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)
Jake might be a kid, but he’s got a decent head on his shoulders. He negotiates the biggest deal he can, offering me one of those ancient card readers to pay at the end.
At least when the order turns up, Juniper Winkley should be there with that old van of hers. Then we can talk.
If I can just show her how much she’ll benefit from working with me, along with this store, I’ll have her.
“Bye!” Jake says, irritatingly chipper as he waves me off.
It’s amazing what a few dollars can do.
Also, he’s not the only one feeling lighter. I actually crack a smile as I pass under the flickering sign and drive back to the office.
She doesn’t bring the damn order.
Emmy, the girl with the dark hair and glasses that slip down her nose when she’s driving, shows up and hauls it inside while I watch. Three boxes bulging with shit I can’t choke down to save my life.
Fantastic.
“Thanks for your order,” she tells me nervously, eyeing me like I’m about to bite her face off.
“Plan on another visit,” I clip.
Everyone in the office will love me, at least from Sylvia the secretary to the service reps and interns running on a steady diet of caffeine and pure sugar.
So will Juniper by proxy. I fucking hope.
“Oh, wow, really? Okay!” Emmy says, her smile widening as I sign the receipt and write in a large tip. “Any idea when you want the next?”
“Tomorrow.” It’s not like I have much time to waste in the convincing department.
“Oh, great. See you tomorrow, then!”
Dammit, I want the order, but not this bright-eyed kid.
“Actually, I hoped you might send Miss Winkley personally next time instea—”
“Bye!” With a quick flip of her hair, the door swings open. She bolts to the van like there’s a pack of angry Dobermans behind her.
I stand there with my jaw open, too slack-jawed and stunned to curse.
There it is.
Proof positive that the universe means to pay me back horribly for my foot-in-mouth disease and nothing—absolutely nothing—is going to go as planned.
I give it three days.
Three whole days of impatiently ordering food I despise and waiting for her to show up in the flesh, only for Juniper Winkley to freeze me out like the arctic ice witch she is.
By day four, I’m done waiting.
I’m done trying to talk nice with her, too.
If she won’t meet me while I’m paying a princely sum for her pastries, then I’ll say what I need to in a letter sweetened with a check.
A disgustingly large check worth more than any big wad of sugar ever churned out of her shop.
I almost reconsider this idiocy, but I can’t.
There’s no talking my way out of an engagement I flippantly announced to a man with our future in his greedy hands.
If I blow this deal with Forrest Haute, his big mouth could easily do collateral damage, too. Word gets around in this biz, especially when you’re rising stars in the Kansas City rental market.
So I seal the damn envelope with the check and stick it in my car. She has to come out of that store sometime, and when she does, I’ll be there.
Not to talk to her, of course.
Clearly, she isn’t into that.
If she’ll just take the money and buy her store some help, we’ll all be better off.
I pull up outside the Sugar Bowl and kill the engine.
Five minutes to six p.m., which means I shouldn’t miss her.
She’s not the type to leave early. It’s too easy to imagine her cleaning or hunched over an ancient computer in the back office or maybe a battered old stack of recipe books, combing their pages like a proper ice witch looking for lost culinary magic.
She has a work ethic, at least.
When six o’clock hits, I see a shadowy figure approach the glass door, swinging the Open sign to Closed. The neon lights flicker off.
Just like I thought.
Now I just need to wait for her to leave, either through the front door or the little side door that leads down the alley to the back of the building.
A couple minutes later, as I’m settling in for the long haul, an older woman stops in front of the store and glances up at the sign. The lady squints at it like she’s trying to decide if this is the right address.
I sit up straight.
If she even thinks about—
Without even a second’s hesitation, she pushes her way through the door and heads inside.
Fuck, that does it.
I do not have time for this.
If Sweet Stuff has time for a casual visitor or some Jenny-come-lately picking up a cake, then she absolutely has time for a giant idiot who’s busting his balls to pay for her products just to jack up his employees’ A1C scores and pray for an audience with her highness.
“Ready or not,” I mutter, “here the fuck I come.”