Page 5 of Wynter's Second Chance

“You’re a good kid,” I said, resting a hand briefly on Rory’s arm as he unbuckled his seatbelt. “Did I tell you today that you’re my sunshine and my star?”

“Dad!” Rory groaned, trying to duck out of my reach, but not before I caught the faint grin on his face. He bolted out of the car, his boots kicking up snow as he ran toward the door, his breath visible in the cold air.

I watched him go, my heart swelling with love for my boy.

Within fifteen minutes, I handed over the cupcakes to my client and gratefully accepted the payment. Every little bit helped, though it still felt like a drop in the ocean of what I needed. Once the bakery was mine, things would finally turn around. Sure, the first year would be tight—in new businesses it always was—but I knew I had what it took. My worries wouldn’t vanish overnight, but at least I’d be building something for Rory and me.

As I drove toward the bank, the familiar flutter of anxiety crept in. I glanced at the sign for Mabel’s bakery as I passed, reminding myself that this meeting could decide everything. Mabel had given me first preference to buy, but she wouldn’t wait forever for me. I couldn’t let this slip through my fingers.

Inside the bank, the warmth hit me, though it did little to calm my nerves. I stepped up to the receptionist’s desk, straightening my tie as I gave her my name.

“I’ve got a three o’clock with Mr. Graham,” I said, doing my best to sound confident.

The receptionist gave me a polite smile. “Please take a seat, sir. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

I nodded, heading to the waiting area. I crossed my fingers, then chuckled at myself and uncrossed them. It was silly, but I needed this break. This meeting could change everything.

The minutes dragged on, each one feeling like an eternity. I picked up a magazine from the table, some glossy home improvement issue, and flipped through it aimlessly. The pictures blurred together as I stared at them, my mind too tangled in its own web to focus.

What’s taking so long?I glanced at the clock on the wall, its ticking loud enough to echo in my ears. Fifteen minutes had passed. Or maybe thirty. I wasn’t sure.

I shifted in my seat, my fingers drumming against the armrest. Were they back there, deliberating over my application, or just having coffee and a chat, forgetting I was even here? Maybe they’d already decided, and I was just waiting for someone to come out and tell me, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

I set the magazine down, only to pick it up again a second later. I couldn’t sit still. My knee bounced as I stared out the window. The parking lot outside looked calm, snow dusting the tops of cars.

I couldn’t help but wonder if this was a mistake. I should be home, rolling out dough, timing the oven, doing something productive. Each minute spent here was a minute lost, and for what? A shot in the dark.

But then I thought of Rory, his face lighting up when he talked about the holidays. I wanted this for him—for us. I needed to prove to myself, to everyone, that I could do this.

Still, the waiting gnawed at me. My palms were damp, and I rubbed them against my pants, trying to dry them.Do they know I’m out here? Maybe I should ask. No, don’t do that. You’ll look desperate.

I glanced at the clock again. Another twenty minutes had passed. Or was it just five? Time had become a blur, stretching and folding in on itself.

The door finally creaked open, and I shot upright. My name echoed through the room, and my heart leaped into my throat.

I stood, adjusting my tie again, trying to make myself look as put together as possible.

I followed the assistant into Mr. Graham’s office, where he was finishing a phone call. He held up a finger, signaling me to sit, so I settled into the chair, trying to steady my breathing.

I checked my watch, careful not to be too obvious—it was already past five in the evening. I’d been waiting for over two hours! I could’ve been using this time to make deliveries or prepare my next batch of orders. But I had to see this through, no matter how long it took.

Finally, Mr. Graham hung up and gave me a quick, practiced smile. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Turner.”

“It’s Mr. Taylor, Sir,” I corrected, forcing a smile and hoping my voice sounded steady. “I appreciate you seeing me.”

This was it—the moment that could decide if my bakery dream would become a reality. I couldn’t blow it.

The burly man leaned forward, his tone all business. “So, what can I do for you?” His eyes flicked over me with disinterest; I was just another client, another poor sap looking for a break.

“I came about the loan,” I said, feeling my shoulders tighten. “We met when I submitted my business plan.”

“Ah, yes. The loan.” He raised an eyebrow as if it was news to him, then shuffled through papers on his desk until he found the file he wanted. He flipped through it, nodding slightly. “I remember now. Your plan was well-presented.”

Well, that’s a good sign?

Hope flared briefly in my chest. “Thank you. I put a lot of work into it. I made sure all the cash flows, costs, projected profits—everything—was calculated carefully.”

“Yes, yes. I could tell you put in a lot of effort.” His smile was thin, and there was something condescending in the way he spoke. “It’s rare to see a man… like you… so organized.”

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