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“For Junie. Just like I said,” I tell him. His crazy eyes stay fixed, slowly narrowing. “Juniper. You remember my fiancée, right? I never meant any disrespect.”
The edge of the broken bottle scrapes against my Adam’s apple as I swallow, but he eases back ever so slightly. “What does she have to do with this?”
Everything and nothing.
I take a deep, rattling breath.
“It’s her dream to take the Sugar Bowl national. Make it a big, respected brand.” So far, so good—and I don’t have to lie about this. Haute must hear the sincerity in every word. “I want to help her, but there’s only so much I can do.”
Haute doesn’t back away. “You’ve got your own business. You must make a hundred times more than her.”
“Yeah. But you know those desserts. You love them, and not just because they’re perfect cover. Think about what that means in five years, maybe sooner, if she gets her way. More bakeries, more cities, more places to expand…”
This is my big gamble, hoping he’s truly as much of a sugar fiend as he claimed early on.
There’s a calculating gleam in his eyes now, the murderous gleam going dull.
He knows what it’s like to be so fiercely in love you’d shatter your entire moral compass.
Not that Forrest Haute ever had one.
“I just want her to be happy, man,” I strangle out, and although this is veering back toward make-believe, it doesn’t feel like a lie. “Never mind the business, the money. It’s Junie. Her dreams are mine. And if I’m involved with this, with you—that’s capital I can put back into her dream. We can work together to make a national name for her. Everybody wins.”
“You want to work with me? Even after this?” He snorts loudly, the champagne thick on his breath.
“Help me make her pastries famous,” I growl. “I’ll do anything to make it happen—and I do mean anything—I just need answers. Help me help you. And if you could take the damn bottle off my neck, that’d be nice.”
His hand shakes as it hovers over my neck.
With a discontent groan, he sweeps back, like he’s disappointing some bloodthirsty monster inside him.
“Big words, Rory. You’re asking for a lot of trust.”
“Trust? I could’ve gone to the cops over this, Haute.” I don’t let an ounce of fear into my voice. “I could’ve stood in your way, but I’m here, aren’t I? Asking for an in. I want to help the Sugar Bowl and my family. Just like I want to help you.”
Haute takes another step back and lowers the bottle.
It’s like watching his shield go down, appealing to that strange part of his flawed soul that understands an obsessed, death-defying love.
If only I had time to process what talking about Junie like this really means when it doesn’t feel a damned bit like lying.
“I love her,” I say. “Being with Junie—it’s not like anything I’ve ever experienced. Before her, I never dreamed I’d be willing to do the unthinkable. I never thought I’d be glad to risk everything.” I let my shoulders sag, hoping he’ll see me as a desperate lovestruck sicko. Someone he can use. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make her happy. Anything. You just tell me what you need.”
“I’ve seen you together. I know how you feel, I suppose,” he says slowly. The broken bottle hangs in his hand now.
“She deserves better than me.” I laugh, hating the way it sounds. “But if I can make her dreams come true, it’ll all be worth it.”
Haute finally steps away, looking over the darkening city as he says, “She’s something special, yes. The Sugar Bowl could easily become a national brand—and a conduit for so much more.”
Goddamn, he’s close to slipping.
Just keep him talking.
“If we’re involving her business without her knowing, we need to talk this out,” I venture. “Just tell me how this works. Whatever you can.”
He spares me the briefest glance and another layer of his armor comes off.
“Isn’t it obvious?” He sighs like an exhausted teacher explaining an algebra problem for the fifth time.
