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If Haute hadn’t roped her into his supply chain—ifIhadn’t gotten involved with her and the risk was just ours—I might have shrugged off my doubts.
Archer’s reports might make more sense.
I might not feel like I’m crawling out of my skin.
Business is all about risk, that’s nothing new.
But not Junie. I won’t risk her family legacy and everything she’s toiled over on a hunch.
“This meeting’s gone on long enough. I need to go,” I say, pushing up from the table.
Archer stares at me, but I don’t offer an explanation. He doesn’t know how far the thing with Junie has gone, and I don’t need him to.
“If you guys find anything new, let me know ASAP.”
“Someone’s in a hurry. Wonder why?” Patton gives me a wide shit-eating smile as I pass him, but I don’t take the bait. There’s no time today.
Outside, the sky opens up and dumps a steady summer rain on my head.
I walk past my Tesla and choose a nondescript company car. Just in case I do find anything, I don’t want anyone to notice me.
Before I set off, I check my phone, but Junie hasn’t texted.
Looks like she got the memo about keeping our distance.
There’s an empty itch under my skin, hating that she’s given up on me even though that’s what I demanded.
Fucking hell, I’m going to be sick.
As I pull out, I try to forget all about Junie on my way to the Sugar Bowl. I arrive just in time for the delivery boys.
They show up in a white van that isn’t sporting a logo from the golf course or anything else. Odd, but certainly not damning.
Two guys climb out, laughing and joking like any working class stiff on a long shift.
They’re more boys than men—I’d peg them as being in their early twenties. Broad-shouldered, but normal enough.
They look like they work out, though they’re not the hulking human Dobermans I was subconsciously expecting in my mafia nightmares.
Still, I make a mental note of their faces.
One guy has cropped brown hair. Army-style, the kind I recognize right away. Average face, no distinctive features, around my height, minus a few inches.
The other is blond. Tattoos crawl down his right arm. He’s built like a runner, long and lanky.
I check the time on the dash. Midmorning.
Junie comes out the back and helps the guys load her stuff into the van. She looks totally at home with them, her hair long and loosely tied back, her sleeves rolled up in the heat.
From the way they look at her, they’ve noticed she’s a sweeter treat than anything in those pink boxes.
Focus, asshole. You didn’t come here to let your jealousy blow it.
It takes them a few trips to get everything inside, hauling the boxes in stacks. It’s a mix of pastries and cookies, plus a couple cakes, if I recall right from our conversations. Junie hands them to the tattooed guy and gives him a diplomatic smile.
This caveman urge to make everyone know she’s taken storms my blood, throwing jagged thoughts around my head.
Mine, mine.
