Lila's alarm blared at 6 AM, jolting her from a dream where she was baking in a skyscraper kitchen with a giant mixer that looked like a robot. She sat up, grinning—maybe dreams did come true.
"Today's the day, Mabel," she said to the photo on her pillow. "Bakery meeting. No more motel toaster ovens. Just… flour, sugar, and a future."
She threw back the covers, already buzzing with energy. First order of business: lucky cookies. Mabel had always said, "When you need a little extra luck, add an extra cup of chocolate chips." So Lila dumped the chocolate into the mixing bowl with enthusiasm, the scent of butter and vanilla filling the tiny motel room.
By 7:30, she had a batch of golden-brown chocolate chip cookies cooling on a paper towel (her makeshift cooling rack). They were slightly uneven—thanks to the war-torn toaster oven—but they smelled like home. She packed them into a tin Mabel had given her for her 16th birthday, its lid decorated with a hand-painted sunflower. "For sunny days and new beginnings," Mabel had said.
Today felt like both.
Lila dressed carefully: a soft blue sundress with tiny white flowers, a cream cardigan (in case the AC was too cold), and her most sensible flats. She tucked her motel key into her purse, slung her tote over her shoulder, and grabbed the cookie tin. In the mirror, she practiced her "confident future bakery owner" smile. It looked more like a grimace, but she'd work on it.
"Let's do this," she said, heading out the door.
The subway was a breeze this time—she swiped her MetroCard on the first try, avoided getting stuck in the doors, and even managed to nod politely at a fellow passenger. She felt like a NYC pro.
Until she exited the station.
A street performer was playing "Sweet Home Alabama" on a saxophone, and Lila froze, grinning. Back home, that song played at every barn dance and Fourth of July picnic. She swayed along, dropping a dollar in his open case, and didn't notice the time slipping by until the song ended.
"Thanks, ma'am!" the saxophonist said.
Lila glanced at her watch. "Oh no!" She was supposed to meet the landlord at 9 AM, and it was already 8:50. She thanked the musician, grabbed her tote, and took off running.
The landlord's office was in a sleek glass building in Midtown, its lobby so shiny Lila could see her reflection in the floors. She skidded to a stop outside, catching her breath. She pulled out a compact, fixing her hair (slightly windswept) and reapplying a little lip gloss. "Calm, cool, collected," she muttered.
She spotted a bodega on the corner and ducked inside, buying an iced coffee to "look professional." Coffee in one hand, cookie tin in the other, she hurried toward the building—
And crashed into a brick wall.
Wait, no. Not a wall. A person.
A very tall, very solid person.
Lila yelped as her iced coffee flew out of her hand, arcing through the air before dumping its contents directly down the front of the person's crisp black suit. The cookie tin slipped from her grasp, clattering to the sidewalk as cookies exploded everywhere—chocolate chips scattering like tiny brown confetti.
Time froze.
Lila stared up at the person she'd just drenched. He was tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair that looked like it had been styled with actual product. His face was sharp—high cheekbones, a strong jawline, eyes so dark they looked stormy—and currently twisted into a scowl that could curdle milk.
And his suit? It was ruined. Dark coffee stains spread across the chest, dripping down onto his expensive-looking shoes.
"Oh my gosh," Lila whispered, her voice cracking. "I'm so sorry. I—oh no, this is bad. This is so bad."
The man slowly looked down at his soaked suit, then back up at her, his gaze like ice. "Do you mind explaining what the hell you're doing?"
Lila's brain scrambled for an answer, but all she could think was I recognize him. She'd seen his face on a business magazine in the motel lobby—the one with the headline: "Ethan James: The Ice King of Wall Street Builds Tech Empire Before 30."
Ethan James. CEO of James Tech. The guy who made million-dollar deals before breakfast and probably fired people for sneezing too loud.
And she'd just doused him in iced coffee.
Lila felt her face heat up to a temperature that could bake a pie. She dropped to her knees, scrabbling to pick up the cookies. "I'm so sorry! I was running late, and the saxophone player, and—please, let me pay for dry cleaning! Here's my number—" She fumbled in her purse, pulling out a crumpled business card (Mabel had made her get them: "Lila Mae Carter, Future Owner of Sweet Haven Bakery") and pressing it into his hand.
Ethan James stared at the card like it was a live grenade. He didn't take it. Instead, he looked down at her, still on her knees, covered in cookie crumbs, and raised an eyebrow. "Do you have any idea how much this suit cost?"
Lila shook her head, mortified. "N-no, sir, but I'll work extra shifts at… wherever… to pay for it! I promise!"
"Five thousand dollars," he said flatly.
Lila's mouth dropped open. "Five… thousand? For a suit?" In Honey Creek, you could buy a used car for that.
He scowled deeper. "It's Italian. Custom."
"I'm so sorry," Lila repeated, because what else was there to say? She gathered the least-crumbled cookie she could find—a slightly lopsided one with a perfect chocolate chip on top—and held it up like an offering. "Please, take this. It's my grandma's recipe, I swear it's good. Maybe it'll… I dunno… make you feel less mad? It's the best I've got right now."
Ethan stared at the cookie, then at her. His eyes flickered over her messy hair, her coffee-stained sundress, the way she was practically vibrating with panic. For a long moment, Lila thought he was going to yell, or maybe have her arrested.
Instead, he sighed—a deep, put-upon sigh—and took the cookie.
"Great," he muttered, brushing coffee off his sleeve. "Now I smell like vanilla."
But he didn't throw the cookie away. He stuffed it in his pocket, along with the business card she'd forced on him, and turned toward the building.
"Wait!" Lila called, scrambling to her feet. "I really am sorry! And I'll pay for the dry cleaning! I promise!"
He didn't look back. He just walked into the building, his soaking wet suit making a squelching sound with each step, leaving Lila standing there, surrounded by cookie crumbs and shattered pride.
Passersby were staring. A few snickered. A woman gave her a sympathetic pat on the arm as she walked by. Lila wanted to crawl into a hole and bake herself into a pie.
She glanced at her watch. 9:10 AM. Now she was 20 minutes late for her meeting with the landlord.
"Today can't get any worse," she muttered, gathering the remaining cookies (now covered in sidewalk dust, RIP) and tossing them in a trash can. She wiped her hands on her cardigan, which was now also slightly coffee-stained, and squared her shoulders.
She had a bakery to see.
Lila marched into the building, past the security guard who eyed her suspiciously (probably because she looked like she'd just survived a coffee apocalypse), and toward the elevator. She pressed the button for the 12th floor, where the landlord's office was.
The elevator doors opened, and Lila stepped inside, plastering on a smile. Maybe the landlord was nice. Maybe he'd understand. Maybe the bakery space was so perfect, he'd forget she was late.
She could only hope.
The elevator pinged, and the doors slid open to a quiet hallway with a reception desk at the end. A woman with a sleek bob and a clipboard looked up as Lila approached.
"Hi! I'm Lila Carter, here to meet Mr. Henderson about the bakery space?" Lila said, her voice a little too perky.
The receptionist checked her clipboard, frowning. "Mr. Henderson is in a meeting. He said if you were late, he'd reschedule."
"Oh. Well, can I wait? I'm really sorry about being late—I had a… minor accident outside." Lila gestured vaguely at her coffee-stained shirt.
The receptionist's lips tightened. "He said he's too busy. He left this for you." She handed Lila an envelope.
Lila's heart sank. She thanked the receptionist, then found a chair in the hallway and opened the envelope. Inside was a short note:
Ms. Carter,
Unfortunately, due to your tardiness and a last-minute offer from another tenant, the bakery space is no longer available. I wish you luck in your search.
Sincerely,
Arnold Henderson
Lila stared at the note, her vision blurring. No. No, that couldn't be right. She'd spent months emailing Mr. Henderson, sending photos of her grandma's recipes, promising she'd make the space special. He'd sounded so excited on the phone!
"Another tenant?" she whispered. "But… we had a deal."
She crumpled the note in her hand, fighting back tears. This was her dream, slipping through her fingers because she'd stopped to listen to a saxophone player and then crashed into a grumpy CEO.
Lila sat there for a long time, staring at the floor. What was she gonna do now? She'd spent her savings on the first month's rent for the motel, her baking supplies, the bus ticket. She didn't have money to keep searching for another space.
Maybe Mabel was wrong. Maybe she wasn't strong enough for the city. Maybe she should just go home, back to Honey Creek, where the biggest problem was whether the pie contest judge preferred apple or peach.
But then she thought of her grandma's note: "You're stronger than you think."
Lila took a deep breath, stood up, and straightened her shoulders. She wasn't giving up that easy.
She walked back to the elevator, pressing the button for the lobby. As she waited, she spotted a familiar figure stepping out of another elevator—tall, dark hair, still wearing a coffee-stained suit.
Ethan James.
He was talking to a woman with a clipboard who looked like she was about to cry. "—and I want the quarterly reports on my desk by 5 PM. No excuses."
The woman nodded frantically, scurrying away. Ethan turned, and his eyes locked with Lila's.
His scowl returned. "You again."
Lila's temper flared. Maybe it was the stress, maybe it was the fact that her dream had just imploded, but she found herself marching up to him.
"Look, I know I ruined your suit, and I'm really sorry about that, but do you have any idea what kind of day I'm having?" she said, her voice shaking. "I missed my bakery meeting because of you, and now the space is gone, and I have no idea what to do next!"
Ethan blinked, clearly taken aback by her outburst. "Because of me? You're the one who ran into me."
"I was late because I crashed into you! And now I'm homeless in terms of bakery spaces! So yeah, maybe it is your fault!" Lila knew she was being irrational, but she couldn't stop. The floodgates had opened.
Ethan stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then he sighed, running a hand through his hair (which was now slightly messy, and somehow made him look less like a robot). "You're the one who wanted the space in this building? The ground floor retail spot?"
Lila froze. "Wait. That was your building? Mr. Henderson works for you?"
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "James Tech owns the building. Henderson manages the retail spaces. Why?"
Lila felt like she was going to throw up. She'd just yelled at the man who basically controlled her bakery fate.
"Oh my gosh," she said, her voice small. "I'm so sorry. I didn't—"
Ethan studied her for a moment, his gaze lingering on her crumpled note, her teary eyes, her coffee-stained dress. He sighed again, a sound that suggested he was very, very tired of dealing with her.
"Follow me," he said, turning toward the stairs.
"W-what?"
"Just follow me," he repeated, not looking back.
Lila hesitated, then hurried after him. He led her down the stairs to the lobby, stopping in front of a small, empty kiosk near the entrance—about the size of a large closet, with a counter and a tiny window.
"This is the only vacant spot left," Ethan said, gesturing to the kiosk. "It's temporary—for events, pop-ups. But it's got electricity, water, and a sink. You could use it until you find something else."
Lila stared at the kiosk. It was small, sure, but it had potential. A little paint, some flowers, a "Sweet Haven" sign… it could work.
"But… why would you let me do that?" she asked, confused. "I ruined your suit. I yelled at you. I'm a disaster."
Ethan crossed his arms, his jaw tight. "Call it… compensation. For the coffee incident. And don't make me regret it. The lease is for 30 days. After that, you're on your own."
Lila's eyes filled with tears—happy ones, this time. "Really? You'd let me do that? Thank you! Oh my gosh, thank you so much! I won't let you down, I promise! I'll bake the best pies, and your employees will love it, and I'll even pay for your dry cleaning—"
"Just sign the paperwork," Ethan said, cutting her off, but there was a faint flicker in his eyes that might have been amusement. He pulled out his phone, texting someone. "Clara will bring the forms down. Don't cause any trouble."
He started to walk away, then paused, glancing back at her. "And… the cookie wasn't terrible."
With that, he strode toward the elevator, leaving Lila standing in front of her tiny temporary bakery space, grinning like an idiot.
Maybe her day wasn't so bad after all.
Maybe, just maybe, New York City had a few surprises in store for her.
Including a grumpy CEO with a secret sweet tooth.