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)
“I wasn’t done,” he snaps.
I ball my fists under the table and take a deep breath.
Yeah, if he was anyone else, I’d be out the door by now, but we need this deal.
My pride can wait.
Even though there’s nothing I’d like better than to punch him in his smarmy face for holding me in suspense like a greedy hog and eating like one too.
“It’s good to experiment at my age. The only thing worse than making mistakes is being stagnant. It’s true in business and truer in life,” he continues.
Goddamn, he better still be talking about the deal. The last thing I need is some kind of unhinged man-to-man chat. Maybe we should’ve sent Archer after all.
Anyone would be better at this than me. Even my little brother, Patton, who’s a notorious wild card.
Haute stares at the pastries—what’s left of them, anyway. I’m sure I bought enough to feed twenty people and he’s reduced them to crumbs.
“Anyway, yes, I think we might have a future, Rory.” He looks at me slowly like he knows I’m already aware he’s about to ask for something ridiculous. “Especially on one condition—you make these delights part of the new property.”
“These delights—” My brain stutters and my mouth clamps shut.
He cannot be fucking serious.
Right?
Then again, when has the man ever cracked a joke? Or even smiled, minus the times he’s delighting in someone’s suffering?
He smiled at the baker girl, though. I noticed that.
And I inwardly cringe because his enormous appetites likely don’t stop at food.
No doubt he thought she was cute—though she won’t be sweet enough for his tastes. Not if she gives him the same passive-aggressive treatment she gave me, and I’m sure she was holding back.
“Rory, Rory. Don’t tell me you’re about to disappoint me,” he says when I hesitate too long. That dead-eyed glare is harder than nails.
Shit, think fast.
“I don’t believe in disappointing our partners,” I tell him. Back to business, because that’s all I know. Even if this is strange, unfamiliar territory and the summer heat must be creeping in through the air-conditioned building with the sweat rolling down the back of my neck. “Whatever you propose, I’m sure we can make it happen.”
He holds my gaze a second too long, reminding me that he wields all the power here. He’s also not buying a single word I’m saying.
Hurry, hurry. Think.
“Are you psychic, Mr. Haute?” I blather, with no clear idea what I’m going to say next. All I know is I can’t blow this deal over a few goddamned cupcakes. “It just so happens we’re finalizing plans to have a full complement of Sugar Bowl desserts—plus an on-demand menu—added to all our Kansas City properties.”
Fuck.
My mouth is moving, but it can’t comprehend what I’m sentencing myself to.
Now I’ll have to work with that awful woman again and tell her we need more of her baking. After telling her how much I loathe sugar and making it clear this was a one-time bit of insanity.
Haute smiles broadly.
I hate him and his mammoth fucking sweet tooth that has me lying through my teeth.
“Amazing. You must be as big a fan of these treats as I am,” he says with more of that smarmy, layered charm that makes me want to slug him.
“More than a fan!” I lie smoothly. The sweat on the back of my neck seeps lowers, wetting my collar. It’s like my body senses where this is going before my brain does. “The Sugar Bowl has been around since before I was born”—though I’m fucked if I can remember when, even if she told me—“so you know it’s good. I’d be a fool to leave them out of the spotlight.”
“It’s rare when something lives up to its hype, yes.” His gaze flicks to me, more curious than ever. “Can you really make that happen with all your properties, Rory? It’s a tall order for such a small local shop, isn’t it? You don’t have to exaggerate on my account.”
But I do.
The sensible thing to do would be to back down or walk back the promise to just the Mill as soon as it’s in our hands. But I’ve never been that sensible.
When I go all in, it’s balls to the walls.
I need him to believe me.
My eyes search the room frantically, staring at the paintings on the wall.
A man on horseback and his white dog, gazing into a hundred-year-old red sunset.
A woman at work, what looks like a maid prepping a tall cake in a butler’s pantry.
An abstract wedding scene, a century out of style again, the happy couple embracing in front of a faceless crowd.
It’s the last painting that sticks in my brain and immediately short-circuits it.
“I wouldn’t dare overpromise, Mr. Haute,” I say. “I have my ways. It’s easy when my lovely fiancée runs the Sugar Bowl these days.”