Chapter 13
LILIANA
That new-year feeling wore off fast. Snowstorms and medical woes have taken up most of the time around here, so I’m surprised we’re already coming up on the end of February.
“I really thought that we’d be looking at a better number after the Valentine’s Day rush,” Jenni says as she leans against the doorframe.
This “office” at the bakery feels more like a glorified closet space but it hardly matters how big the supposedly administrative room is.
All I need is a laptop to prop on a narrow desk.
Now that I’ve finally convinced my parents to go all digital, there’s no point in keeping files and bulky containers of paperwork.
Any spare space in here is for storage—like the stack of crates that hold ingredients and paper liners among other non-perishables.
I let out a rough exhale. “Me too,” I agree. As soon as the words slip out, though, I frown. “Actually, no.”
I would have liked the bakery to be turning more of a profit, especially with the Valentine’s Day season over the last few weeks. Sales did tick up with the heart-shaped cookies and cupcakes, then the new breads that Jenni and I planned. But that bump hasn’t been high enough to undo all the lows.
Since the holidays, and into the new year, it’s been a struggle to keep sales up. And that’s without even trying my delivery idea.
“I mean, business looked good,” Jenni says with a worried expression. It’s a sincere sentiment. Since I moved in with her after I broke up with Roman, I get to see my good friend and coworker both at the bakery and at home. She’s a worrier by nature, but these numbers are concerning.
“Yes, it did,” I agree as I look at the calendar again and do the math on how long we’ve been fighting to stay afloat.
Red marker rings the dates when loan payments were due.
A penciled-in circle marks when my mother fell and broke her hip.
“But if you take the loan repayments and their steep interest rates into account…” I narrow my eyes and seethe all over again, pissed about the “terms” that supposedly got altered without a word of warning.
“And then hiring Rob and Margarita,” she adds.
I nod along, tallying up those expenses.
No wonder I haven’t been able to get the delivery side of the business going.
When my mother fell and broke her hip, we paid out of pocket, since their insurance had lapsed.
Then, with her out and my father staying at the hospital and later the rehab facility because she was so hard of hearing and frail, we needed two more people to fill their spots.
Hence, Rob and Margarita. My parents had been working without paying themselves wages, so covering two new employees on the books has been a huge hit.
While Valentine’s Day gave us a boost, we’re nowhere near out of the hole.
“Maybe we can cut more corners and test out some direct delivery options soon,” I say.
“A new thing for the spring.” I remember how that kind woman on the subway hinted I could shake off my gloom just because it’s a new year for new beginnings.
Yeah, well, the new year has come and gone.
We’re on the verge of a new season, winter sliding into spring, and I feel as stuck as ever.
No longer glum, but…mad.
“Jenni?” Margarita pops around the other side of the door. “That Markus guy is here again.” She cringes as both Jenni and I groan.
“Again?” I stand up, ready to give this guy another piece of my mind about how often he wants to come by and harass us.
“Easy there.” Jenni’s eyes pop open wide as she holds up her hands. “I’ll talk to him this time.”
I smirk, remembering how appalled she was the last time I went off on Markus, only a few days ago.
She heads toward the front of the bakery, and I slump back into the chair. The mention of his name riles me up, but just as fast as the mama-bear rage rises to defend the bakery, exhaustion drops in behind it.
“Maybe you need to, I dunno, nap back here or something.” Margarita frowns at me and shrugs. “You’re so testy lately, ya know?”
I do know. And I’m not sure what to make of it anymore. If this was the fresh aftermath of finding Roman sleeping with my best friend, then this anger would make sense. Margarita’s right, though.
“I’m sorry.” I tighten my ponytail and sigh again. It seems like no matter what I do, I can’t catch my breath fully. “I’m just so stressed lately.”
“Cuz you got a lot on your plate, Lil.” She pats my shoulder sympathetically. “But chill, boss girl. I’ll be Jen’s backup if that guy gets snippy again.” She winks and leaves.
I lean back on the chair and stare at the calendar pinned to the wall.
So much has gone down since the holidays that it seems natural for the stress to pile up and burn me out.
Yet as I zone out and half hear Jenni’s voice in the distance while she deals with Markus, my eyes drift to the rows of squares on the calendar.
The red and penciled circles marking important dates.
All the weeks that have passed since the start of the year.
All that time since I saw Anton.
Since I felt him so deep inside of me.
Proving that I’m not frigid at all.
Oh, my God…
My stomach drops as I count back the weeks, then the days, and I gasp again.
“Oh no…” I cover my mouth with my hand, stunned that this could be behind how fast my temper flares lately. I’ve been feeling extra mean, but maybe it isn’t stress I can blame.
“If this isn’t PMS…” I whisper to myself.
Shaking my head as I think back through the days and weeks, I know that’s not the culprit I can blame in this instance.
It can’t be PMS if I’m already late for my period. It feels so cliché to blame my anger on all of it—the breakup, the betrayal, my parents’ medical stuff, and their bakery nearly closing while a loan shark scrambles to grab every penny he can from us.
But if this is a hormonal thing going on, the numbers and dates aren’t lying.
I’m late.
Seriously late.
All the nerves from that morning come rushing back—when a driver told me Anton had already left the vacation house and arranged a ride for me. I’d woken up with a slight twinge of regret that we’d had unprotected sex. Those worries flood me again now.
Oh, God.
I shoot to my feet, wide awake, adrenaline and panic fueling me. Dizzy and maybe a little delirious with the wild thoughts racing through my head, I snatch my purse and ignore how unsteady I feel.
Without stopping to grab a coat or to even tell Rob, Margarita, or Jenni that I’m running out to the closest pharmacy, I wind my way through the kitchen and bakery.
“You!” Markus stands on the other side of the front counter, glaring at me. He points his finger at me as I come into his view. “You’re the ‘supervisor’ around here, aren’t you?”
I have no time for this.
Literally none.
My heart bangs against my ribcage and I barely catch my breath. That’s how panicked I am.
“Yeah, you better look scared, little girl,” he snarls smugly. “You think you can avoid my calls and voicemails?” He takes a step toward me, and that little dose of predatory attitude is the switch I didn’t need flipped.
“Fuck. You.” I flip him the middle finger for good measure. “I don’t have time for you.”
“Then you make time, girl.” He scoffs and gives me a once over, as if he finds me lacking. “Because when I say we need to discuss the details of our agreement, you stop, drop, and listen.”
I open the flap in the counter that serves as a barrier to the area behind the counter then let it slam down once I’m through. Facing off with this brute isn’t something I want to waste a second of my time on.
“You are not the boss of me,” I shoot back, fuming. “Get out of my way!”
“I’m the boss when I say we need to—” He stops short and looks down at his phone. Grimacing, he lifts the device to answer it. “Yes, sir?”
Clearly, he’s able to listen to his boss.
I roll my eyes and sidestep him. He’s not intimidating me today. Or ever again, dammit. We’re paying on that loan as it is and that’s that.
“Hold it,” he tells me as he listens to whoever called.
“No. I’m not holding it. I’m not waiting. And I’m not standing around here listening to whatever you think you need to tell me.” I yank my arm free of his grip, daring him to touch me again.
“Move it,” I order.
He barely covers his phone. “You are going to wait,” he argues. “You and I need to discuss the terms—”
I growl and shove him with both hands. It barely moves him, but I can’t bring myself to care. The smell of his cologne turns my stomach, one more little clue that freaks me out. It’s not the first time an ordinary smell has made me want to gag.
Thoroughly frantic to grab a test and find out if I’m pregnant, or just losing my mind under all the stress, I step around him and rush out of the bakery.