Page 41 of Bad Ball Hitter

My feet chew the distance from the grooming station to his office. Chenille isn’t wrong. Mr. Richard’s face did seem tense, and his usually slicked-back hair was disheveled. And not in that sexy way guys pull off. No, this is a frazzled, “I’m losing my mind” kind of way. I’ve never seen him look so haggard. My being thirty minutes late to work wouldn’t cause that. Regardless, my guard is up as I enter his office. “Mr. Richards. What can I help you with?”

“My wife had a stroke last week.”

“What?” I gasp, my hand instinctively clutching my necklace. “I’m so sorry. Is she going to be okay?”

His lips form a tight line. “The doctors aren’t sure, which is why I asked you to come here. My time is limited, and I’ll need to spend it away from here.”

“Sure, whatever you need. I’m always here for you.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “You don’t seem to understand. It’s time to sell the business. I should’ve done it years before now.”

My stomach drops. He wants to sell the business now? I’m not ready. I need at least another year to accumulate paychecks. I have some money saved, but nowhere near enough for capital.

He continues in my silence, “I know you want to buy the place, but we need to proceed as quickly as possible. If you’re not approved, then I need to place the business on the market.”

“I understand.” I fight back the tears pricking my eyes. My dreams, my future, are slipping away right before me. But what can I say? There’s no way I can argue with what he’s going through. His situation is a hundred times worse. “I’ll start seeing if I can secure a loan.”

“Great. I’ll start the paperwork.” He sighs heavily and gathers a pile of loose papers on his desk. He pauses and looks up. “I am sorry about the timing. It’s just…” His voice trails off as his eyes cloud over.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Richards. I understand.” I back myself to the door. “I hope Gladys recovers.”

“Thanks.”

As I turned to leave, I let out a slow breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. My fingers brush the cool metal knob, grounding me. There must be a bank willing to take a chance on me. The business is solid and has been around for over thirty-five years. I can do this—for Mr. Richards, for the company, for the dream of owning my own place one day. The Tibetan Mastiff will have to wait, along with every other dream teetering on the brink of this loan.

I step out of the office, feeling the weight of the conversation settle heavily on my shoulders. Chenille looks up from her grooming table, concern etched on her face. “Everything okay?”

“Not really,” I admit, forcing a smile. “Mr. Richards needs to sell the business—like, now.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, wow. What are you going to do?”

“Try to get a loan,” I say, my voice tinged with uncertainty. “I’ve got to figure something out.”

Chenille squeezes my arm reassuringly. “You’ll get it, Lila. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to this place.”

“Thanks, girl. I hope you’re right.” I return to the grooming station, but my mind is a whirlwind of worries and what-ifs.

“Hey, Lila.”

I jump at the sound of my name and find Jett standing there with my dream dog, Max. In one hand, he holds a leash; in the other, he has a sleek black briefcase that looks out of place amid the colorful chaos of leashes and pet toys.

“Jett, hi.” My pulse quickens—not from surprise, but from the thought that he might have overheard the conversation. The last thing I need is a repeat customer to know my woes. I lean down and pet Max.

Jett leans casually against the counter, his gaze never wavering. “Couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with Mr. Richards. Sounds like you’re looking to buy this place.”

My cheeks flush with embarrassment and annoyance as Max gives me a dog kiss. Guess that answers that question, but how much did he hear?

I straighten, brushing a hand down my smock as if to wipe away the unease. “Yeah, the circumstances have changed, moving up the timeline.”

“Maybe I can help.” The corners of his mouth lift in a half-smile. “I’ve got some pull at the bank. We have a new program that’s geared specifically to new business owners. We might work something out for you.”

A flicker of hope sparks within me, desperate, dangerous. I swallow it down, trying to keep my expression neutral. “Really? Are you a loan officer?”

“Better yet. I’m the president of the bank.”

“Oh, well, yeah. I’d love to meet. That’d be great.” My words come out steadier than I feel. I manage a smile, though my mind races with what this could mean: a loan, a future, a chance at the dream that feels so close yet impossibly far.

“Great.” He stands upright and tilts his head slightly. His gaze holds mine, steady and reassuring. “Over coffee, maybe?”

---