PENELOPE
It was 4:07 a.m. when the first truck pulled up.
The street outside the bakery was wrapped in darkness, save for the amber streetlamps casting long shadows across the street.
Headlights swept across the asphalt, catching the shine of my lavender sports car parked just out front, as two delivery trucks rumbled to a stop in front of our shop. For a moment, none of us moved—just stared, wide-eyed, flour-smudged, coffee-fueled and sleepless.
Jess was the first to bolt for the door. Maya right behind her. I followed, my heart was beating faster against my ribs as if the adrenaline finally remembered it had a job to do.
The delivery men hopped out of the cab, very unfazed by the hour. “Hilton Logistics,” one of them called. “We’ve got two truckloads for a ‘Mrs. Hilton’? Hope you’ve
