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“You don’t pay us enough for this,” he grumbles.
I grab a tea towel and flick it at his back. “Less complaining, more working, big boy. Or else you might not get paid at all.”
Everyone laughs.
It’s an empty threat and he knows it, but he grabs the cleaning equipment and heads into the bathroom while Sarah wipes down the tables again.
I head back into the kitchen and lean against the counter. My palms sweat and I wipe them on my pants.
This is fine.Fine.
It’s been two years since Liam. Two freakingyearsand I am so over his boring, noncommittal ass.
The staff gossiping about me and my nonexistent love life is normal, actually. Wouldn’t they gossip about anyone and their hot, rich new boyfriend?
So what if it’s fake?
And no matter how hot or rich he happens to be, Big Fish wouldn’t be my first, second, or last choice for a serious date.
But for a fake relationship, he’s peachy—and having his smug face in my head is just a reminder of the terms of the arrangement.
Mutually beneficial, remember?
If I play along like a good girl, then the Sugar Bowl might have a real future for the first time in my lukewarm tenure as boss.
I’m smart enough to avoid getting too invested in annoying, backstabby men.
I’ve been burned before and I’ve learned my lesson.
This is a two-way business partnership and not a real relationship. It’s not love or even casual dating.
Never again.
* * *
Nana’s house is small,adorable, detached, and boasts a huge yard teeming with summer color.
She’s particularly proud of the green lawn with patches of wild clover and her spacious garden in the back.
When she’s not baking or listening to her favorite true crime podcast about famous psychopaths and gruesome murders, she’s outside, grubbing around in the flowerbeds and coaxing gorgeous blooms out of dying plants she finds at the nursery.
She’s always been like that. The walking savior complex, the find-something-broken-and-fix-it type, and God bless her.
Sometimes, though, I feel like I’m the thing she’s trying to fix most.
“Junie,” she says brightly, opening the door and giving me a peck on the cheek before waving me in. “You’re a little late, honey. How’s the store doing?”
“Better,” I say, following her inside to the kitchen. Anyone who visits can immediately tell this is the central hub of the house—the place where everything happens. There’s a table in the middle of the room, fresh herbs lining the windowsill, and an enormous oven that seems like it’s always running or it’s just cooling down.
“Get that sign fixed yet?”
“I booked a guy to come and replace it tomorrow, yeah.” I grab my apron from behind the door and tie it. She bought it for me a long time ago when I was in high school and it still saysJuniperin faded letters across the front.
“That’s what I like to hear! Now, I was looking through my cookbooks and I found a recipe for a Samoa cheesecake which I thought might be really interesting.”
I frown. “Samoa, like the cookies?”
“What else? It’s got a lovely, sweet coconut base for texture that should go well with the rest.” She opens her cupboard and looks inside. “Of course, we’re only using fresh coconut and ideally, chocolate sourced from the Pacific. You’d have to price it higher if you decide to put it on the menu.”
