Page 45 of Working For Her Sweet Treats

“I can ask Kayla to send someone,” Loralee says.

“I’ll call her after we finish the last trays.”

I return to the kitchen and begin washing the mixing bowls and utensils needed for the final cinnamon roll batch. The commercial sink makes a low knocking sound beneath the cabinet.

I stop. The sound comes again. Then the pipe connection gives way.

Water explodes beneath the sink and sprays across the inside of the cabinet.

“Oh, no.”

I drop the bowl, reach beneath the counter, and twist the nearest valve. It does nothing. Water pours onto the floor.

“Loralee!”

She rushes into the kitchen as I open the lower cabinet beside the sink and find the main shutoff Jake pointed out two days ago. I turn it hard. The spray slows, sputters, and stops. For one second, neither of us moves.

Then I look at the growing pool of water spreading across the kitchen floor.

“Move the boxes,” I say.

Loralee grabs the nearest stack while I lift two ingredient containers away from the wet cabinet. We work quickly, carrying everything onto dry counters before throwing towels across the floor. The damage is contained, but the sink is useless.

I still have dirty pans, mixing bowls, utensils, and another round of dough to prepare. Health rules do not become flexible because the plumbing chooses the worst possible morning to fail.

I call the first plumber on my service list. No answer.

The second can come Monday.

The third tells me he might fit me in late this afternoon.

“I have an event today,” I say.

“Sorry. We’re backed up.”

I end the call and stare at the silent sink.

Loralee stands near the doorway holding a wet towel. “The Foundry has a kitchen.”

“Yes.”

“We could move production there.”

“We still need to transport the ingredients, equipment, display, and finished pastries.”

“I can call Kayla.”

“That solves the kitchen. It doesn’t solve the pipe or the loading.”

I look around Sweet Treats. I am not helpless. I shut off the water. I protected the ingredients. I know what needs to happen next. I also know I cannot do all of it alone in the time remaining.

My phone rests beside the register. Jake’s message is still open. Calling him does not hand him control of my bakery. It means I am deciding who I trust inside it.

I press his number. He answers before the second ring.

“Ava?”

His voice is careful.