Myra
February first. The date stared back at me from the digital display on the wall like a countdown clock in a high-stakes boardroom. We had exactly fourteen days left until the February 14th deadline—the day Tony had to prove a miracle or surrender.
Tony was at the heavy maple prep table, his jaw set in that familiar line of silent endurance. He was mixing the sugar cookie dough, his thick forearms dusted in white as he worked the butter into the flour. It was a rhythmic, grounding sight, but it did little to settle the humming anxiety in my gut. That dough would have to chill in the fridge overnight to be firm enough for the heart-shaped cutters tomorrow.
I had already done my part for the morning’s foundation. I’d spent the last hour dividing the sourdough into proofing baskets, m
