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)
“As ordered,” he admits. “Forget the discount, I’ll pay you in full.”
Holy crap.
I stagger back a step.
I’m not used to things going right.
“Great!” I shove the paper bill and the credit card reader at him before he can change his mind. He raises his eyebrows at the bulky plastic reader pushing fifteen years old.
Jerk.
I half expect him to make a pointed comment about convenience—and I would’ve been half tempted to take the cherry pie and shove his face in it—but he just scrawls a signature on the bill and jabs his black credit card in the reader like a knife.
Like he just can’t wait to get rid of me.
Right-o. The feeling is mutual.
While he stares at the screen and waits for it to finish processing at a speed slower than molasses, I stick my tongue out at the back of his head and that thick dark hair.
Childish, yes, but it makes me feel better.
Then the door opens.
We both look up to witness the Kingpin of All Money swaggering in.
He’s a bear of a man, probably in his fifties. Sweet Tooth is built and lean, yes, but he looks almost small compared to this older guy with thick limbs and a penguin belly.
Sweet Tooth immediately stops scowling. Oh, is he nervous?
Interesting.
So maybe Kingpin is Sweet Tooth’s boss or something?
Makes sense. Doesn’t every shark answer to a whale?
I turn back to face my tormenter with a saccharine smile.
“As you can see, everything’s here and perfectly in order,” I announce loudly while he gives me a look that tells me to scram. It’s kind of delicious, the way his eyebrows sink low above his eyes. They heat with a blue-fire rage he can’t indulge, not while he’s in front of this other guy. “And extra sweet, just like you asked for. I’m not sure if you have any allergies, but just to be sure, the items with nuts were baked separately and are off to the left, over there, and—”
“Yes,” Sweet Tooth clips through gritted teeth. “Understood, ma’am.”
Kingpin stares across the spread with raised eyebrows and a shit-eating grin on his face. “Rory, color me impressed! Or should I be thanking our lovely delivery gal?”
Sweet Tooth inhales sharply and glowers at me.
“Thanks,” he grinds out without an ounce of sincerity. “This all looks… great.”
Lame, dude.
You aren’t even trying.
I smile innocently.
“You don’t think it’s too sweet, do you?”
He shoves the bill into my chest and guides me to the door with one big hand pressed against my back.
I don’t even have time to glance back at Kingpin and find out whether he’s enjoying the cheesecake before Sweet Tooth practically picks me up and throws me out the door.
It closes behind him with a loud click!
“Jesus.” I turn around, rubbing my arm and yelling, “You’re welcome!”
Then I decide not to press my luck and beat it.
I get out of there as fast as I can without running.
It’s only when I’m back in the van that I bother looking at the signed receipt.
There’s a name scrawled across the bottom in a garish slash. Dexter Rory.
“All right,” I say, rubbing my face. “Let’s find out how crappy a tipper you are, Dexter Rory.”
I skim down to the tip line and my eyes nearly exit my face.
My jaw drops.
Well, crap.
2
ONE SWEET DEAL (DEXTER)
There are few things more disgusting than watching Forrest Haute stuffing his face.
That viral video of a baby hippo in a zoo enclosure turning into a literal poop factory while kids scream through the glass.
The six-week-old forgotten Philly steak sub I rediscovered once in the back of my fridge.
The latest celebrity slop from Twitter or X or whatever the hell they’re calling it these days—does the world really need a public debate on electric vehicles between a hotel heiress and a one-hit grunge rock wonder?
I don’t have a weak stomach. Hell, I could sit through any slasher flick with oceans of blood and not give two shits, but this devourer of worlds is making me sick.
It’s not the fact that his gut could make Santa jealous. The man must have three stomachs in one to put away his weight in cake, pastries, and endless cups of coffee heaped with the confectionary crack otherwise known as sugar.
No, it’s the way he eats—and it’s enough to put anyone off having dinner for a year.
He can’t be fully human. He’s able to unhinge his jaw a few extra inches to stuff half a caramel apple torte down his pie hole in one go. Maybe the lizard people are real after all.
At least one thing went right, though.
A real shocker after that bungling delivery girl took her sweet time piling this room with sweets I can barely stand smelling from ten feet away.
And apparently, my brothers were right on the money about Haute’s legendary sweet tooth. I wonder how he even stays conscious with the amount of sugar thickening his blood over the last twenty minutes.