The silence in The Sweet Spot after Alexander Sterling's departure was heavier than unrisen dough. Clara Mae stood frozen, staring at the empty doorway, the bells still echoing faintly in her ears like a warning chime.
"Sentimentality isn't a zoning regulation," she muttered, mimicking his cool, dismissive tone. The nerve of the man! He hadn't even bothered to look at her, not really. Just through her, at the property he deemed "inconvenient."
"He's got a point, you know," Aunt Mildred chirped from her corner, ever the pragmatist. "The old hardware store has been sitting empty for years. Falling apart, too."
Clara Mae turned, hands on her hips. "That doesn't give him the right to bulldoze our history! This isn't just about the hardware store, Aunt Milly. He had blueprints. Towering blueprints. That building was drawn right on our property line."
Mildred, unperturbed, cracked another pecan. "Well, then you better make sure our property line is very, very clear, dear."
That was precisely what Clara Mae intended to do. She grabbed her phone, her fingers flying over the keypad. First call: Maggie, her best friend and the town's resident legal eagle, though mostly she handled wills and minor disputes. Second call: Mayor Thompson, a kind but often overwhelmed man who loved a good bake sale more than a zoning meeting.
While her calls went to voicemail – too early for Maggie, too busy for the Mayor – Clara Mae's mind was already racing, formulating strategies. She'd spend the rest of the morning baking, but her afternoon would be dedicated to research. She needed to dig out her grandmother's old property deeds, comb through town records, and understand every last loophole Sterling might try to exploit.
The first few customers trickled in, their usual cheerful greetings a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside Clara Mae. She plastered on a smile, serving up coffee and muffins, chatting about the weather and Mrs. Henderson's prize-winning dahlias. No one needed to know about the dark cloud that had just drifted into Willow Creek. Not yet.
Meanwhile, a few blocks away, Alexander Sterling was already on his second cup of lukewarm hotel coffee, his tablet propped open on the breakfast table. The Willow Creek Inn was quaint, almost offensively so, with its floral wallpaper and the cloying scent of potpourri. He'd booked the best room, and it still felt like a step back in time.
He pulled up the property schematics. Parcel 3B, the old hardware store, was prime real estate. The adjacent lots, including the bakery, Parcel 3A, presented a minor, but easily solvable, complication. His vision for the Sterling Heights mixed-use complex was sleek, modern, and lucrative. It would bring jobs, revenue, and a much-needed injection of capital into this sleepy town. He wasn't some villain; he was a catalyst for progress.
He frowned, remembering the baker. Clara Mae Jensen. Fiery eyes. Flour on her cheek, for crying out loud. She had looked at him like he was a blight. Sentimentality, indeed. He'd dealt with local opposition before, mostly from historical societies or environmental groups. A small-town baker was hardly an insurmountable obstacle. She clearly didn't understand the scale of his operation or the inevitability of change.
He ran a hand through his dark hair, a flicker of something akin to annoyance crossing his features. Her stubbornness was, if nothing else, distinct. And her bakery... he remembered the faint, warm smell that had momentarily cut through the cloying potpourri scent. And that lemon tart. Perfect glaze. He mentally shook himself. Focus, Sterling.
His phone buzzed. It was his lead architect, Mark.
"Morning, Alex. Everything on track in Willow Creek?" Mark's voice was crisp, efficient.
"Mostly. Ran into a minor snag with an… emotionally attached local business owner." Alex kept his tone even, professional. "The bakery next door to Parcel 3B. She seems to think her 'sentimentality' will outweigh the deed."
Mark chuckled. "Ah, the local color. Send over the property details. We'll have our legal team draft an acquisition offer. Nothing too aggressive, initially. We want to avoid bad press if possible. Then, if she digs in, we escalate."
"Exactly," Alex said, already typing out an email. "Get on it. I want a preliminary offer on her desk by end of business today. Fair market value, plus a twenty percent buffer for 'emotional distress'." He paused. "And make sure the legal brief clarifies the exact property line and our right of way access for construction. I don't want any surprises."
"Will do. Any thoughts on the overall aesthetic, now that you're on site?"
Alex looked out the window at the town square, the old gazebo, the bright green expanse of the common. It was all so… quaint. "Stick to the modern, minimalist design we discussed. But perhaps… explore some options for more integrated ground-level retail. Something that could, theoretically, accommodate smaller, local businesses. If they're willing to adapt." He thought of the bakery. A glass facade, maybe. Could open to the street. He dismissed the thought. She wasn't adapting.
"Understood. Maximize profitability, minimize friction. Got it," Mark said, oblivious to Alex's fleeting, uncharacteristic musing.
As he hung up, Alex took another sip of his coffee. He had meetings scheduled with the town council and a few local realtors that afternoon. He was here for business, for expansion, for the next big project that would cement Sterling Global's reputation. Willow Creek was just another dot on the map, a temporary stop.
He would handle Clara Mae Jensen and her charming little bakery. Swiftly. Efficiently. And then he would move on. After all, what could a baker in a small town truly do against the might of Sterling Global? He hadn't just picked a fight, as she claimed. He'd simply identified a small, insignificant obstacle. And Alexander Sterling always removed his obstacles.