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)
They’re polite, though, I’ll give them that. Efficient, too, serving the people ahead of me with orderly movements.
The girl’s eyes widen the second she sees me.
I barely have enough time to read her name tag. Emmy.
“Hello, Emmy,” I say, leaning on the counter and forcing something that resembles a smile. “I’m here to see your boss, Miss Winkley.”
Emmy swallows and glances over her shoulder to the back, where a mess of red hair is clearly visible through the window. The door’s ajar and looks almost buckled. Heat and time have really done a number on this place.
“Um, you’ll have to try another day. Junie—Miss Winkley—she’s not in right now,” she says after a second, panic flashing in her eyes.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s liars trying to save their own asses. Possibly because it’s like looking into a mirror.
I hold my fire, knowing if I snap at her, she’ll probably cry.
Unlike Miss Winkley, who would love to give me a piece of her mind.
“Sorry,” the boy says, joining the girl at the register. “You heard her, Miss Winkley’s not here.”
Like hell.
Obviously, they’ve been given their orders, and they’re executing them like loyal little minions.
Fine.
“I’ll come back when she’s available,” I mutter, not bothering with another phony smile.
I’ll wait all goddamned day if I need to.
Emmy blinks and the boy—Jake, I think his tag says—scowls at me.
“Is there a better time when she’s available?” I ask.
“Um, she’s been out a lot lately. Crazy busy!” the boy calls after me. “Calling might be better. You might not want to waste another trip—”
“Oh, believe me, I want to,” I say with a violent wave of my hand. “Until next time.”
When I come back the next day, I notice several letters on the neon sign are burned out.
The whole place needs a makeover fast.
It’s perfectly clean, yes, but damned near everything except the bakery cases are worn and dated.
The Sugar Bowl needs real investment if it’s going to stay above water. Sweet Stuff herself must know—and that gives me an idea.
I make a small mental inventory as I head to the counter, taking my sweet time. The lights are antiquated, the stainless-steel appliances are dull and scratched, the overall aesthetic is old.
The floor needs some serious refinishing, too. The counter has a few ugly chips on its side. The whole color scheme looks like it was last updated before the turn of the century. It feels like a bad trip back to the nineties.
A few new tables and chairs would help while they’re waiting to renovate the rest of the space. The window also needs a facelift, if not replacement, judging by the mottled-looking glass.
That’s not even mentioning the back, which is—if the front is anything to go by—probably clean to a fault but extremely dated. Their equipment should be replaced before it starts a fire.
My jaw tightens.
Yeah, this is going to be one hell of a job, assuming they don’t have the capital. And considering they haven’t made a start, I already have my answer.
I reach the counter and don’t bother making small talk with Jake. There’s no point, considering he’s eyeing me like he wants to find out how to eviscerate me with a spatula.
He should meet Archer. They’d get along fine.
“Dude. She’s not here,” he says sharply before I say one word. “We told you, she’s out.”
“Okay, listen, dude.” I spread my hands flat on the counter. “I’m here to see Miss Winkley and I know she’s back there. I can see her.”
By the sound of it, she can hear me, too, because she grabs that beat-up door and mashes it shut.
Rather, she tries.
The door squeals like it’s being murdered and the latch pops right open again two seconds after it’s shut.
“Take a hint. She doesn’t want to see you,” Jake says, coughing. “Sorry.”
He’s not sorry. Not even close.
The kid looks like he’s enjoying exerting some real authority, even if it’s by proxy for the most stubborn woman on the planet.
Fuck me.
“I want to place an order then,” I say. “For the office, delivery later today. Can you handle that?”
“Order? What for?” Jake’s nose wrinkles suspiciously.
“To eat, obviously.” I pull out my credit card, flashing it in the light to prove I’m serious. “Your products are delicious, even if your service is lacking.”
The kid squints at me like he’s ready for a brawl.
“I know. Everyone says that about our stuff,” Jake says, a hint of a smirk in his voice, ignoring my service comment.
Everyone with a dozen cavities, I’m sure. Still, if I’m going to win them over, then I need to pretend these little globs of sugary death are God’s gift to humankind.
“Guess they’re right. I know a man who’d crawl over broken glass for this stuff,” I say. “Let’s do another sampler scaled down, and this time go with the standard sweetness.”