6. Bianca
BIANCA
The call comes before my first cup of coffee, while I have exactly zero desire to deal with anything that talks.
It’s my flour supplier.
“Effective immediately,” the woman on the phone says, in a clipped, apologetic tone like she’s reading from a script she didn’t write. “We’re unable to fulfill the remainder of your contract. You’ll receive a formal notice later today.”
Well, shoot.
I pour my coffee. “May I ask why?”
There’s a pause. “We wish you all the best, Ms. Donovan.”
She hangs up.
And, of course, I know who is behind this.
This is ridiculous. I don’t want a war. I just want to live a quiet life and bake. And those three lookalike jerks did this after I gave them treats.
Ugh!
I have enough flour to last me a week, so this isn’t a complete emergency. But I have to act fast.
Before noon, I have a meeting with a new supplier. Hometown Mill.
It’s a local mill, located twenty minutes from my bakery. While they are a bit more expensive, I stand behind supporting local businesses, and I don’t know why I didn’t reach out to the mill before.
Although my cortisol levels have never been higher, it seems I have another reason to thank the terrible triplets. But I will never admit that out loud.
A man named Dale owns the mill. And I’m thrilled to give him my business.
“I’ve been trying to get into commercial accounts for years,” he tells me, standing in my kitchen, hat in his hands. “Nobody’s interested in local. Everyone wants the industrial stuff. Cheaper.”
“Cheaper isn’t always better.” I mean that down to my bones.
We shake on it. He leaves with a box of cinnamon rolls. I go back to my counter.
By two o’clock, I’ve announced the new partnership on social media: Sugar Bloom is going local! We are excited to partner with Hometown Mill!
I post some photos with their logo, and by three, it has twelve thousand likes.
My awful morning turned into a wonderful day. I’m packing up the leftover baked goods for the women’s shelter when the bell above the door rings at five o’clock.
The bakery is closed. I flipped the sign an hour ago.
“We’re closed,” I say, facing the display case.
“The door was unlocked.”
I know that voice.
Theodore Sawyer.
I take my time turning around.
He’s in a tailored suit, which seems to be his unofficial uniform. He looks like he drove straight here from somewhere important.
“Did you like the honey lavender cupcake?” I ask.
He blinks, looking at me like I’m crazy. “What?”
“The cupcake. Your brother came in last week.” I close a box. “I sent one for you. Honey for sweetness, lavender to calm you down.”
“Ander didn’t mention it,” he says.
“He probably ate it.” I stack the boxes for the shelter on the counter. “I don’t blame him. They really are good.”
Theo steps farther into the bakery. “I’m not as easy to manipulate as Ander. Don’t do the thing where you make this interaction charming.”
“What thing? Being polite? I’m sorry your mother never taught you proper manners.”
His face changes. Completely changes. He has a thing about his mother. I don’t know what it is, and the way he’s looking at me right now means I’m not about to ask.
I open my mouth to apologize for the comment, and then I don’t, because he’s already moving. And why would I apologize to him?
He takes one step closer. Then another.
“I have been,” he says, very quietly, “remarkably nice to you.”
“Nice?” My eyebrows shoot up. “You’ve been trying to destroy me.”
His eyes narrow. “No, Bianca, I have not.”
“Really?” I stack another box for the shelter. “You sent a health inspector who used to work for you. You canceled my flour supplier.”
He doesn’t respond.
“But none of that stopped me!” I place my hands on my hips. “I got a better health inspector and created an amazing promotion. And now, I have an even better flour supplier, which turned into another great promotion.” I tip my chin up. “You’re basically my marketing team at this point.”
“This is not a game,” he seethes.
“You’re right.” I drop my hands from my hips. “It’s not. So what is it? What do you actually want from me?”
He smooths one hand over his tie before he answers. “I want you to understand what I can do,” he says. “What I haven’t done yet.”
“Then do it.” I spread my hands. “Or don’t. But standing in my bakery being ominous isn’t a strategy, it’s a tantrum.”
He doesn’t back away. “I can bury you,” he says. “Not inconvenience you. Not make your mornings difficult. Bury you. No landlord, no suppliers, no license that doesn’t have a problem attached to it. You’d be done inside a month.”
“Your public image can’t take another hit.
” I tighten my grip on the edge of the counter.
“You went viral for screaming at a caterer. If you go to war with a bakery everyone’s already rooting for, it doesn’t just make you petty.
It makes you look like a monster.” I pause.
“You’re smarter than that. And as much as I dislike you right now, I don’t think you’re a monster. ”
He steps into my space until the edge of the counter digs into my lower back.
Too close, actually. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him, and I’m forced to acknowledge, against my will and better judgment, that Theodore Sawyer is genuinely, aggressively, unfairly attractive.
“What are you trying to prove?” I ask. “I don’t want to fight you. I want to bake and pay my rent and keep my mother’s legacy alive.” I gesture toward the front window. “That’s it. That’s the whole threat I pose to you.”
For a second, he looks exhausted instead of angry.
“You made me look weak,” he says. And it comes out quieter than I think he intended. Raw in a way that I didn’t expect. “In front of three hundred people. And my father—” He stops.
The silence lands hard.
He knows he just handed me something. I see the exact second he realizes what slipped out.
I don’t say a single word, because he didn’t want me to know that.
He’s still a huge jerk, but hurt people, hurt people. And this man is hurting.
Sure, his words are threatening, but his body language says something different from his words.
“Theodore,” I say quietly.
His eyes cut to mine.
“I don’t have anything to do with your father,” I say. “I’m a baker.”
He straightens his jacket with sharp, controlled movements. “This isn’t over.”
Then he turns and walks out.
I don’t know what happened with his mother. But he’s a grown man who’s still scared of disappointing his father. That’s not anger. That’s a wound that never closed.
I stand in the middle of my bakery with a box of pastries for the women’s shelter and the distinct feeling that something just happened that I don’t have a name for yet.
I press my thumb into the birthmark on my wrist. The little heart.
I’ll figure it out tomorrow. Tonight I have deliveries to make.