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I just know these cupcakes were never meant to be eaten.
The small discs sit in my palm, sticky and menacing as tiny knives.
My hand shakes as I grab my phone, snapping a few photos for evidence.
I need to bring this back to Archer and Patton, but if Haute is using Junie’s goods to do something this shady, she needs to know ASAP.
Wiping my hands, I start the car and take off like mad.
This won’t be an easy conversation.
Too bad, Junie deserves honesty.
She also needs to end her business with Forrest Haute right the fuck now.
23
SWEET BETRAYAL (JUNIPER)
After the week we’ve had, the last thing I expect to see is Dexter turning up at the store in the middle of the day.
He’s not been seeking me out. In fact, it’s been the opposite.
Even when we’re in the same house together, he spends more time staring at a screen than at me, shuttering himself in his office to work.
I try not to be upset.
I knew what I was getting into—a crazy businessman with a beastly schedule. I’ve always just been a prop to help him land the deal of a lifetime.
That’s what I signed up for. There’s literally a contract with those terms, written by his lawyer in black ink and signed by yours truly.
Logically, he’s well within his rights to prioritize business over me.
The problem with logic is I don’t have to like it.
And I don’t.
I flipping hate the way my nerves still spark at the sight of him, suit rumpled and dark hair mussed.
I hate the way watching him perched in front of a computer through the glass door sends a rush of jealousy bolting through me.
I hate the fact that I’m folding my arms as he approaches, instantly defensive, even though it doesn’t make sense.
But isn’t that how it goes with instinct? You watch something precious as it falls apart and you try to protect your heart from the incoming blow.
You prepare for the worst, even if you know you don’t have a prayer of stopping it.
Okay, maybe that’s a little strong. Or maybe it’s just the cold truth.
He’s not about to tell me it’s over in front of everyone, of course, so I know it’s not that. He wouldn’t make this the time or place.
Sarah eyes us like a hawk. Oliver seems so distracted by the sight of Big Fish he’s dribbling coffee down his apron.
“Dexter,” I say, also hating the way his eyebrow rises at the sound of his full name. “What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
“Oh. Okay.” I smooth my finger over the bare spot where the ring is conspicuously absent. It’s in my pocket, weighing me down. “There’s a table in the corner—”
