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)
Of course, that hinges on everything going right, and I have to make this deadline.
Miraculously, I swerve into the hotel parking lot without the van breaking down.
No time for celebration.
After a quick chat with reception, I grab the first set of boxes and haul them into the conference room. Thankfully, it isn’t far from the main door.
To my surprise, Mr. Sweet Tooth stands in the conference room alone, leering over everything like a general surveying a battlefield.
He leans on the ginormous walnut table with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his lips slightly tilted and those cutting blue eyes ready to flay me open for the slightest error.
But I don’t think he sees me at first.
He doesn’t seem to hear the door or my panicked footsteps; he just stares out of the long, wall-length window overlooking the city basking in the sunset.
“Nobody else coming to the party yet? This is a lot for one guy,” I joke as I set down the first box.
He starts, whipping toward me with that familiar stormy scowl.
“Unbelievable. You’re five minutes late.” He taps his watch in case I’ve forgotten the concept of time. “Your desserts better be goddamned ambrosia. Where’s the rest?”
“Um, coming right up!” I say nervously, biting my tongue on adding you absolute jackwagon.
It takes him two seconds to realize it’s just me unloading the stuff.
To my surprise, he follows me outside to the van and helps grab the remaining boxes, stacking them high in his arms.
“Can’t believe people eat this stuff,” he growls once we’re back in the room, popping open a lid and checking out its contents—Nana’s famous strudel bites. “It’s begging for diabetes. There are places where sugar bombs like this get a sin tax.”
Yikes, talk about opening a can of worms.
“So, what? You think no one should ever be allowed a little sugar?” I ask flatly.
“In any sane world, it’d be a controlled substance enforced by DEA troopers. If I were dictator for a day, I’d ban the shit entirely.”
…he’s mighty serious about a world without glucose, isn’t he?
And I wonder how a man this painfully handsome wound up with the world’s biggest stick lodged up his ass.
“You’re hilarious.” I stop what I’m doing and stare at him, trying to brush it off as a joke. He’s hot, sure, but clearly a little—okay, a lot—deranged. “Do you hear what you’re saying?”
“I know. I shouldn’t bother debating the merits with someone who makes a living peddling death salt.”
“Death salt? Excuse you?” One second later, I bite my tongue and sigh.
His glare cuts right through me.
For the love of everything holy, be nice.
Remember the money.
“Um, I mean… I’m a little confused. Help me out. You’re the one who ordered this stuff extra sweet, right?” I rip open another box a little too forcefully and frown at the raspberry and white chocolate cheesecakes inside. “Please don’t tell me you’re some sort of health freak.”
“If health freak means I actually take care of myself, then yes, sue me,” he snarls.
“Oh, that would be the day,” I huff under my breath.
His glare just got ten times hotter.
Putting all the samples out on the tables and arranging them neatly clearly isn’t his talent, so after I tidy them up a few times, he gives up and watches me with an unwavering stare that makes me sweat.
Dude, could you let up on the evil eye?
It’s a minor miracle I don’t drip all over the dessert spread.
When I turn around, he’s folding his arms. I hate the way the shirt tightens around his biceps like a second skin. Nope, not staring.
“You want to know the truth? If it was up to me, we’d have mandatory tracking and weekly workout times to offset every gram of this stuff,” he grouches, looking past me at the treats.
So, he’s not just a sugar-hating prick then—but a prick who’s anal enough to obsess over the metric system, too.
I ignore his insanity and step back to examine my handiwork. Not a bad presentation, if I do say so myself, especially considering the time crunch.
“Well, we’re lucky it’s not up to you. Too many control freaks already in power,” I say with a sunny smile I hope hides my total contempt. “Anyway, sorry about the five-minute delay. I’d be happy to knock fifty bucks off the price for your trouble.” I lay on the emphasis real thick and his scowl deepens. “But everything is here and customized to your liking.” A smirk escapes before I can bite it back. “I mean… clearly not to your liking. But customized to your order, I should say.”
His eyes flick around the room, probably searching for something else he can blame me for.
He looks like that kind of walking horse dick.
Nothing’s ever good enough. There’s always something to complain about.
But there’s nothing wrong with what I’ve put out—I triple-checked—and after a breathless minute, he nods. Grudgingly.