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I stared at the foreclosure notice, my stomach dropping like I'd fallen from a ten-story building. Three months. That's all I had left of Grandma Rose's Bakehouse unless I could somehow pull $150,000 out of thin air.

"This can't be happening," I whispered, my fingers trembling as I traced the bank's heartless letterhead.

The bakery had stood on this corner of Seattle for over fifty years. The worn wooden floors had supported three generations of my family, the vintage display cases had housed thousands of pastries, and the walls had absorbed decades of laughter and conversation. This wasn't just a business. It was my grandmother's legacy, and now, my legacy.

When Seattle Sweet Spot—a trendy corporate chain with minimalist decor and overpriced lattes—opened just two blocks away, my once-thriving customer base dwindled to a small group of loyal patrons.

The timer on the oven buzzed, jolting me from my spiral of panic. I rushed to the kitchen, but it was too late. Black smoke poured from the oven as I yanked open the door, revealing the charred remains of what should have been perfectly golden morning pastries.

"No!" I grabbed oven mitts and pulled out the tray, dropping it onto the counter with a clatter. The pastries were beyond salvation, black as hockey pucks and just as appetizing. I hadn't burned a batch since I was fourteen and learning to bake alongside Grandma Rose.

Tears pricked at my eyes. I'd been up until 3 AM reviewing the books, searching for some magical solution to my financial disaster. My brain was foggy from lack of sleep, and now I'd wasted ingredients I couldn't afford to replace.

The bell above the front door jingled, and I quickly wiped my eyes with my flour-dusted apron.

"Good morning, Sienna," Mr. Henderson's cheerful voice called out. He was eighty-two, had a slight stoop to his shoulders, and had been coming to the bakery every single day since my grandmother opened it.

I plastered on a smile and emerged from the kitchen. "Good morning, Mr. Henderson. Your usual?"

"You know me too well." He smiled, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. "Though I hope your day is going better than whatever's burning back there."

I laughed. "Just a small kitchen disaster. Nothing I can't handle."

As I prepared his Earl Grey tea and pecan roll which was thankfully baked fresh yesterday, the back door banged open.

"Honey, I'm home," Chloe's voice sang out. My best friend and assistant baker always made an entrance. Today she wore bright yellow leggings under a floral dress, her curly hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun secured with what appeared to be two pencils.

"Morning, Chloe," I called over my shoulder, passing Mr. Henderson his order.

"You look like death warmed over," Chloe said bluntly when she joined me behind the counter. "And what's that smell? Did you sacrifice pastries to the baking gods?"

"Something like that." I waited until Mr. Henderson had settled at his usual table by the window before pulling Chloe into the kitchen.

"Whoa, serious face," she said, immediately sobering. "What's going on?"

I wordlessly handed her the foreclosure notice, watching as her eyes widened while scanning the document.

"Holy shit," she breathed, looking up at me. "Three months? That's all they're giving us?"

"That's all they're giving me," I corrected. "This is my mess, Chloe."

"Oh, stop it. We're in this together." She studied the paper again. "One hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That's a lot."

"It's impossible," I said, sinking onto a stool. "The loan I took out for the renovations last year? I thought business would pick up enough to cover the payments, but then Seattle Sweet Spot opened, and—" My voice cracked.

"Hey," Chloe said softly, placing a hand on my shoulder. "We'll figure something out. What about your Aunt Carol? She helped with the initial renovation costs, right?"

I shook my head firmly. "She's already done too much. Besides, she just retired. I can't ask her to sink her savings into this place." I gestured to the charred pastries. "Especially when I'm falling apart."

"You're not falling apart," Chloe insisted. "You're sleep-deprived and stressed. Why don't I handle things here for a bit while you take a walk? Clear your head."

The idea of fresh air suddenly seemed appealing. "You sure?"

"Positive. Just bring me back a coffee that doesn't taste like motor oil. The machine's acting up again."

I hugged her tightly. "You're the best."

"I know," she said with a grin. "Now go. We'll find a way to save this place. I promise."

I untied my apron and headed outside. Seattle's spring air was crisp but not cold, the perfect temperature for walking. I decided to head to the coffee shop on the corner and then loop around the park before heading back.

After buying coffee, lost in thought about banks, loans, and impossible sums of money, I didn't notice the hunk rounding the corner until it was too late. We collided with enough force to send me stumbling backward, my freshly purchased coffee exploding between us.

"Oh my god," I gasped as hot liquid splashed across what appeared to be a very expensive leather jacket. "I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking."

"Clearly," a deep voice interrupted. I looked way up into the coldest eyes I'd ever seen. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, and absolutely gorgeous in the way that high-end menswear models are gorgeous. All chiseled features and perfect stubble. But his expression was anything but attractive as he examined his ruined jacket. "Do you always barrel through the streets without watching where you're going?"

My apologetic feelings evaporated instantly. "Excuse me? I wasn't barreling anywhere. And you weren't exactly paying attention either."

He arched an eyebrow, his mouth set in a hard line. "I was on my way to a meeting. A meeting I'm now going to be late for, covered in—" he sniffed disdainfully, "—caramel macchiato?"

"Vanilla latte, actually," I shot back. "And I'm sorry about your precious jacket. I'm sure it'll be devastating to replace one of the dozen identical ones I'm sure you own."

Surprise flashed in his eyes, that I wasn't cowering under his intimidating glare. "This happens to be a limited-edition jacket—" He stopped himself. "You know what? It doesn't matter. Next time, eyes up instead of in the clouds."

"My eyes were perfectly positioned, thank you," I retorted, taking a step closer. "Maybe if you weren't so busy looking like you own the sidewalk—"

"I don't have time for this." He checked an expensive-looking watch.

"Of course you don't. Too important, right?" The frustration of my morning was funneling into this argument with alarming speed. "Mr. Big Shot, too busy to watch where he's walking or accept a sincere apology."

His jaw tightened. "An apology? Is that what that was?"

"It was before you started being a dick about it."

We were standing closer now, almost toe to toe. I could smell his cologne. It was something expensive and woodsy that annoyingly suited him.

His gaze dropped to my face, lingering for a moment before traveling lower to my chest. The look lasted only a second, but heat bloomed across my skin anyway. I straightened, crossing my arms defensively, unsettled by the way my body seemed to buzz with awareness despite my anger.

"Move along, princess," he finally said, his voice a low rumble. "Some of us have actual responsibilities." With that, he sidestepped me and continued down the sidewalk.

The dismissal ignited something in me. "Yeah, walk away," I called after him. "Real mature, Mr. Hockey Hotshot."

I'd recognized him, of course. Jax, defenseman for the Seattle Kraken. His face was plastered all over billboards and buses throughout the city. I'd just never imagined he'd be such an asshole in person.

Several passersby had stopped to watch our exchange, and I noticed at least three phones pointed in our direction. Great. Just what I needed today.

By the time I returned to the bakery, I'd cooled off somewhat, but my shirt was still stained with coffee, and my mood hadn't improved.

"What happened to you?" Chloe asked, eyeing my disheveled appearance.

"I had a close encounter with the world's most arrogant hockey player," I grumbled, grabbing a clean apron.

Chloe's eyes widened. "No way. Who?"

"Jax Harrison."

"Seattle's most eligible bachelor? The Ice Man?" She was practically bouncing with excitement.

"The one and only," I confirmed. "And he lives up to his nickname. Total Ice Man."

Before Chloe could interrogate me further, the bell above the door jingled, and a group of six twenty-somethings entered, all talking excitedly.

"Is this the place?" one of them asked, scanning the interior. Her eyes landed on me. "Oh my god, it's her. The baker from the video."

I shot Chloe a confused look.

"You're the one who told off Jax Harrison," another girl said. "That video is everywhere. We had to come see the bakery for ourselves."

For the next few hours, we experienced an unexpected surge of customers, all there because of my sidewalk confrontation with Jax. By closing time, we'd sold out of nearly everything, something that hadn't happened in months.

"See?" Chloe said as we cleaned up. "All you had to do was publicly humiliate a local celebrity, and boom, business is booming."

I chuckled. "Yeah, for today. Tomorrow they'll move on to the next viral sensation." I wiped down the counter with more force than necessary. "Besides, even if every single one of those people came back daily for a month, it wouldn't come close to what I need."

"I know," Chloe said gently. "But it was nice to see the place full again, wasn't it?"

I had to admit it was. For a few hours, I'd remembered why I loved this place so much—the joy of watching people enjoy my grandmother's recipes, the comfort of creating something delicious with my own hands.

Later that evening, I took Sprinkles, my golden retriever, for her evening walk in the park. The spring evening was mild, cherry blossoms scenting the air as we wandered along the paths. Sprinkles was more interested in squirrels than exercise, stopping every few feet to investigate an intriguing smell.

"Come on, girl," I urged, tugging gently on her leash. "Let's at least pretend we're getting some actual walking done."

"Trouble keeping up with you, is she?"

I froze at the familiar voice, then slowly turned to find Jax standing a few feet away. He'd changed out of his coffee-stained clothes into joggers and a fitted hoodie that did nothing to hide his athletic build. My stomach did an annoying little flip.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, defensive.

He held up his hands in a gesture of peace. "Just out for a run. And..." He hesitated, looking uncomfortable. "I wanted to apologize for this morning. I was rushing to an important meeting, but that's no excuse for being rude."

His apology caught me off guard. "Oh? Well, I'm sorry too, about your jacket."

An awkward silence fell between us. I wasn't sure what else to say to the man I'd been mentally cursing all day.

"So," he finally said, gesturing to Sprinkles, who was now sniffing his running shoes with great interest. "This is your dog?"

"No, I just kidnapped her for the evening," I deadpanned. "Yes, this is my dog. Sprinkles."

His lips twitched. "Sprinkles?"

"I'm a baker. It's on-brand."

"I suppose it is." He cautiously extended a hand toward Sprinkles, who took this as an invitation to launch herself at him, her front paws landing on his thighs with enough force to make him stumble back.

"Sprinkles, no!" I yanked on her leash, but the damage was done. Muddy paw prints now decorated his previously immaculate joggers. "I'm so sorry, again. She gets excited around new people."

To my surprise, Jax let out a short laugh. "It's fine. Though I'm starting to think you've trained her to target my wardrobe."

I laughed too. "If I had that kind of control over her, she wouldn't be dragging me toward every squirrel in the park."

He brushed ineffectually at the mud on his pants. "Well, at least mud washes out easier than coffee."

"Good to know I've ruined your day on a sliding scale of laundry difficulty."

His eyes met mine, and for a moment, I glimpsed amusement behind the ice. But it vanished quickly, replaced by his usual guarded expression.

"I should get going," he said, taking a step back. "Enjoy your walk."