PENELOPE
It was 12:03 a.m, and the bakery hummed with desperation. Jess sat cross-legged on the floor with her phone pressed to her ear, flipping through the supplier list on her iPad. Maya leaned against the counter, a notepad clutched in one hand and a pen tapping nervously in the other.
I was hunched over my laptop, trying to cross-reference emergency distributors with 24-hour courier services, while praying someone — anyone — could deliver before sunrise.
“Penny,” Jess called, “Arden’s out. They can’t meet the quantity.” I swore under my breath. That was our third fallback.
“Maybe try Midtown Flour Co.?” Maya offered, squinting at her screen, yawning.
I shook my head. “Tried. They don’t do bulk after 10 p.m.”
We were unraveling. The First Lady’s event was in nine hours. We had no
