God. What if I failed?
The thought made that gulp of air in my lungs throb and threaten to burst. It was a complete rejection of the idea.
Needing to pull myself together, I lifted my head and started to climb to my feet. A frown pulled across my brow when my sight latched on an envelope I’d never noticed before. It was tucked in a small cubby on the dressing table.
“Oh, Gramma.”
I sat up on my knees, fingers trembling with affection and grief. I reached out and pulled the envelope free. I was quick to turn it over, rip open the flap, and tear out the card.
I devoured the words.
Obstacles are everywhere. They often feel insurmountable. Impossible. Sometimes they are nothing but stepping-stones. Other times, they are a diversion. A distraction. More often than not, they are there with the simple purpose of showing you that you can.
But every now and again, they are a redirection. A deviation. A repurposing. And this detour? It will guide you to a destination you never imagined you’d go but where you belonged the whole time.
“What are you trying to tell me, Gramma?” I whispered into the nothingness. That nothingness echoed back. Crushing me with affection. With loss. With the memories of her voice and her reason and everything she’d given up for me.
I clutched the letter to my chest. Cherishing her words. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t decipher them. All that mattered was that they were meant for me. Given in a moment I needed them most.
My grandmother always had that way about her. Insight. The uncanny ability to know when I needed a kind word or a soft prod.
Resolved, I pushed to my feet, tore off the ruined pantyhose, and shoved my feet back into the shoes. I dusted a little powder on my nose and ran some shimmery nude gloss across my lips.
I looked at myself in the mirror. “You can do this, Rynna Dayne. You wanted this. Now, go and get it.”
I rushed downstairs and through the living room, grabbing my leather bag and the portfolio I’d prepared that waited inside. Silently, I went through the details in my head. The things I would say, employing some of the strategy tools I’d learned back in San Francisco.
Maybe I was supposed to have gone there. Maybe that experience had been preparing me for this day all along.
I didn’t mean to falter a step when I strode outside and into the morning light.
But I did.
Because Rex Gunner was there, just backing out of the backseat of his truck where I knew he had just gotten done strapping his daughter into her booster seat. His care for her was nearly as breathtaking as his presence.
Regretful eyes moved my direction. I thought maybe he didn’t have the power to stop them. Just the same way as I couldn’t stop my own. My gaze drank him in as if he were forbidden fruit. Something—someone—I wanted so desperately I was willing to try to pluck him free from all the thorny barbs and spindly spines that kept him bound.
That destination perilous.
Hazardous to my health.
Sucking in a stealing breath, I shook off the reaction and forced myself to walk down the steps and to my SUV, barely glancing back when I pulled out of my drive and headed down the road.
But in that barest glimpse I saw him.
I saw his pain. I saw his fear. I saw his regret. And I swore I saw him standing there, held back by that gnarl of branches, wishing I could reach him, too.
But sometimes we have to admit when those obstacles just run too deep.
Spine stiff and straight, I shifted anxiously in the hard plastic chair. My legs were perfectly pressed together, from my thighs to my knees to my ankles, the portfolio neatly placed on my lap as I waited.
Each second that passed was excruciating, my heart thundering so loud I kept expecting someone to lean my direction and shush me. To tell me to rein in the riot of nerves that stampeded out ahead of me, only to do laps around the small waiting room of the bank.
My gaze darted everywhere, to the tellers, then to the few clerks who were opening and managing accounts in the grouping of cubicle offices that took up the right front side of the bank.
Who would these people be rooting for in this race?
For me?
For my grandmother?
For the vacant, deserted diner that sat only three miles away, begging for someone to take mercy on its desolation?
Scrubbing away the grime would only get me so far.
If I were going to get any farther, I needed money. God knew that five dollars I’d had left to work magic with hadn’t gotten me very far.
A woman appeared at the end of a hall. “Ms. Dayne?”
“Yes?”
She cast me a generous smile. “Mr. Roth will see you now. Right this way.”
Trembling, I stood, fingers shaking as I straightened my skirt. “Thank you.”
I attempted to gather my wits, to put on a brave face, to wear resolve and confidence. I knew I would be riding the fine line of approval since my loan was high risk, and I could only hope my belief in the business would throw it over the edge in my favor.
I followed her down the short hall to where the private loan offices were located. My heels clicked on the tile floor, in tune with the hammer of my heart. It drummed harder and harder with each step.
She gestured with her arm into an office, murmuring, “Good luck,” as she turned to walk back the direction we’d come.
Swallowing hard, I lifted my chin, painting on that firm confidence and forcing myself to wear a smile as I turned the corner of the doorway and stepped into the office.
I faltered to a standstill.
My breath gone.
Stolen.
Stopped by an obstacle I wasn’t sure I could overcome.
Timothy Roth.
Tim.
Handsy asshole from the bar.
Doesn’t understand the word no.
He cracked an arrogant smile. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the lovely . . .” He paused to inspect the name on the application that sat open on his desk. The pre-approval application I’d dropped off three days ago before my scheduled appointment with the head loan officer.
Timothy Roth.
“Corinne Dayne.” He rocked back in his big leather office chair, looking as if he’d just won the lottery. Or more like he was just holding hostage the numbers to my winning lottery ticket.
That sounded about right.
Dread slithered up my throat, like the slow, slimy slide of a snake. Constricting from the outside. Suffocating from the inside.
“Mr. Roth.” It was a breath of uncertainty. Of indecision and doubt.
Why? First Aaron, and then this asshole? What was I going to do?
He gestured a little too eagerly to the chair that sat across from his desk. “Please, shut the door and take a seat.”
My body quaked, but I did what I was told, the door snapping shut behind me, my feet unsteady as I took the three steps to stand in front of his desk. In discomfort, I eased down onto the chair.
Get it together, Rynna. This is too important for you to mess up now. Don’t let either of these jerks hold you back.
I wasn’t fool enough to think all things didn’t come at a cost. And sometimes that cost was your pride.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” I managed.
He had his elbow propped on the armrest of his chair, his index finger at his temple and his thumb under his jaw. Blatantly, he looked me up and down. His eager smile curved into a smirk. “The pleasure’s all mine.”
I ignored the lump that thickened in my throat. “I hope you’ve had the chance to look at my application.”
“Yes, I have, and we appreciate you looking to our establishment for your needs.”
Okay. This was good. We could totally ignore our previous awkward situation.
I nodded, continued. “As you read, I inherited Pepper’s Pies from my grandmother when she passed away several months ago.” God, I hated the way it came out, as if she were nothing but a distant memory. Not when her loss was a fresh wound that ached inside of me. I forced a small smile. “The location is on Fairview, a prime location, especially with all the renovations currently happening in the area.”
He thumbed through the paperwork. I eased a little, my rigid spine softening when he turned his attention from me and to the reason I was here.
“And you’re asking for two-hundred-thousand dollars?” he asked, still perusing the sheets. “How did you come to this number?”