Page 7 of Faking it with my Bad Boy Crush

"Okay, so." Tessa hopped up onto the counter, ignoring my pointed look about health code violations. "My cousin works at the ferry terminal, right? And she says there's been this uptick in fancy-looking business types coming over. Like, expensive suits, leather briefcases, taking notes on their tablets while they walk around town."

"Tourists do that too."

"Not like this. These people are asking questions. About property values. About which businesses are struggling. About who might be interested in selling." Tessa's expression turned serious. "Maya, I think they're scouting. Building a target list."

My hands stilled in the dough. "For acquisitions."

"For takeovers." Tessa took a sip of her own coffee. "I know you don't want to hear this, but with the permit issues you've been dealing with—"

"I'm handling the permit issues."

"I know you are. But these corporate types, they look for vulnerabilities. Legal complications, financial pressure, anything that makes an owner more likely to sell." Tessa's voice softened. "You've been fighting alone for seven years, babe. What if they see that as weakness?"

I resumed kneading, my movements precise and controlled. "Let them. I didn't survive Canlis by being weak." I looked up, my eyes hard. "If some mainland investors think they can waltz onto this island and take what I've built, they're going to learn a very expensive lesson about underestimating women with CIA degrees and restaurant experience."

Tessa grinned. "There's my fighter. I knew she was in there somewhere under all that flour."

"I'm always fighting. I'm just strategic about when I show my teeth." I shaped the dough into a smooth ball and placed it in an oiled bowl to rise. "Is there a meeting or something? Somewhere these investors are presenting their plans?"

"That's the other thing I heard. There's a community meeting tonight. Seven o'clock at the community center. Something about 'economic development opportunities.'" Tessa made air quotes with her fingers. "Which is code for 'let us explain why selling your family business to us is actually good for you.'"

I pulled out my phone and found the meeting notification in my email. Sure enough—mandatory attendance for all local business owners, a presentation from a consultant specializing in San Juan Islands economic growth.

My stomach tightened, but I kept my voice level. "Then I'll be there. If they want to pitch their vision for Lopez Island, they can do it while looking me in the eye."

"That's my girl." Tessa hopped down from the counter. "Want me to come with you for moral support? I can sit in the back and make threatening faces."

I laughed despite myself. "I appreciate that, but I need to look professional. Can't have my assistant glaring daggers at potential investors."

"Even if they deserve it?"

"Especially if they deserve it. I'm going to be calm, rational, and completely in control." I wiped my hands on my apron. "I'll let my credentials speak for themselves. CIA graduate, senior pastry chef at one of Seattle's top restaurants, seven years of successful business management. If they think I'm some small-town baker who doesn't understand economics, they're in for a surprise."

Tessa studied me for a moment. "You know what I love about you?"

"My exceptional taste in friends?"

"That too. But also, that you never let anyone make you small. You could've stayed in Seattle, chased Michelin stars, built the big flashy career. But you chose this." She gestured around thebakery. "And you made it successful on your own terms. There’s power in that."

I felt my throat tighten slightly but pushed the emotion down. I didn't have time for feelings right now. I had bread to bake, a business to run, and apparently investors to face down.

"Come on," I said, moving to the next batch of dough. "We've got pastéis de nata to make, and if tonight's meeting goes badly, I want the island to remember why Honey & Hearth is worth fighting for."

The rest of the day passed in the familiar rhythm of production: mixing, shaping, proofing, baking. I moved through each task I’d done thousands of times, my hands remembering the motions even as my mind wandered.

I thought about my father, who'd died when I was eight in a fishing accident. He'd never gotten to run this bakery, never gotten to see his daughter graduate from the Culinary Institute of America or work her way up through Seattle's competitive restaurant scene. But I carried him with me in every loaf of bread, every perfectly laminated croissant, every batch of pastéis de nata made from his grandfather's recipe.

I thought about my grandfather, who'd kept the bakery running through his own grief, who'd encouraged fourteen-year-old me to dream bigger than Lopez Island, who'd cried with pride when I got into CIA.

"You will do great things,minha netinha," he'd said. "You will make the Romano name known beyond this island."

And I had. For four years in Seattle, I'd competed at the highest level and won. I'd proven I could do anything.

Then I'd chosen to come home. To bring all that skill and experience back to the place that mattered most.

That wasn't failure. That wasn't settling. That was choosing what success actually meant.

By 4 PM, the display cases were full of fresh bread, pastries, and the Portuguese specialties that had made Honey & Hearth a destination for tourists and locals alike. I stepped back, surveying my work with satisfaction.