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“A lot of traybakes. My family lives in England and they sent me recipes for millionaire’s shortbread and rocky road. Have you ever made it?”
“I can’t say I have,” Junie admits.
“Oh, it’s delicious, and such a hit with the children! If you’re ever looking to expand your kids’ menu, you could do a lot worse.”
It’s almost weird watching them getting along like this.
Like adults. Like humans. Like it’s normal and there aren’t eight figures riding on this very tentative contract with a man who’s still fuckingstaring.
If it were just me, I might call Haute out on his shit anyway.
But it’s Patton and Archer and Colt’s future at stake. It’s the entire future and income potential of Higher Ends, which is why I need to keep a lid on my shit.
Junie’s so good at this it almost makes me uncomfortable. In fact, it makes me cling to calm.
She does that.
My beautiful fiancée, who reassures me with soothing words by day and wandering lips and hands by night. Proof that pretend can be easier than I ever imagined.
Maybe because we’re not pretending anymore.
Not entirely.
The thought I’ve been avoiding completely fucks me up the second I acknowledge it, and I force my attention to the glossy wood of the bar. The vibrant shine tells me this place is well maintained.
There are many things I hate about him, but the glutton in front of me has a certain standard he imposes. I can still respect that.
What I can’t respect is the way he stares at my woman over his glass every time he sips, looking at her like she’s his next snack.
The women are talking about Clara’s visits to distant cities and conservatories across the world to see rare plants. Junie keeps up the same enthusiasm that must have her feeling like an old friend, considering how easily Clara laughs.
Haute looks oddly disengaged, averting his eyes from the death glares I’m giving him, sipping an old fashioned that smells more like simple syrup than bourbon.
“They’re getting on well,” I say sharply, leaning toward him and steepling my fingers. “We should’ve done this a while ago.”
He grunts. “Yeah. Clara’s been a fan of your lady’s baking since that box showed up.”
“Hell, who isn’t?” I ask, knowing full well I haven’t been able to tolerate food that has the power to turn your teeth into Swiss cheese. “Another drink?”
“Sure. Straight whiskey. I’ll drink to what a lucky son of a bitch you are.”
I can’t even fake a smile at that.
I’m too shocked he can drink alcohol without sugar.
I walk to the bar and order two top-shelf whiskeys and bring them back.
“I didn’t know your Clara was a baking enthusiast,” I say, taking a pull off my drink.
Haute shrugs and glances at his wife, who’s busy talking about a trip to the Amazon rainforest years ago. Junie listens intently with a smile.
Most folks as strapped with work as she is might be jealous, listening to this rich woman prattle on about exuberant places and people she’s experienced.
Not Junie.
She hangs on every word, a hopeful gleam in her eyes like she knows she might still make it there herself someday.
You could easily take her, you loaded fuck.
