Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
“Of course I want to know. I told you, that’s the next step,” he snaps. “But you need to let me handle this.”
“But it’s my bakery, Dex.”
“Exactly my point. Fuck, Junie, I don’t even know if the Sugar Bowl is safe if Haute’s hiding something illegal in your desserts. Bare minimum, you’ll face some probing investigation if this goes all the way to the authorities. And that’s just if the police get involved. If Haute knows you’re onto him before we get that far…”
He doesn’t need to finish.
Every Scorsese mafia movie whips through my brain. It’s too easy imagining guys with semi-autos showing up and turning me into Swiss cheese, or Dexter blowing up in his car the minute the engine starts.
How is this happening? In all her years running things, Nana never had a brush with the mob.
“Dexter, don’t do this. Please.”
“I need to know you’re safe.” The corner of his mouth pulls down. I look at it, because looking into his eyes—and the tortured expression there—hurts too much. I can’t afford to have that change my mind. “I can’t have you getting mixed up in some shit like this. The second I have a better idea what we’re dealing with, I’ll go to the police. There’s a cop I know, a damned good one who served with me once.”
“Okay. I just… I thought we were in this together.”
“We are,” he says gruffly, taking my hand.
“Apart from when you make decisions and expect me to follow along, right?” I don’t mean to sound like a bitch when he’s just trying to keep me safe.
I really don’t.
I just need to know he isn’t leaping into danger alone.
He takes my hand in his and holds me tight. “Promise you’ll let me take care of this. Tell me you trust me, Sweet Stuff.”
This argument is different.
He just doesn’t get it.
It doesn’t sting so much as it aches. A bone-deep ache that has a direct line to my tear ducts.
“This isn’t about me. This is the Sugar Bowl,” I tell him, my voice choking despite my best efforts.
God, would it be so difficult for me to not cry just once when I’m confronting someone?
“Junie—”
“It’s my business, Dexter. If anyone’s going to take care of this, it should be me.” I yank my hand from his and grab my poor crumpled cupcake box.
Dexter doesn’t say another word.
He just throws me another brooding look as I storm out of the car and back into the store.
The park looks busy for this time of day.
I watch through the windshield, idly sifting through the pile of crumbs for another plate as old men walk their dogs, mothers push their strollers, and young couples glide along the paths hand in hand. In the distance, the pond glints in the sunlight.
The ache in my chest doesn’t ease up one bit.
That argument hurt like hell, almost as much as the big reveal.
It’s not that I’m not used to arguing. I used to bicker with Nana all the time when we lived together. Near the end, Liam and I would have blowout fights over the smallest things. There’d be radio silence until I came back with an apology.
Not this time.
Dexter’s heart might be in the right place, but this is my business and I’m not letting him go it alone.
This is my life being messed with.
And if Haute’s threatening me, I need to know what’s going on so I can take it straight to the police. I have a right to the truth and an obligation to protect my people as their boss.
My phone buzzes with another text from Dexter, who’s probably figured out I’m not at the Sugar Bowl anymore. We’ll talk again tonight. When will you be home?
Maybe he went in and asked for me.
Another reason for the staff to gossip. It was bad enough that Sarah asked if I was okay before I went running out.
I push it out of my mind, though. That’s not the issue here.
Right now, the issue is what Forrest Haute is doing with my desserts.
With my mind made up, I head over to the clubhouse. It’s an obnoxiously large building, even more so now that I’m not here with Dexter, but I avoid the gilded front and head around to the back.
I’m more comfortable here.
The back of buildings like this has their beating heart, and it’s usually made up of normal people.
Custodians, cooks, delivery boys. It’s a hive of activity I recognize.
I park the van slightly back from the road and sit back, watching the loading doors. It’s a long shot, but the boxes were abandoned when Dexter was here, and I might get lucky.
If not, better luck next time.
No way am I letting Haute get away with using my goods to do—God only knows.
My phone lights up with another call.
Dexter must be more worked up than ever. Probably pissed off.