“Which part?” I ask, stopping in front of her. “The part where you nearly caught your kitchen on fire?”
“I don’t burn things…usually,” she grumbles.
“Or why you failed to mention you lived next door? Or did you forget that little fact every time we talked?”
Her cheeks are almost the color of the red maple outside, although that also might be from the heat in this upstairs apartment. I open the window that faces my house just to get some airflow.
“I burned the cupcakes because…I fell asleep,” she admits. “I never heard the timer. I woke up to the sound of the smoke alarm.”
I study her for a second. She has dark circles under her eyes and her skin has that colorless look of someone who’s running on fumes. “You’ve been baking all day…and night,” I conclude.
She stares at the ground. “Not all night. I took a two-hour nap.”
“You could have burned this place down,” I tell her. I keep my voice steady, but inside, I’m rattled.
“I know,” she says, moving toward the sink where she soaks the cupcake trays in water. “This is only temporary until I get a bigger kitchen in my own bakery.”
“How soon is that?” I ask.
“As soon as I save enough money,” she says, which means it could be years down the road. Right now, she can’t even afford a new espresso machine, much less a storefront.
“Maybe you should stop working so hard. Are you sleeping enough? When did you last eat?” I notice the way she’s swaying slightly on her feet. Before she can protest, I’m already rummaging through her small kitchen. I find a protein bar and a water bottle. “You can’t run on frosting and coffee.”
“I sleep…when I can.” Her eyes land on my forearms when I hand her the bottle. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” I say, stepping next to her sink and filling it with soapy water to soak the pans. “I’m helping you. Why haven’t you rented a place for your business?”
“I can’t afford it,” she says flatly as she takes a sip of water.
“You know there are waysto get the money you need. Business grants, loans. Legitimate sources of money for small business owners.”
She leans against the counter as she eats her protein bar. “No one would loan me money. Since Mom died so quickly, there are bills I’m still trying to pay off, and I don’t have any credit,” she says with a defeated shrug.
I shake my head. “You can’t keep doing this.” The thought of her here alone, exhausted, nearly setting the place on fire—it does something to me. “Do you have someone helping you?”
She shakes her head. “If I do that, it’ll take me even longer to save enough for my store. I can’t pay anyone, and it’s not like people will volunteer to help me…”
“I can help you.”
“You?” she asks, studying me intently. “You’re a handyman.”
“I enjoy working with my hands. And I’ve learned a lot about business from my grandfather and dad.”
“So you work for them?”
“No, my grandfather passed away,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “But my father wants me to work for the family business eventually.”
“Well, it does seem strange that you’re a handyman who wears really nice dress shoes.”
“Almost as strange as the fact that I still don’t know why you were sneaking through the fence,” I deflect.
She begins cleaning up the flour on the counter, thinking as she sweeps the crumbs into a rag. “Well, I don’t tell strangers where I live. Sometimes you don’t know who you can trust.”
“Then what do you want to know about me? I’m an open book. You can even check my phone—see my search history, who I chat with.” I hold out my phone.
She just stares at it. “You’re giving me access to your phone?”
I nod. “The passcode is my birthday. 0-4-0-5.”
