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“Junie?” Dex whispers, eyeing me hard.
My hands ball into fists.
“He’s playing us,” I whisper. “That lyingfucker.”
“I know.”
“And I fell for it.”
“I’m going to find out what this means,” Dexter promises. “That’s the part we’re still missing. It’s fishy as hell, but I need to know exactly what he’s doing with these plates.”
“Count me in,” I hiss.
For a second, he stares at me, head cocked and eyes glowing. Then he tosses the metal discs on the dashboard and looks at me.
“Not a chance, Sweet Stuff.”
I blink at him. “Don’t say that like you don’t want to know what he’s doing with them, where they’re going.”
“Of course I want to know. I told you, that’s the next step,” he snaps. “But you need to let me handle this.”
“But it’smybakery, Dex.”
“Exactly my point. Fuck, Junie, I don’t even know if the Sugar Bowl is safe if Haute’s hiding something illegal in your desserts. Bare minimum, you’ll face some probing investigation if this goes all the way to the authorities. And that’s just if the police get involved. If Haute knows you’re onto him before we get that far…”
He doesn’t need to finish.
Every Scorsese mafia movie whips through my brain. It’s too easy imagining guys with semi-autos showing up and turning me into Swiss cheese, or Dexter blowing up in his car the minute the engine starts.
How is this happening? In all her years running things, Nana never had a brush with the mob.
“Dexter, don’t do this. Please.”
“I need to know you’re safe.” The corner of his mouth pulls down. I look at it, because looking into his eyes—and the tortured expression there—hurts too much. I can’t afford to have that change my mind. “I can’t have you getting mixed up in some shit like this. The second I have a better idea what we’re dealing with, I’ll go to the police. There’s a cop I know, a damned good one who served with me once.”
“Okay. I just… I thought we were in this together.”
“We are,” he says gruffly, taking my hand.
“Apart from when you make decisions and expect me to follow along, right?” I don’t mean to sound like a bitch when he’s just trying to keep me safe.
I really don’t.
I just need to know he isn’t leaping into danger alone.
He takes my hand in his and holds me tight. “Promise you’ll let me take care of this. Tell me you trust me, Sweet Stuff.”
This argument is different.
He just doesn’t get it.
It doesn’t sting so much as it aches. A bone-deep ache that has a direct line to my tear ducts.
“This isn’t about me. This is the Sugar Bowl,” I tell him, my voice choking despite my best efforts.
God, would it be so difficult for me tonotcry just once when I’m confronting someone?
“Junie—”
