Chapter Eleven
Belle
Tuesday morning came too fast.
I woke up before my alarm went off, eyes wide in the dark, like my body knew it was the last push and decided to panic early.
Pepper was sprawled across my pillow like he paid rent, and Salt was tucked against my calves, heavy and warm.
Saint was next to me, snoring softly. For one quiet second, I let myself stay there, listening to their breathing and the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Then the weight of everything hit.
Orders. Money. The calendar. The fact that by tonight, Cookie Haven would finally close its doors until after Christmas.
And the fact that I still did not know if I had enough.
I climbed out of bed slowly, careful not to wake Saint or the dogs, and padded across my apartment in thick socks.
My reflection in the bathroom mirror looked like a woman who baked for a living and slept when she could.
Messy bun. Puffy eyes. A faint smear of food coloring still somehow on my forearm.
I brushed my teeth, splashed water on my face, and tried to talk myself down.
Just one more day.
That was all.
One more day, and then I’d breathe.
I pulled on leggings, an oversized sweater, and my winter hat.
I padded back into the bedroom and pressed a soft kiss to Saint’s cheek. He stirred and looked up at me sleepily. “Time to make the gingerbread?” he asked softly.
I smiled. “Yeah, but just sleep. This time tomorrow I’ll be sleeping right next to you.”
He leaned up and pressed a kiss to my lips. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll be by with breakfast later, okay?”
“Okay. I’m going to take the boys with me.”
“Good,” Saint grunted. “Pepper hogs the bed.”
I giggled and pressed one last kiss to his lips.
“I’ll see you later.” I padded to the front door, and Pepper and Salt were up the second they heard the jingle of their leashes.
Pepper spun in a circle, nails tapping against the floor, while Salt sat and waited like he was judging me for taking so long.
“Relax,” I muttered and clipped them on. “We’re going.”
Outside, the world looked like it had been dusted with powdered sugar overnight. The air bit at my cheeks, and the streetlights still glowed. The only sound was Pepper’s excited huffing and Salt’s steady, measured trot beside me.
Cookie Haven waited four blocks away.
I unlocked the door and flipped on the lights. Warmth wrapped around us instantly. The smell of yesterday’s cinnamon and clove still lingered, like the bakery never really slept.
Pepper took off toward the front window like he needed to make sure the world was still out there. Salt headed straight for his spot near the register, the furry hall monitor back on duty.
I should have gone straight to the kitchen.
I should have started mixing dough.
Instead, my feet carried me toward the small office tucked behind the prep area. The one room that did not smell like sugar or feel like comfort. The one place where numbers lived.
I didn’t go in there often. I didn’t like it.
But today, I had to.
I shut the door behind me, sat down at the desk, and opened the notebook where I tracked everything by hand—online orders, catering invoices, walk-in sales, payroll, ingredient costs.
I could have used software like a normal business owner, but writing it out made it feel real.
Like if I touched the numbers, they would behave.
They never did.
I clicked on the small desk lamp, pulled my calculator closer, and started adding.
Week one.
Week two.
Week three.
Week four.
It should have looked good. It was good. Cookie Haven had been slammed all month. I had never worked harder in my life.
But then I subtracted ingredients. Payroll. Utility spikes from running ovens nonstop. Supplies. Packaging. The stupid little expenses that multiplied like mice.
My pencil tapped against the notebook as the total stared back at me.
I ran it again, like the second time would magically create more money.
It didn’t.
My stomach sank.
We needed to make a pretty massive chunk of money today to be able to pay off the loan shark.
I sat back and pressed my fingers to my eyes until I saw stars.
I could still do this. It was only seven in the morning. We hadn’t even opened yet. I had a full day of sales ahead of me, plus pickups, and last-minute panic buyers. People came in droves on the last open day before Christmas.
Maybe it would be enough.
Maybe.
The thought should have comforted me.
Instead, it made my chest tighten like a vice.
Because maybe wasn’t good enough when Bill McClure was the kind of man who showed up smiling and left threats hanging in the air like smoke.
I heard movement in the bakery. The soft sound of the back door opening. Boots on the floor.
I froze.
Marcy would be here soon, but not yet. Jessa and Owen wouldn’t come in for another half hour.
The dogs didn’t bark.
That told me it wasn’t a stranger.
Still, my pulse kicked.
Then I heard his voice through the door.
“Belle?”
My entire body reacted before my brain caught up.
Saint.
Of course it was Saint.
I should have been relieved. I was relieved.
And still, I didn’t move.
I stared down at the notebook on my desk, the numbers that felt like a noose tightening, and suddenly I hated the idea of Saint seeing this part of me. The ugly, desperate part. The part that made me feel like I was always one step away from losing everything I’d built.
A knock sounded.
Soft. Controlled. Like him.
“Babe,” Saint said, quieter now. “You back there?”
I swallowed hard and forced myself to stand. My legs felt stiff, like I’d been sitting for hours instead of minutes. I opened the door and stepped out into the bakery.
Saint stood near the counter, his jacket unzipped, hair damp with melted snow. He looked big in the space, like he didn’t belong in a bakery full of twinkle lights and gingerbread men, but somehow he did anyway.
His gaze swept over me quickly, like he was checking for damage.
Then his eyes narrowed.
“I’ve never seen you in that office,” he said.
My throat tightened. “I don’t hang out in there.”
He took a step closer. “Why were you in there?”
“Just,” I said too fast, “doing business stuff.”
Saint didn’t smile. He didn’t push harder yet either. He just looked at me like he knew I was lying or hiding or both.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said automatically.
His jaw flexed. “Belle.”
I lifted my chin. “I’m fine.”
He moved closer, close enough that I could feel the heat of him even in the chilly bakery. His voice dropped lower.
“You’re not,” he said. “Talk to me.”
I shook my head and crossed my arms over my chest like it would hold me together. “I don’t have time for this. I need to get the dough started. We open in an hour.”
“Then answer while you work,” he said calmly. “What’s wrong?”
I turned away, headed for the prep table, and started pulling out bowls like busy hands would save me from the truth.
Saint followed.
Not in my space. Not hovering. Just there, like a shadow that wouldn’t leave.
“Something is wrong,” he said.
I snorted.
“Tell me what is going on,” he replied.
I reached for flour and slammed the bag down harder than necessary. A puff of white dust rose and settled on my sweater.
Saint’s eyes flicked to it, then back to my face. He didn’t look amused. He looked concerned.
That only made my frustration spike.
“What do you want me to say?” I snapped.
Saint didn’t flinch. “The truth.”
I stared at the mixing bowl, my hands clenched around the edge so hard my knuckles ached.
The truth was ugly.
The truth was humiliating.
The truth was that I was one grown woman running an award-winning bakery, and I still felt like a scared kid trying to clean up someone else’s mess before it swallowed me whole.
My voice came out tight. “I’m just stressed.”
Saint nodded once, like he’d expected that. “About what?”
I laughed, sharp and bitter. “About Christmas. About orders. About money. About everything.”
“That’s not everything,” he said quietly.
I slammed the mixing bowl down.
Saint’s hand came to rest on the prep table, not touching me but grounding the space. “Belle,” he said again, softer. “Tell me.”
I tried to breathe. It felt like I couldn’t.
The words spilled out before I could stop them. “My dad owes money.”
Saint went still.
I kept going because if I stopped, I would lose my nerve.
“A lot of money. Gambling. Loans. I don’t even know what all he did; I just know what I’m left with.
And there’s a man,” my voice wavered, and I hated it, “there’s a man who keeps coming in here like he owns the place, saying it’s business and smiling like I’m supposed to be grateful he’s giving me time. ”
Saint’s eyes went dark, his whole body tightening like a weapon being loaded.
I swallowed hard and forced myself to keep talking.
“I’ve been trying to pay it off. That’s why I’ve been pushing so hard.
That’s why I’ve been taking every order.
Every extra gingerbread house. Every catering request. I need to sell a shit ton of gingerbread and cookies and whatever else people will buy so I can pay it off and make him go away.
” My breath came fast now, the panic finally breaking loose.
I turned back toward the office door. “And I was in there because I was adding it up, and I don’t think it’s going to be enough. ”
Silence slammed down.
The ovens hummed. The fridge clicked. Pepper scratched at something in the corner. Salt’s nails tapped softly as he moved.
Saint didn’t move for a long beat.
Then, very calmly, he said, “I handled it.”
I froze so hard it felt like my bones locked.
“What?” I whispered.
Saint’s voice didn’t change. “I handled it.”
The room tilted.
I blinked at him like he’d started speaking another language.
“You,” I said slowly, “handled it.”
He nodded once. “Yeah.”
My hands started shaking again, but this time it wasn’t exhaustion. It was shock. Confusion. A sudden flash of heat under my skin that felt like anger.