Sugar Baby by Erin Pim

Chapter One
    â€œI’m sorry, Miss McClaire. The bank is unable to offer you a loan at this time.”
    â€œReally?” I reply, disbelieving. “But, I have perfect credit. And a full business plan. And I’ve literally been with this bank over twenty years.”
    â€œYes, we’ve reviewed your application. I’m sorry, Miss McClaire.”
    â€œBut...” I say, legitimately not understanding how I could not be eligible. “It’s not a huge loan. It’s only a small part of what I’ve saved up already...”
    â€œWell, it is a considerable amount, considering you don’t have any equity in a home, or a partner’s income to support debt repayment.” He shuffles in his chair, perhaps not used to being grilled like this. “Do you perhaps have a family member, or a friend that could help you out, instead?”
    â€œThere’s really no way that I could obtain this loan? What about a smaller amount?” I ask, ignoring his question.
    â€œIt’s possible you would be eligible for a smaller loan, if you would like to go through the process again. But, if you would need to supplement that amount anyway, you may just want to consider asking a family member or...”
    â€œAlright. Thanks.” I say sharply, standing. Then, realizing my rudeness, I add a softer, “Thank you. Thanks for your time.”
    â€œYou’re welcome, Miss McClaire.” He rises to shake my hand. I take it, forcing a defeated smile.
    I walk against an unseasonably cool fall wind, towards Rigatoni’s. I have to grip a ponytail of my dyed auburn hair in my hand to deter it from slashing about my face, and grip my light jacket tighter. When I arrive, I see in a mirror by the door, that my usually fair complexion has turned rosy at the nose and cheeks. I feel the warmth of the heater as I enter the bistro, and pause briefly to shake off the chill. The independently owned restaurant has a welcoming atmosphere featuring rustic wood paneling, traditional Italian music, and a red tin ceiling. A very similar feeling to the cafe I would like to own.
    â€œCool one, today!” A gentlemen already sitting at the bar with an espresso says to me, and I nod curtly, quickly walking past him. I recognize his striking jawline and attractively greying temples as someone who comes in fairly often, but I’m not employed in the front of house for a reason. I’m a young, good looking woman, yes, but I have little patience for drooling male regulars. In fact, I long for my chef’s jacket and cap, where I feel I have the best chance of being taken seriously. Especially with the events of today, I wouldn’t know where to begin, in hiding my annoyance in front of customers. I push through the homey dining room and fireplace, past the swinging doors, and into the kitchen. The stainless steel of my pastry station glistens, momentarily reflecting the florescent light back to me, almost as if winking. Instantly, I feel better. I place my things in the change room, button up a freshly laundered white chef’s coat, and take extra care pinning my hair under my chef’s cap. I grab an apron, and head back out to the kitchen.
    Only then, do the other cooks begin to arrive. Jeremy, the tall and lanky sous chef, spouts a casual, “Hey, Kat,” as he walks past in his civvies. He’s a really nice guy, and handsome in his own way, but has a much more casual approach to this job than I do. He has a lot of natural ability, and often coasts on it. In fact, he looks a little stoned this morning, perhaps from a wake and bake.
    â€œHey Jer.” I make a point of arriving early, not only to get a good start on my prep, but also to avoid changing in front of the guys, as there is no female washroom for the kitchen staff. I’m already kneading the breads for the day, when the head chef walks in. He’s a harsh looking man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, with a closely