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I woke up early, before the sun was up, stretching as I blinked the sleep out of my eyes. I glanced over to see that my daughter, Rosie, was asleep in bed, her long eyelashes fanned out over her delicate cheeks. Her hair was messy and curled around her face, and her mouth was hanging open as she slept. I smiled, my heart feeling as warm as it always did when I looked at my girl. I slipped out of bed quietly and grabbed the clothes I had laid out for myself the night before, tiptoeing out of the bedroom we shared and into the bathroom down the hall. I undressed and got into the shower, finally washing off the flour that still coated my skin in a layer from yesterday. By the time the bakery had closed last night, I’d been too exhausted to do anything but drop into bed after giving Rosie a kiss good night.
After I got dressed and ready for the day, I crept down the hallway to my mother’s room and knocked softly on the door. I pushed it open gently, careful not to let it squeak the way it sometimes did if it swung on its hinges too fast.
“Mama,” I said quietly, peeking into the room. My mother was sleeping. She blinked her eyes at me and sat up.
“Hey, honey,” she said in a drowsy voice, sounding like she was still half-asleep. “You going downstairs?”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “Rose is still asleep. Have her come down when she wakes up.”
“Okay,” she responded. I shut the door quietly and walked away, down the stairs and into the back room of our family bakery. I flipped on the lights as I went through the room, illuminating the kitchen, which was small but could perform miracles in the right hands. Those hands used to be my father’s, and his father’s before that. This bakery and this house had been in my family for generations, and I had grown up thinking of it as home.
I turned on the ovens to prepare for the day, standing close to them as they heated up. It was always cold in the bakery in the mornings, especially during the fall and winter, but when the ovens got going the place felt warm and inviting. I pulled out the ingredients I needed to start the morning with our usual selection—fresh-baked muffins and warm, fluffy biscuits, as well as cinnamon rolls that melted on the tongue. The cinnamon rolls were my favorite, and Rosie had a taste for them as well. They usually sold out fast, so every once in a while I would set one aside for her for when she woke up. I made a note to do so this morning; I had missed her last night. We’d had a special event at the bakery that had kept me up late cleaning up the place, and I hadn’t made it upstairs until after she had gone to bed.
As I started to mix the ingredients for the rolls, I thought back to last night and the conversation I’d had with our neighbor. I had wanted to tell my mother about it right away but didn’t want to wake her when I got upstairs. The conversation gnawed at me and had kept me up all night. Our neighbor, Mr. Eustacio, who owned the laundromat next door, had told me that some big development company was proposing to the city to buy the buildings on our block and wanted to develop it into condos. I thought about losing this place, the only home I’d ever known, the place I loved and worked and lived, and it made me sad.
When my father got sick and began his rapid decline from his diagnosis to his final days, he confessed to me that he wanted to see me take over the business and then pass it on to the next generation. I told him I would do whatever it took to make the dream a reality, that it was my wish too. An offer from a development company would probably be for so much money it would feel like I was playing Monopoly, but some things don’t have a price tag. I would never sell, no matter how tempting the offer was. I loved this place like it was a part of my family.
I sighed as I flattened out the dough with my hands, then began to roll it out with a pin, putting all of my muscle into it. I found the motions soothing and comfortable, especially since I found that I could put all of my aggression into rolling and the dough would benefit from the effort. The truth was, the money we’d get from selling this place would help us in every way. Since taking over the bakery, I was struggling to make ends meet. My father was a gifted baker and had the biggest heart of anyone I knew, but he wasn’t the greatest businessman. It took me weeks after his funeral to find the courage to go into his office and look through the business files. I was surprised to find the state they were in. He didn’t have files so much as piles. There were about two dozen banker boxes filled with papers in no discernible order. I’d find a bank statement, a Christmas card from his college roommate’s family, and a handwritten grocery list all in the same box.
I had always thought my father to be larger than life—he had brought life into this place somehow that I just couldn’t seem to replicate, no matter how hard I tried. I don’t know how much money he made, but the bills that kept arriving after his death were larger than I’d assumed they’d be. At the end of each month, I was struggling to stretch what we made to pay everything. We had steady, regular customers, but it always seemed like it was barely enough to cover what I needed to take care of mama, Rosie, and myself.
I finished putting the rolls together and placed them in the oven, then started mixing the muffins. By the time I got them in the oven to start on the biscuits, it was already just twenty minutes before we opened. I looked at the clock and cursed as I burnt my finger on the corner of the cinnamon roll pan, running it under cold water for a moment as I watched it rise and blister. I shook my head at my clumsiness, then left the kitchen and went up front to the store, turning on lights and flipping chairs down from the tables. I arranged the cinnamon rolls in the display case and turned on the colorful Christmas lights that my father had hung up around the bakery years and years ago. It gave the room a festive glow that reminded me of him every time I turned them on.
A few minutes later, I opened the front door to greet the two men who were waiting there when we opened. They were partners, older men named John and Ashton, who lived across the street and came in every morning for coffee. I beamed at them when I opened the door and welcomed them in.
“Good morning,” I said brightly as we crossed the room. I pulled out a cinnamon roll for each of them, knowing what they were going to order. It was easy to guess with these guys, who were simple and friendly.
“Morning, Sloane,” Ashton said, grinning at me as I bagged up their rolls and turned around to pour their coffee. “How are you? How’s Rosie?”
“She’s good,” I told them. “Sweet as ever. She’s probably still sleeping upstairs with my mom.”
“You should put her to work around here,” said Ashton. “She would liven the place right up.”
I put my hands on my hips, pretending to be offended. “You mean I’m not lively enough for you?”
Ashton laughed as I handed him his coffee. “You’re perfect just the way you are, darling,” he said. John winked at me. They paid, dropping a nice tip for me in the jar before disappearing with their food. A few more people came and went, and I served them in between running back and forth from the kitchen to prepare the muffins and biscuits for the displays.
When I came back out front, my hands filled with muffins, I stopped dead when I saw who was standing at the counter. I didn’t know him, had never met him before, but he was the most handsome man I had ever seen. He was tall, broad with green eyes and dirty-blond waves. He had a polite smile on his face that broadened when he saw me, especially when I dropped half of the muffins I was holding and looking down stupidly to watch them roll to the floor. I blushed and crouched down to pick them up, dumping them in the trash before wiping my hands on my apron.
“Hi,” I said, looking back up at the man, who was grinning at me, one eyebrow raised.
“You okay?” he asked. I nodded, cursing myself, and bit my lip.
“What can I get for you?”
“I don’t know,” he said, his voice smooth and soft. “What would you recommend?”
“The cinnamon rolls are good,” I said, gesturing toward the display case. He smiled at me, glancing at my name tag.
“Sloane. That’s interesting.”
“My mom named me after her first dog,” I told him. He laughed.
“Still beautiful,” he said, meeting my eye when he said the word. I felt myself blush again and then looked away.
“I’ll have a cinnamon roll.”
“Coffee?” I asked, still not looking at him. I felt his eyes on my face, felt him gazing at me, but couldn’t bring myself to meet his eye.
“Sloane,” he said softly, and I did look at him then. “Coffee would be perfect. Thank you.”
“I’ll have it right up,” I said, holding his eye. There was a look of interest on his face, one that was inviting and warm. I noticed that he glanced down at my lips when I smiled at him. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a credit card, handing it to me. I looked at him while I swiped it, then handed it back. He took a seat at an empty table, and I felt his eyes on me as I worked, pouring coffee into a mug for him and setting his cinnamon roll on a plate. I took a moment to collect myself before I carried it over to him, meeting his eye as I set it on the table in front of him.
“Sit with me,” he said softly, taking my hand before I could pull away. His skin was soft and warm on mine, and the touch sent a shiver down my back that had nothing to do with the chill outside. I glanced around the room—there were other customers there, too many for me to take a break. I shook my head.
“I can’t,” I said, gently pulling away from him, though I couldn’t help but return his smile. He gazed at me for a moment before I walked away and back behind the counter, disappearing into the kitchen so that I could tame my heartbeat before I saw him again.
