Page 8 of Stuffed

After I hang up, I practically bounce over to Ivy. "He's coming here," I say, barely containing my excitement as I pace our half-finished storefront. "Zane. To our bakery."

Ivy raises an eyebrow, abandoning her cookie cutters. "It's a business meeting, Tess. Try to keep that in mind before you throw yourself at him."

"I would never!" I say with an exaggerated, playful gasp. But my mind is already racing with possibilities.

Should I make something special? Shit, what were those cookies he was always eating? The ones he’d sneak from the cafeteria when he thought nobody was looking…

"Tessa." Ivy's voice has that warning tone she gets when she thinks I'm getting carried away. "I can see those wheels turning in your head.”

“Hey, what were those cookies Mrs. Rasmussen used to make in the school cafeteria? They were so good, and I swear she always made the smallest amount.”

“Remember what we talked about? Taking it slow?" She ignores my question, giving me a warning look.

“Dark chocolate espresso cookies!” I shout, suddenly remembering.

“Those were really good.” Ivy smiles.

“And about your comment.” I roll my eyes, but she's got that knowing smile that says she sees right through me. "Oh, come on. I'm not going to throw myself at him. I'm just… going to show him that I'm not afraid of a challenge."

"And by challenge, you mean him?"

"Maybe." I grab a whisk, twirling it between my fingers. "Is that so wrong?"

She just laughs, shaking her head and turning back to the scones that require her attention.

The next morning,I'm up before dawn with little to no sleep, spreadsheets spread across every surface of our makeshift office. Red pen marks cover the margins where I've recalculated our projections for the hundredth time. My laptop screen glows with multiple tabs open—competitor analysis, market trends, our five-year growth strategy.

"Just a few tweaks," I mutter, adjusting our first-quarter revenue predictions. Again. My eyes burn from staring at numbers all night, but I can't stop. Not when Zane Mercer—the king of finding financial weak spots—is coming to review everything.

By seven, I've managed to make it the bakery, thinking I can multitask. Bad idea. The smell of burning chocolate fills the air as I pull a completely ruined batch of cookies from the oven, too distracted by cost analysis to remember setting a timer.

"Oh God." I dump the blackened disasters into the trash just as Ivy walks in.

"What are you doing?" she asks, taking in the disaster zone that is our kitchen—and probably me. There's flour in my hair, chocolate on my cheek, and I'm pretty sure those aren't tears but sweat stains on my financial reports.

"I just thought… maybe if I made his favorite cookies…" I gesture helplessly at the mess. "But I can't focus on baking when these numbers keep swimming in my head. What if he finds a fatal flaw? What if our whole business model is actually terrible and?—"

"Tessa." Ivy cuts off my spiral, already tying on her apron. "Move."

"But—"

"No buts. I'll handle the baking. You go clean yourself up and focus on what you're actually good at—the business side." She starts pulling out fresh ingredients. "Besides, we both know I'm the better baker. You're the numbers genius who makes sure we can afford all these fancy ingredients."

I can't help but laugh, even as I clutch my stack of reports. "His favorite were those dark chocolate espresso cookies from high school," I remind her sheepishly.

"I know." She grins, already measuring coffee grounds. "You've only mentioned it about fifty times. Now go. Make sure all our decimal points are in the right place or whatever it is you do with those spreadsheets."

"They're projected revenue streams and break-even analyses," I correct automatically, making her laugh harder.

"See? That's your language. Leave the cookies to me." She shoos me toward the office. "Though I have to say, you really do have it bad if you're willing to risk our brand-new kitchen just to impress him."

"I just want everything to be perfect," I admit, gathering up my reports. "Is that crazy?"

"No." She starts mixing ingredients with practiced ease. "But maybe it will help you relax if you try to remember that this is supposed to be a business meeting, not a date. You know you kick ass with numbers; just channel that confident business Barbie. Even if you are color-coding spreadsheets at four in the morning."

I glance down at my meticulously organized reports, complete with highlighted sections and tabbed dividers. “What are you trying to say?”

"Tessa, you've got it worse than you did in high school." She pours perfect circles of batter onto the sheet pan.

---