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’ve almost had enough time to settle into the accounts and start crunching numbers for real when Emmy knocks on the door I’ve left cracked open.
“Junie,” she says hesitantly.
“What’s up? Didn’t I say I have a hot date with a calculator?” I call back, trying not to groan. I’m so close to finishing this quarterly crap and being able to focus on something besides profit margins and expenses that finally have a shred of breathing space. “This better be important.”
“It’s him. The guy from a couple of days ago…” she says too quietly. Her blue eyes are hesitant as she looks up at me. “You know. Big Fish.”
Oh my God.
It’s crazy that with just one ridiculously bear-sized order and awful attitude, they’ve given him a nickname.
“Shit.” I thread my fingers through my hair, tugging the resistant strands out and staring at them, red and worn in my grip.
Why the hell is he back?
Did he realize he grossly overtipped and now he’s here to correct the error?
Holy crap, no. My stomach knots.
But what if it’s even worse? If the food somehow made his big boss sick…
I do the calculations in my head.
It was three days ago now when I presented the food to this man with all the pomp of a Roman emperor. Plenty of time for his big boss to get sick and for him to take the brunt of the abuse—and to figure out how to make my life miserable.
“I don’t suppose you can tell him I’m out?” I ask.
Of course, I can’t ask her to hide me.
Letting her or Jake deal with him wouldn’t be fair or wise. Even if it’s amazingly tempting right now.
“Junie…”
“Relax, I’m coming, I’m coming.” I drag myself up from my chair and follow her to the front.
He’s standing by the counter with the same terrifying maleness as before.
It’s like every single thing about him is designed to shock and awe the primitive part of my brain, reminding me the customer from hell looks like a scary-hot man’s man.
And dammit, my very confused body likes it for some unholy reason.
He gives me what might even pass for a smile as I take my place behind the counter.
“Hi,” I force out, not trying for the breezy placating customer voice I went for last time.
If he’s here and pissed off, he’ll know better, anyway. I sassed him before, after all.
I cringe internally.
“Juniper Winkley, is it?” he asks, reading my name tag. “Nice to see you again.”
Nice? Nice?
I don’t believe this guy finds anything about me ‘nice,’ but he delivers the line with such practiced sincerity, I almost believe it.
Then I come to my senses and wonder what he’s up to.
My eyes narrow as I clear my throat.
“Um, yes.” I fumble over what to say next and settle for, “Thank you?”
“I didn’t thank you properly before.” He smiles, this time wider than before and fake as hell.
Oh, man.
It doesn’t reach his eyes, but there’s something charming about it anyway. Even if he’s just putting on a show, it’s nice to see a face that handsome set to something besides perma-scowl.
He has good teeth, too, perfectly set and very white.
The better to eat you with, my dear.
“Anyway, I really appreciate the effort you put into the sampler.” He hands me a business card with Dexter Rory blazing across it in gold letters. Underneath, I see the words Higher Ends International. “My associate was especially impressed with everything you delivered.” There’s something actually warm in his voice now, and I straighten. Did he just say impressed? “I came by because I was hoping we could meet later, after the bakery closes.”
Meet? After close?
Oh, hell. Is he asking me on a date?
Then again, I’ve never had a man give me his business card when he’s asking me on a date before, but he doesn’t exactly look like he knows how it works in the real world.
“I have a proposal,” he says when I hesitate.
Like he can see the panic in my face, his jaw twitches and his smile dims a little.
“A business proposal for you,” he corrects, nodding at the card in my hand. “A lucrative opportunity for both of us.”
“Oh. Oh, right, a business proposition,” I murmur, giving myself time to think. “Okay. Yes. I can do that.”
“When do you close?”
Calm down, down.
“We close at six on the weekdays,” I tell him. Just in case his privileged ass has forgotten that most people work during weekdays and need to get home for the evening to do it all again the next day. “If you want to come back around six-thirty, we can discuss your—opportunity.”
“Six-thirty sharp. See you then.” He nods, his smile gone, and heads back out the door.
Whoa.
It’s weird that he looks more like a guardian angel than a swinging dick.
That’s how I know my mind is going to very weird places.