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Archer sits at the head of the table with the familiar no-nonsense stare he’s been practicing since the day he was born. And Patton is leaning back in his chair like he’s still in high school and farting off homework, sending me a mocking grin.
“There he is,” Patton says in the style of a baseball commentator. “The middle brother has returned, dragging his lazy ass in with bad news.”
Ah, hell.
Can we have one day where my little brother doesn’t read my face instantly?
I’m going to be in so much shit.
I slide into the third chair and shoot Patton the finger. “No one ever taught you how to behave in a meeting, huh?”
“I learned from the best,” he says with a shrug.
“Guys, knock it off,” Archer growls. “Do you always have to bicker?”
I let a slow smile spread across my face, even though my insides feel like they’re ready to leap out of my mouth.
“We’re brothers,” I tell him. The annoyed look he gives back tells me he wishes he could forget. “That’s what we do best.”
Archer doesn’t grin, but Patton does, letting his chair fall back on the floor again with a loud squeal of the wheels.
“So,” he prompts. “How bad was it?”
“What can I say? You guys were right.” I spread my hands. “Haute really does have a sweet tooth.”
“Told you,” Patton says with a smirk. “The man eats like he’s running out of time.”
“With that much sugar in his system, he might be. I’d hate to be his doctor,” I say, stalling for time.
“Dex,” Archer clips. “Get on with it.”
I roll my eyes, mostly for show, as I choose my next words carefully. “Initially, the meeting went well. Excellent, really. He’s interested in talking to his partners and he seems keen on moving forward with the Mill on reasonable terms.
“But?” Archer stares at me blankly.
“But?” I echo.
Patton tilts his chair again. “There’s always a but; otherwise, you’d have told us the good news immediately.”
I stare at him. Nobody would think Patton, of all people, would be intuitive as hell with his lazy smile and short fuse, but he’s got a knack for seeing right through any shit.
“Like I said, the guy’s a sugar addict,” I say. “You remember that sampler of sweet crap I arranged for him? He liked it so much he made providing the new property with an endless supply of baked goods an operating condition.”
“You’re fucking kidding.” Archer groans and drops his head in his hands. “Are we dealing with an imbecile? Did his partners break something in his head at some point?”
He’s not wrong.
Only, the imbecile is me.
“There’s more,” I say flatly, “and you guys won’t like it.”
Archer glares at me.
I should be used to it after thirty years of dealing with his crap, but somehow, because it’s Archer, he still manages to pack a punch in every glare. I think it’s the thick dark eyebrows and the fact that his beard is just starting to go silver, shot with age.
“Stop beating around the goddamned bush and tell us,” he snaps.
I hold my hands up. “I am telling you. So, Haute wanted his pastries as part of the deal. I told him fine, and I also mentioned that I’m sort of”—oh fuck, here we go—“engaged to the Sugar Bowl owner.”
