Chapter 18
Holly
My hands move with practiced efficiency, piping intricate snowflakes onto a bazillion star-shaped cookies.
Outside, Chicago is disappearing under a thick blanket of snow, turning Wicker Park into a swirling snow globe.
Inside Sugar Rush, it’s a different kind of storm – preparing a massive charity order for the children's hospital.
The memory of yesterday – Denton’s kiss, the deliciousness of his lips, the dizzying warmth of his body pressed against mine – flares bright and hot inside me.
The thought sends a fresh thrill through me, momentarily making my piping hand wobble. I steady it. Focus, Holly. Charity cookies don’t pipe themselves, no matter how distracting a certain grumpy defenseman might be.
"Okay, all you Rudolphs," I mutter to the tray of reindeer cookies awaiting their edible glitter antlers. "You're next."
The wind howls, rattling the front door in its frame like an impatient customer. The cheerful Christmas playlist I’d put on earlier – Charlie’s insistence, claiming it boosted productivity – competes with the wind.
I haven’t had a customer in hours. Just me, the mixer, and an army of cookies needing festive attire.
I pipe a particularly lopsided snowflake onto a cookie. "Artistic interpretation," I say firmly, though it looks more like a snow blob. Hopefully the kids won’t mind.
I grab a fresh tray of cooled gingerbread men.
"Alright, fellas. Time for your sweaters.
" I pick up a piping bag loaded with blue icing. Tiny zig-zags for knit patterns, little dots for buttons. It’s detailed work, requiring concentration, which is good.
It keeps the Denton-induced butterflies in my stomach at a manageable level instead of staging a full-scale revolt.
I’m halfway through outfitting a particularly chubby gingerbread man in a questionable argyle pattern when I hear it.
A sound beneath the mixer’s thrum and the wind’s howl.
A low, ominous groan, like the building itself is sighing under the weight of the snow.
It comes from the far corner of the kitchen, near the utility sink.
I pause, piping bag hovering. That didn’t sound like wind.
Then, a sharp crack. Like ice splitting.
A torrent of icy water erupts from the wall behind the utility sink. Not a trickle. Not a leak. A full-blown, pressurized geyser, spraying horizontally across the tiled floor with shocking force.
It hits the opposite wall with a slap, cascades down, and immediately begins spreading, a fast-moving flood heading straight for the low stacks of cardboard boxes lining the wall – boxes filled with flour, sugar, sprinkles, and my precious stash of imported Belgian chocolate chips.
"Oh, nooo." The words escape me in a choked whisper, drowned by the sudden roar of water. Panic, cold and sharp, slices through the cozy warmth of the bakery.
Adrenaline kicks in, sharp and electric. I drop the piping bag and leap towards the flood zone, my boots skidding on the rapidly spreading water.
The valve! Shut off the valve! My brain screams the obvious, even as my eyes frantically scan the wall. Pipes snake everywhere – hot, cold, the walk-in’s coolant lines.
The geyser is spewing from a joint near the floor, hidden behind the sink cabinet. I yank open the cabinet doors under the sink, fumbling in the dark space. Cleaning supplies, spare buckets, a mop. No obvious shut-off valve.
"Come on, come on!" I plead, desperation rising like the water around my ankles. The icy flood is spreading relentlessly, already lapping at the bottom boxes.
I lunge for the boxes, grabbing the top one – fifty pounds of flour – and heave it backwards onto a dry patch of floor near the center island. It lands with a heavy thud. I grab another box – granulated sugar. Heave. Thud. The cardboard bottom is already darkening, soggy.
I drop to my knees, ignoring the icy shock soaking through my jeans, and shove my head and shoulders into the cramped cabinet under the sink. Water sprays directly into my face, blinding me, soaking my hair. I gasp, sputtering.
My fingers, numb with cold, fumble blindly along the pipes. Which one? Which one is the culprit? I find a valve. Turn it. Nothing changes. The roaring spray continues.
Tears of frustration mingle with the icy water on my face. I feel another valve, smaller, tucked away. I wrench it clockwise with all my strength.
The geyser sputters… coughs… and dies.
I slump back onto my heels, gasping, dripping wet, freezing cold. Relief washes over me, so potent it makes me dizzy. I did it. I stopped it.
Then I look around.
The relief evaporates, replaced by a fresh wave of dread.
The kitchen floor is a lake. An inch, maybe two, of water covers at least a third of the space. Boxes are soaked halfway up, their contents surely ruined.
"Oh god," I whisper, my voice trembling. The sheer scale of it all is paralyzing.
Move, Holly. Move!
I scramble to my feet, icy water sloshing around my boots. Towels. I need towels.
I sprint to the laundry closet near the back door, yanking it open. I grab armfuls of clean bar towels, the rough cotton instantly soaked as I throw them onto the wettest patches near the burst pipe. They disappear under the water like sinking ships.
I grab the industrial mop and bucket from under the sink. The bucket fills almost instantly as I try to sop up the water. It’s hopeless. Like trying to empty Lake Michigan with a teaspoon.
A sob threatens to break loose, but I choke it back.
I slosh through the water back to the utility closet, grabbing the wet-dry vacuum Charlie insisted I buy after the Great Sprinkles Spill last summer. It’s heavy, unwieldy.
I wrestle it out, plug it into an outlet on the island – thankfully still dry – and plunge the hose into the water. The machine roars to life, a comforting, powerful sound. It sucks greedily, pulling water into its tank.
I drag the hose through the flood, aiming for the deepest pools near the burst pipe. The vacuum tank fills quickly. I have to stop, wrestle the heavy, sloshing tank off, carry it to the utility sink, and dump it. Then repeat. Lift, carry, dump. Lift, carry, dump.
My arms scream. My back aches. My wet clothes cling to me, sapping my body heat. The cold is seeping into my bones. Outside, the storm rages on, the wind howling like a pack of wolves.
The enormity of it crashes over me between trips to the sink. The ruined supplies. The potential electrical hazard. The cost of repairs. The sheer, back-breaking labor just to get the water out, never mind dealing with the soaked drywall, the ruined flooring…
My eyes sting from the crushing weight of it all – the bakery’s financial freefall, Tony Taviani’s threats, the emotional rollercoaster with Denton, and now this. This literal flood washing away my last reserves of resilience.
I sink onto a stool near the center island, the wet-dry vacuum hose dangling uselessly from my numb hand. Exhaustion and despair swamp me. I’ve fought so hard. For this place. For my dream. And now? It feels like the universe is actively conspiring against me
A hot tear escapes, tracing a warm path down my cold cheek. It’s too much. It’s just… too much.
The service door in the back of the kitchen opens suddenly.
The sound is so unexpected, so utterly impossible in the midst of the storm and my private disaster, that it takes a full three seconds to register. My head snaps up. Who on earth would be opening the door?
I turn, my heart hammering painfully in my chest.
Standing in the open doorway, silhouetted against the swirling snow, is Denton Blake.
He’s covered head to toe in snow. Flakes cling to his dark hair, dust his shoulders, melt into the thick wool of his black coat.
His sharp gaze sweeps the disaster zone: the flooded floor, the soaked boxes, the frantic wet-dry vacuum still roaring… and finally lands on me – sitting on a stool, dripping wet.
Grim determination settles onto his features, etching lines of purpose around his eyes and mouth. He steps inside, kicking snow from his boots, and shuts the door firmly against the howling wind.
He looks straight at me, eyes holding mine.
"Looks like you could use some help."