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)
Fuck, fuck.
What are you doing?
Digging my own grave in grand style, I guess.
I stare at him, waiting for a scolding the second he catches the lie, but he just raises his thick eyebrows.
“Fiancée?”
Dry-mouthed, I nod.
“That sweet redhead from earlier?”
My teeth grind together.
I’m sure she’s anything but sweet once you get to know her, but I can’t tell him that when I’m busy shoving my entire foot in my mouth.
So I nod again like the jackass I am and say, “She’s a firecracker. Really puts her passion into everything.”
I hope it’s enough to shut him up.
“She certainly brought a little fire today.” Haute mimes spanking something in midair, and amazingly, it’s possible to despise him even more. “You’re a lucky man, Dexter Rory.”
Yes, a very unlucky, stunningly stupid asshole.
What sort of idiot claims they’re engaged to a woman they’ve met once—a woman he doesn’t even like—just to close a sale?
This guy, apparently.
And it’s so fucking asinine I almost laugh hysterically at myself right here. Who knew signing my own death warrant could be so amusing?
“Yep,” I grind out. “Couldn’t be luckier.”
What’s one more lie on the pile? The funeral pyre?
Whatever else happens, I better seal this deal.
“I can’t wait to meet her when the time comes to iron out details,” Haute says, extending a thick hand. It’s an oddly limp shake for a man who’s built like a rhinoceros, but I don’t give a shit when we’re shaking over the Mill. “You’ll have to introduce us. Certainly, keep bringing me more of these delicious desserts.”
There’s no way in hell he’s ever meeting her, but that’s a tomorrow problem.
Now, I just have to figure out how much I’ll need to spend on these damn sugar licks masquerading as desserts, on top of whatever it costs to un-fuck my life.
Which means more run-ins with that insufferable woman.
My ‘fiancée.’
Proof that I’m in the running for world’s biggest idiot ass-clown.
3
NO SWEET SUCKER (JUNIPER)
There’s nothing better than a good barbecue sandwich.
This one has everything: coleslaw, roasted peppers, sautéed mushrooms, caramelized onions, and of course, enough meat to put me into a mini coma.
I might be a bakery girl, but there’s no denying I love a good chunk of pulled pork. In this city, good barbecue is practically a religion.
Put a spatula in my hand and turn me loose over a grill and I couldn’t be happier. It takes me back to the old days, back when my dad showed me how to grill. I was the son he always wanted.
Before he snapped and left, I mean.
But that’s a whole boatload of trauma for another time, so I focus on the way the barbecue sauce runs down my cheek as I take a nice big bite.
“You’ve got a little something…” Emmy breaks away as I look at her. “You know what? Never mind. You look perfect.”
“Good answer, Emmy.” I toss my hair back in an exaggerated gesture that makes her laugh while I blot my face with a napkin. Jake’s too busy stuffing his face to smile, but he’s definitely happier ever since I announced lunch was on me today.
All thanks to Mr. Dexter Rory and his fancy credit card. Dealing with his rotten attitude paid off, for once. The tip he left—
Sweet baby Jesus.
I shake my head at my sandwich in memory.
I hate to admit it, but the guy was generous. The order left me enough money to take the van in with plenty left over for other disasters.
I’m already eying a new computer and a few other neglected upgrades. Like lunch for everyone today.
Best thing of all, knowing he’s a rich, traveling jerkwad, I’ll never have to see his arrogant—and irritatingly attractive—face again.
Jake sighs in delight as he finishes his sandwich and uses his napkin to wipe his mouth. “That was awesome. So much better than my mom’s homemade sandwiches.”
The homemade sandwiches in question lie abandoned on one of the tables. Cling-wrapped and soggy, they’re possibly the least appetizing thing I’ve seen all day.
“Gross.” Emmy pulls a face.
“You’re telling me. Who thinks cream cheese and a pickle needs jelly on it?” He groans and lets his head flop down. “You’re a lifesaver, Junie.”
“Speaking of saving lives, it’s time for me to get back to the accounts.”
“That,” Emmy says firmly, “is the least lifesavey thing I’ve ever heard.”
I ruffle her hair as I pass. She’s a good kid.
Most businesses claim they’re a family, but this place really feels like it sometimes. Sarah and Jake are busy saving up for college; Emmy’s trying to get her art career off the ground and working part-time to cover costs, and then there’s me, desperately holding it all together.
The computer whines to life with less complaining than usual today. When I open the dreaded spreadsheets, they don’t feel so miserable after all.
In fact, I almost feel—
Okay, light might be an exaggeration. But when I look up at the pictures of Nana on the walls and the way the store was back when she was kicking butt, I feel like less of a failure.