2. Jenny
Chapter 2
Jenny
“What do you mean I can’t get a loan?” I say, frustration simmering in my voice as I face some finance guy in a crumpled suit. His tie is slightly askew, and he peers down his long, pointed nose at me, his glasses sliding down to the edge.
“It means, Miss Monroe, that you don’t have any collateral, so we can’t in good conscience loan you that sum of money,” Mr. Finance Guy says, his tone dripping with condescension. He adjusts the papers in front of him, the faint rustle of them sounding overly loud in the sterile, overly bright office. “You said it yourself; you don’t have a full-time job. How could we expect you to repay the loan?”
“My grandparents had their home loan through you all for over thirty years,” I say, my voice straining. I will not cry in front of Mr. Finance Guy. “You know we’re good for the money.”
“Ah, yes,” he replies with a smug smile that makes my stomach twist. “It’s unfortunate that you sold the home. We could have taken out equity from the property to loan you the money.”
“But we had to sell it,” I say, the words spilling out quickly. My fingers curl into fists at my sides. “We need the money from the house to cover Grandma’s medical bills and Grandpa’s care center costs.”
“I’m sorry, but my answer stands,” he says curtly, not sounding sorry at all as he closes the file with an air of finality. The swish of the paper echoes ominously. “If your circumstances change, though, we’d be happy to reconsider.”
I nod solemnly, swallowing the lump rising in my throat. I’m not sure how much longer I can afford a place to stay and covering Grandpa’s retirement home payments and the never-ending medical bills. The money from selling the house will only last so long.
As I step out of the bank into the cold winter air, the world feels both too loud and eerily distant. The chatter of people on the street blends into the faint hum of passing cars, and the brisk air only amplifies the cold knot of uncertainty twisting in my chest.
I’ll just have to figure out a solution. I’ve always been able to land on my feet, and this will be no different.
Still rifling through the papers from the bank as I enter the crosswalk, I hear someone yell, “Look out!”
Before I can process what’s happening, I’m yanked back into a wall of arms and muscle. The force of the pull and the slick, icy sidewalk send me stumbling backward. I lose my balance and land with a thump on top of a stranger. A car horn blares behind me, sharp and jarring. The sound makes my heart pound as I realize how close I’d been to stepping into traffic.
I take a shaky breath, blinking rapidly, and find myself staring into the most startling blue eyes I’ve ever seen.
“You okay?” the stranger asks softly, his voice warm and steady.
I nod quickly, my cheeks burning as I scramble to find my voice. “Yes, thank you,” I say, my words coming out a little breathless.
“My pleasure,” he says with a crooked smile that’s almost as dazzling as his eyes. “But, uh . . . if it’s alright with you, do you mind if we stand? The cement and ice aren’t the most comfortable, you know?” He gestures at the sidewalk.
My face flames even redder than my red Converse as I realize I’m still half-sprawled across him. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” I scramble to my feet. “Thank you,” I say again, brushing at my jeans as if that will somehow erase the mortification. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention . . . my mind’s just been all over the place this morning.”
“It’s all cool. No sweat,” he replies, standing and brushing a speck of dirt off his shirt. “I’m just glad you aren’t a pancake in the street. That wouldn’t have been a great start to anyone’s day.”
“No, I can’t imagine it would.” I freeze, staring up at him. He’s tall—at least six-foot-three or four—with messy blond hair peeking out from under a cap that reads “Chessie Valley Lake Marina and Lodge.” His tanned skin and relaxed demeanor make him look like someone who spends his days in the sun. But it’s his eyes that hold me captive, shimmering like sunlight on water. They are the most stunning I-want-to-swim-in-those-sea-blue eyes I’ve ever seen. I blink at him, lost for words.
“Miss?” he says, waving a hand in front of my face. “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?”
“Oh. I’m—” I feel my brain short-circuiting. “Yes. I mean, no, I’m okay. I’m sorry, did you ask me something?”
He chuckles softly, the sound low and warm. “I asked what your name was and if you needed anything, but I think I know the answer to my own question.”
“Oh?” I ask, tilting my head in confusion. How could he possibly know who I am or what I need?
“Yes, you need one of Holly’s famous Sunrise Sin muffins.” He gestures for me to follow him down the street. “Are you allergic to oranges?”
I nod my head, then quickly correct myself. “Err, no, I’m not. Allergic to oranges, that is.”
“Great! You’ll love For the Love of Sugar. We’ll be there lickety-split.”
Who is this man? And maybe I did bump my head, because no one is this cheerful after being knocked on their back by some crazy, scatterbrained stranger—not that I’m crazy but . . . well I sure am starting to feel like it.
We walk past a few storefronts, the scent of fresh bread and coffee wafting through the air. The faint hum of downtown Chessie Valley fills my ears, the buzz of conversation and the occasional laughter blending into the background. We pass a sign denoting this as Chessie Valley Square, the heart of downtown Chessie Valley.
“Here we are,” he announces, opening a door with a sign that reads For the Love of Sugar. We step into a cozy bakery. The warm scent of vanilla and cinnamon envelops me.
“Holly!” he calls out cheerfully. “We need two Sunrise Sin muffins, stat!”
“Hold your horses, Trent,” replies a petite brunette with a huge bun of hair atop her head. She must be Holly. She’s busy filling an order for another customer, her smile kind and her hands moving with efficient precision.
Once the customer leaves, Holly turns to us, her expression shifting to one of concern. “Are you okay?” she asks me. “Trent, what did you do to her?” She swats the arm of the man that brought me here before coming around the counter to inspect me.
“You’re bleeding!” she says. “Let me get my first aid kit.” Her tone leaves no room for argument. I open my mouth to protest, but she’s already darted away.
“Shoot!” Trent says. “You are.”
I see the scrape on the palm of my hand. “I didn’t notice,” I say. I call after Holly, “Really, it’s alright. It’s just a little scratch.”
“Nonsense,” she replies, returning with a small kit in hand. “It’ll only take a minute. Then I’ll get you Sunrise Sin muffins and maybe a Butter Me Up bar too.”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” I begin, but she cuts me off with a raised hand.
“It’s on the house,” she says. “Please, as a favor to me. I have to make up for whatever this oaf of a man did.” She shoots Trent a glare.
“Dude!” Trent says. “I didn’t do anything.” He holds up his hands defensively. “Honest, I just saved . . .” He turns to me and whispers, “What’s your name?”
“Jenny,” I whisper back.
“Right, I just saved Jenny here from being flattened like a pancake by a car in the street. I’m a hero. Don’t I deserve a little recognition for my heroic acts?”
Holly rolls her eyes but smiles as she tends to my scrape. “Probably your fault in the first place,” she mutters.
“You two are the funniest siblings,” I say with a hesitant laugh, hoping to lighten the mood.
Both of them freeze, wide-eyed, before bursting into laughter. “Dude,” Trent says, “Greg would die if he heard that!”
“Oh, no, Jenny,” Holly says, still chuckling. “We’re not siblings. We’ve just been friends since childhood. I’m happily married to his best friend, Greg.” She holds out her hand to show off a simple but elegant wedding band.
After cleaning up my scrape, Holly hands me two orange-cinnamon muffins and a vanilla-coconut bar. “These are my Sunrise Sin muffins and a Butter Me Up bar.”
Trent grabs one of the muffins, stuffs the whole thing in his mouth, and turns to leave. “I’ve got to head back to the marina,” he says. “The place won’t run itself.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I didn’t mean to keep you.”
He swallows, then waves off my apology with a grin. “No need for that. I was happy to help. I hope this turns your day around. Just keep your head up when walking near the street, okay?”
I nod, watching as he jaunts out the door, his easy stride radiating confidence. Once he’s gone, I settle into a chair and pull out my sketchpad. I don’t normally sketch people, but there’s something about Trent—that mix of warmth and energy—that I need to capture. My pencil moves across the page, sketching his bright smile and those lake-blue eyes.
An hour later, my food is untouched, but the sketch is finished. It’s not perfect. I normally go for the more abstract and landscape drawings, but it captures the essence of the man who saved me.
“Wow.” Holly’s voice startles me. “That’s amazing,” she says, her eyes wide with admiration. I snap the sketchpad closed, embarrassed. I’d been so lost in my art that I’d forgotten where I was.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Just normally people finish my baked goods quickly, and when you didn’t, I thought something was wrong. Plus you’d been so focused, I just wanted to check and make sure everything was okay.” She looks at me a moment. “Is it? Okay, that is?” she asks gently. The question, paired with the morning’s events, makes my throat tighten.
“Yes . . . no . . . I don’t know, honestly,” I sniffle a little as the morning at the bank and nearly getting hit by a car comes crashing back to me. “Any chance you’re hiring?” I said softly, almost jokingly.
A sad but contemplative look crosses Holly’s eyes, her gaze momentarily distant. “Unfortunately, I’m not,” she says, her voice tinged with regret. But then, as if struck by an idea, her expression brightens. “But I know who is. And I happen to be good friends with him.”
Before I can respond, she glances toward the counter, calling back to another baker bustling behind the glass display case. “I’m taking a break!” she announces, wiping her hands on her apron. With a bright smile, she pulls out the chair across from me and sits down, her enthusiasm evident in the way she leans forward slightly, her elbows resting on the table.
She shares everything there is to know about the Chessie Valley Lake Marina and Lodge. Her words flow with the ease of someone who not only knows the place intimately but holds genuine affection for it. As she speaks, I can almost picture it—rustic wooden docks, shimmering water, the hum of activity mixed with the calm of the lake. The artist in me itches to paint it, and I haven’t even seen it yet.
“That place sounds wonderful,” I say, my heart lifting as hope stirs in my chest. “And from what you’re saying, it’s an assistant-type position.”
“That’s right.”
“I could definitely handle that.”
Holly’s lips twitch, suppressing a smile, as she says, “There’s one more thing I haven’t mentioned yet, and I hope it doesn’t sway you from interviewing.”
“Oh no,” I reply, a knot forming in my stomach. “What is it?” The hope that had been bubbling up inside me threatens to evaporate just as quickly.
She hesitates, then finally says, “Trent, the one who brought you in here . . .”
I nod slowly, encouraging her to continue.
“Well,” she says, “he runs the marina, so you’d be interviewing with him.”
Relief washes over me as I laugh lightly. “Oh, that doesn’t sound bad at all! You made it seem like there was going to be some awful catch. Trent was so kind to me today. It shouldn’t be a problem to work with him.” That tiny flicker of hope starts to settle more comfortably in my chest.
Holly waves a hand as though brushing away her earlier hesitation. “He is kind. I just wasn’t sure . . .” She trails off, her lips twitching again before shaking her head. “You know what? Never mind. I’m in love with this idea, and think you’d be perfect for the position.” Her enthusiasm is infectious as she adds, “I’ll talk to my husband Greg—you remember I told you he handles the marina’s marketing—and I’ll make sure you have an interview first thing tomorrow.”
“You’re heaven-sent,” I say, the weight in my chest easing for the first time in days. Then, a thought occurs to me. “Do you also happen to know of a place to stay?”
Her brows lift, and she tilts her head slightly, studying me as though piecing something together. “Did you just come to town?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ve been staying in a motel. I was living with my grandpa, but we just sold his house and moved him to an assisted living home, so now I’m looking for a place to stay—one that’s on the cheaper side.”
“That’s awful,” she says genuinely. “Rentals are so hard to come by here.” She pauses for a moment, clearly searching her mental filing cabinet. “Unfortunately, I don’t know of anywhere right now,” she says, her tone apologetic. “But I’ll keep my ears open for you and let you know the moment I hear something!”