Page 7 of The Hockey Contract

Chloe peered over my shoulder at the three sample cakes I'd prepared. "These look amazing. She'd be crazy not to book you."

"From your lips to the universe's ears." I stepped back to examine my work. The cakes were beautiful, a classic vanilla with strawberry filling, a rich chocolate with ganache, and my personal favorite, a lemon cake with blueberry compote. If taste wasn't enough to win over this bride, I was hoping presentation would seal the deal.

"So," Chloe said casually, hopping onto a nearby stool. "Any brilliant ideas about the money situation while you were not sleeping last night?"

I sighed, wiping my hands on my apron. "A few. I was thinking maybe a crowdfunding campaign? The bakery has a lot of history in the community. People might be willing to help."

"That's not a bad idea," Chloe nodded. "We could emphasize the 'saving a local institution' angle. What else?"

"I was researching small business grants. There are a few I might qualify for, but the application processes are lengthy, and there's no guarantee I'd get approved in time." I started cleaning up my workstation. "And I've been thinking about offering baking classes. We could use the space in the evenings when we're closed."

"I love that idea," Chloe said. "You're an amazing teacher. Remember when you taught me how to make croissants?"

I laughed. "You mean when you set off the smoke detector three times and we had to open all the windows in January?"

"Hey, I got it eventually!" She grinned. "Seriously, though, I think classes could work. We could start with basics, cookies, simple breads, and see how it goes."

I felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe with multiple approaches, I could cobble together enough to start making meaningful payments on the loan.

The consultation with the bride, Jessica, and her mother went well—almost too well. Jessica loved all three cake samples and seemed genuinely enthusiastic about having Grandma Rose's Bakehouse cater her wedding.

"Your reputation is amazing," she gushed. "My cousin had her baby shower cake from here, and everyone still talks about it."

My spirits lifted. This was a substantial order, a four-tier wedding cake plus 200 assorted pastries for the reception.

"So, shall we discuss deposit details?" I asked, trying not to sound too eager.

Jessica exchanged a look with her mother. "Actually, we're still visiting a few other bakeries this week. But you're definitely at the top of our list! We'll let you know by Friday."

And just like that, my momentary optimism deflated. "Of course," I said, maintaining my professional smile. "Take your time. I'm here if you have any questions."

After they left, I slumped into a chair. "'Top of the list' means absolutely nothing until there's a deposit," I muttered.

"They seemed to really like everything," Chloe offered, collecting the sample plates.

"Everyone likes free cake samples," I replied. "Doesn't mean they'll commit."

During the afternoon lull, I retreated to my small office to call the bank again. I'd been trying to reach my loan officer for days, hoping to renegotiate terms or at least extend the deadline.

"Ms. Miller, I understand your situation," the representative said after I'd explained my circumstances for what felt like the hundredth time. "But the terms of your loan are fixed. Without a significant payment toward the principal, we can't modify the foreclosure timeline."

"There must be something you can do," I pleaded. "This bakery has been in my family for generations. It's a Seattle landmark."

"I'm sorry, but business is business. If you can't meet the terms of your loan, the bank will proceed with foreclosure in three months."

I hung up feeling defeated. When Chloe left to deliver a birthday cake, I took the opportunity to sit alone at one of the bakery tables, my grandmother's old recipe book open before me. I traced her handwriting, the faded notes in the margins, recipes altered and improved over decades.

"I'm trying, Grandma," I whispered. "I don't know what else to do."

The bell above the door jingled, and I looked up to see Jax Harrison, looking uncomfortable and out of place in my bakery.

He wore dark jeans and a simple gray sweater that probably cost more than all my kitchen appliances combined. His presence immediately commanded attention. Several customers nudged each other, whispering and not-so-subtly taking photos.

I approached the counter, pulse quickening despite my determination to remain calm. "Welcome to Grandma Rose's Bakehouse," I said formally. "What can I get for you?"

He glanced around, seemingly discomforted by the attention. "I'll take a dozen assorted pastries."

"Any particular preferences?"

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