pretty much says our lease isn’t guaranteed after six months. Tessa and I could lose Gobble Me Up.”
He takes it from me, fingers brushing mine, and I catch the tiny flare in his eyes like he’s already assessing the threat and lining up every chess move. Oliver slides the page out and scans it, brow tightening as he reads.
For the next ten seconds, I try not to crumble. His eyes dart back, scanning the fine print, then up to meet mine. I see the exact second his frown flips into something confident—a quiet, no-bullshit conviction that radiates out and makes every molecule in the room stand at attention.
He drops the envelope gently on the polished surface, every move so deliberate it’s almost hypnotic.
“Don’t worry about this,” he tells me, voice low and serious. “I know the current owners. I’ll make sure your lease is protected, no matter who ends up buying the building. If someone tries to endanger Gobble Me Up, they’ll have to get through me first.”
My breath actually catches. It’s like there was a steel band around my ribs, and suddenly, it snaps—relief flooding in, hot and dizzying. My hands tingle; my knees almost buckle.
He sees it and steps closer, closing the distance until I can smell the faint trace of his aftershave and the powder-clean scent of his shirt. One big hand lands gently on my shoulder as the other wraps around my waist.
“Hey,” he says, softer now, thumb stroking once along my collarbone. “I won’t let anyone take Gobble Me Up away from you. I’ll buy the goddamn building myself if I have to.”
My heart thumps so hard I’m half convinced he’s going to see it through my shirt. There’s a second where I’m just standing there, frozen like a total idiot, brain not computing anything but the fact that this man is ready to pull out his checkbook and buy a literal apartment building for me.
“That’s…” I swallow so hard it’s embarrassing. “Holy cow, Oliver. That’s insane. I don’t even know what to say.”
He gives me one of those slow, lopsided grins that should be illegal in all fifty states. “You don’t have to say anything, sweetheart. I told you, I’ll take care of you. Nobody’s taking your shop, your home, or anything else you love. Not while I’m around.”
I blink, still trying to catch up, but all the terror from this morning is dissolving under a tidal wave of hot, dizzy relief. My knees actually wobble. He tugs me close to his muscular body and leans over to cover my lips with his.
Everything inside me melts. Just totally, instantly, melts.
I don’t even care that I’m standing in the middle of his office with my hair all wild and my nerves jangling.
Nothing matters except the way Oliver’s mouth claims mine, slow and sure, warm and steady, promising the whole damn world if I’ll just let him.
He’s right there, arms firm around my waist, holding me up like I weigh nothing.
My heart is going so fast I’m pretty sure he can feel it.
His hand cups my cheek, thumb stroking the side of my face while he kisses me like it’s his job—a full, deep, you’re-mine-and-I-dare-anyone-to-challenge-it kind of kiss.
When he finally pulls back and lays his forehead against mine, his eyes are so hot and intense it almost knocks me sideways. “You don’t ever have to worry again,” he murmurs, voice low and rough.
“Thank you.” I barely get the words out before Oliver’s hand tightens on my waist, and his mouth slants over mine again, this time deeper, hotter, like he’s claiming me all over again.
My brain goes full tilt. I’m pretty sure I’m about to melt into the damn carpet when he finally pulls back, locking his hazel gaze on mine.
“You don’t have to thank me for taking care of you. I fucking love you.”
I freeze. My heart stops, then kick-starts with a bang so loud, I think it echoes off his office walls. Did he just…?
There’s no going back. He’s staring straight at me, totally unguarded, like he just laid every card on the table and is daring me to run.
Holy. Cow.
I gulp as my pulse trips over itself. My voice comes out shaky and wild. “I—I love you too. So freaking much.”
And just like that, the rest of the world becomes absolutely freaking perfect.