Chapter 19
Ella
I’ve seen her name twice now.
Once at dinner, right after we laughed—actually laughed—in that way that makes you forget you’re supposed to be protecting yourself.
The second time was later when things were…
heated. Closer. When I was stupid enough to think we’d crossed some invisible line into something that might almost resemble real.
I press my palms into the dough harder than necessary, folding and turning and pretending I’m focused on the rhythm of it instead of the way my chest still tightens when I think about how easily he left.
Taylor Pierce.
Again.
The memory of his phone lighting up comes back uninvited. The way his body had gone still. The way his attention had already left the room before he did.
I told myself not to read into it. I told myself I didn’t care.
I’m a liar.
I punch the dough once, then immediately regret it when flour dusts up like a tiny explosion of my own bad decisions.
It’s been days.
No call. No text. No explanation.
Which would be fine if I weren’t standing here wondering when exactly I started caring this much about a man who is clearly good at leaving.
I leave the dough to rest under a damp towel and step out to the front.
Ashton is behind the counter with the satisfied air of someone who knows something I don’t.
She slides a coffee toward me. Extra cream. No warning.
“So,” she says. “I looked her up.”
I stop. “Who?”
“Taylor Pierce.”
Tension snakes through me in a way that feels entirely disproportionate to a name. “You did what?”
“She has a public Instagram,” Ashton says quickly. “I didn’t hack anything. Or stalk. Or commit any crimes.”
“That’s not the reassurance you think it is.”
“She posted yesterday. Juice bar. Caption: Detoxing after a toxic week.”
Of course she did.
I don’t reach for the phone. “You think that’s about Nathan?”
“I think,” Ashton says carefully, “when someone announces a detox, someone made them tired. Emotionally.”
I exhale slowly. “It doesn’t change anything. Whatever is—or isn’t—happening between him and me is still… unclear.”
She studies me. “You punched bread earlier.”
“That was unrelated.”
The bell over the door rings.
And then stops.
It’s the health inspector. Again.
He doesn’t say a word. Just walks in, drops a thick envelope on the counter, and leaves as quickly as he came.
Ashton and I stare at each other. Then at the envelope.
She picks it up and frowns. “That’s… a lot of paper.” She sets it between us.
The return address makes my stomach flip before I even open it. Public Health. Fire Prevention. Municipal Compliance. All in one very official-looking stack.
“Um,” I say quietly. “That’s… the inspection results, isn’t it?” With hands that tremble, I open it. And just… stare.
There are pages. Multiple pages. Checklists. Citations. Codes. Numbers. And at the bottom: FINES DUE. REINSPECTION REQUIRED. FAILURE TO COMPLY MAY RESULT IN TEMPORARY CLOSURE.
My heart drops. “They’re citing us for multiple violations,” I say. I flip the page. “And… fire code.”
Ashton goes still. “Fire code?”
“They’re saying the storage layout violates clearance regulations. The extinguisher placement. The exit signage.”
“And?” she asks carefully.
“And there’s a deadline.” My voice comes out thin. “And fines.”
“How bad?”
I look at the number. And feel something drop straight through me. “I… don’t have that,” I say quietly.
Ashton reads faster now, her eyes focusing. “This is aggressive. You’ve never had issues like this before.”
“They can do this?” I ask.
“Technically, yes,” she answers. Then she stops. Rereads. “But something’s off.” She taps the paper. “This is a squeeze.”
I look at her. “What do you mean?”
“Half of these could’ve been warnings. Or fix-it notices. Instead, they waited. Then stacked everything. Then added fire code.”
My pulse thuds in my ears.
“They’re trying to scare you,” she says. “Shut you down.”
“Who is?”
Her expression hardens. “The developer.”
My stomach twists.
“You turned down their offer,” she points out. “So instead of buying you out, they bury you in compliance.”
I sink onto the stool behind the counter. “But I can’t fix all of this in two weeks,” I say. “Not without money. And I don’t have it. Not like that.”
Ashton’s voice softens. “Okay. Breathe. We’ll figure something out.”
But my head is already spinning.
Nathan.
Taylor.
The silence.
And now this.
It feels like the walls are quietly, efficiently closing in.
I look at the notice again.
FAILURE TO COMPLY MAY RESULT IN CLOSURE.
Cup & Cake isn’t just my job. It’s my anchor. And for the first time since it opened, I’m staring at the very real possibility that someone is trying to take it from me.