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“I don’t believe in disappointing our partners,” I tell him. Back to business, because that’s all I know. Even if this is strange, unfamiliar territory and the summer heat must be creeping in through the air-conditioned building with the sweat rolling down the back of my neck. “Whatever you propose, I’m sure we can make it happen.”
He holds my gaze a second too long, reminding me that he wields all the power here. He’s also not buying a single word I’m saying.
Hurry, hurry. Think.
“Are you psychic, Mr. Haute?” I blather, with no clear idea what I’m going to say next. All I know is I can’t blow this deal over a few goddamned cupcakes. “It just so happens we’re finalizing plans to have a full complement of Sugar Bowl desserts—plus an on-demand menu—added to all our Kansas City properties.”
Fuck.
My mouth is moving, but it can’t comprehend what I’m sentencing myself to.
Now I’ll have to work with that awful woman again and tell her we need more of her baking. After telling her how much I loathe sugar and making it clear this was a one-time bit of insanity.
Haute smiles broadly.
I hate him and his mammoth fucking sweet tooth that has me lying through my teeth.
“Amazing. You must be as big a fan of these treats as I am,” he says with more of that smarmy, layered charm that makes me want to slug him.
“More than a fan!” I lie smoothly. The sweat on the back of my neck seeps lowers, wetting my collar. It’s like my body senses where this is going before my brain does. “The Sugar Bowl has been around since before I was born”—though I’m fucked if I can remember when, even if she told me—“so you know it’s good. I’d be a fool to leave them out of the spotlight.”
“It’s rare when something lives up to its hype, yes.” His gaze flicks to me, more curious than ever. “Can you really make that happen with all your properties, Rory? It’s a tall order for such a small local shop, isn’t it? You don’t have to exaggerate on my account.”
But I do.
The sensible thing to do would be to back down or walk back the promise to just the Mill as soon as it’s in our hands. But I’ve never been that sensible.
When I go all in, it’s balls to the walls.
Ineedhim to believe me.
My eyes search the room frantically, staring at the paintings on the wall.
A man on horseback and his white dog, gazing into a hundred-year-old red sunset.
A woman at work, what looks like a maid prepping a tall cake in a butler’s pantry.
An abstract wedding scene, a century out of style again, the happy couple embracing in front of a faceless crowd.
It’s the last painting that sticks in my brain and immediately short-circuits it.
“I wouldn’t dare overpromise, Mr. Haute,” I say. “I have my ways. It’s easy when my lovely fiancée runs the Sugar Bowl these days.”
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.
