TWO TARAN #2
“I came about the loan,” I said, feeling my shoulders tighten. “We met when I submitted my business plan.”
“Ah, yes. The loan.” He raised an eyebrow as if it was news to him, then shuffled through papers on his desk until he found the file he wanted. He flipped through it, nodding slightly. “I remember now. Your plan was well-presented.”
Well, that’s a good sign?
Hope flared briefly in my chest. “Thank you. I put a lot of work into it. I made sure all the cash flows, costs, projected profits—everything—was calculated carefully.”
“Yes, yes. I could tell you put in a lot of effort.” His smile was thin, and there was something condescending in the way he spoke. “It’s rare to see a man… like you… so organized.”
The pause, the tone—it all felt too familiar. My pulse quickened, an old instinct kicking in. I forced myself to smile, swallowing the frustration burning at the back of my throat. “I’ve always believed in doing things right.”
His gaze shifted over me, lingering just a fraction too long, and I felt the same discomfort I’d felt as a teenager coming out in this small town. Just because I’d been open about who I was didn’t mean it was easy. Living openly gay wasn’t all popsicles and peaches.
Mr. Graham cleared his throat. “There is one issue, though.”
I tensed, already bracing myself.
“I’ve reviewed your application thoroughly,” he continued, his voice taking on a tone that seemed too slick, too rehearsed. “And unfortunately, there aren’t enough assets listed to secure the loan.”
I bit down on my lip, trying to keep my composure. “But I have a car—”
“A car that doesn’t even cover a quarter of what you’re asking for.” His smile tightened, more of a smirk now. “Do you have any other collateral? Perhaps a partner or spouse who could offer a personal guarantee?”
My throat constricted. “I’m a widower,” I said quietly, my chest tightening at the thought of Royce. “My husband passed away five years ago.”
For a second, the banker’s expression softened, but it was fleeting. “I’m sorry to hear that.” The words rang hollow, like he’d said them a thousand times before.
I leaned forward, desperate now. “I’ve saved up some money and I’m confident I can make the payments on time. I just need this one break to get started. I know I can make this work.”
Mr. Graham’s eyes flickered with something I couldn’t quite place—dismissiveness, maybe? “We can’t approve loans based on confidence alone. We need something more… substantial.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I’d worked so hard for this, spent nights pouring over numbers and projections, juggling two jobs, all while perfecting my craft. What more did they want from me?
“Please,” I whispered, the plea escaping before I could stop it. “I’ve worked on this for a long time. I just need a little help to—”
“Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do,” he interrupted, standing as if to signal the conversation was over. “We have policies in place for a reason. I do have another client waiting.”
I followed his gaze to a man waiting near the door, file in hand, looking impatient. Graham gestured toward him. “Mr. Tucker, if you’ll excuse me…”
Every part of me wanted to fight, to scream, to beg for just one more chance.
But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. My throat felt tight, tears pricking at the back of my eyes as I stood up, not bothering to remind him that my name is Mr. Taylor, because it didn’t matter anyway.
I shook his outstretched hand, the warmth of his palm doing nothing to ease the cold emptiness growing inside me.
As I made my way out of the bank, I caught sight of the town Christmas tree, its bright lights twinkling merrily as if mocking the despair gnawing at me.
It had been five years since Royce died, five years since Christmas became a reminder of loss and heartache.
Each year felt like a punishment for something I couldn’t fix.
But I couldn’t afford to fall apart.
As I neared the exit, I squared my shoulders, a bitter taste filling my mouth.
I wasn’t going to drown in that sea of blame and regret.
But anger simmered beneath the surface, a low burn threatening to boil over.
How dare Mr. Graham write me off like that?
How dare he assume I wasn’t capable of building something for myself?
I was a man trying to make a life for my son, a man who’d faced worse than this.
All I needed was a chance. Someone to believe in me.
The rest? I’d handle that on my own, through hard work and sheer grit.
No one was going to stop me.
But what other options did I have? The only other bank in this small town had rejected my loan application too.
They’d looked at me—just a man working two jobs with no real assets—and doubted I could make a business work, even with Mabel’s established bakery as my foundation.
Mabel’s had a strong reputation, it was the heart of Aspen Ridge.
But they saw me as a risk. They’d grilled me on everything from my savings to how I’d handle a slow season, and when I didn’t have every answer neatly laid out, they’d used it as an excuse to close the door on me.