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As I head back downstairs, still wondering when my moral compass shattered, I tell Nana the call was just a kid from work. One more little white lie that makes me feel like a tumbleweed.
I should get used to it, though.
Ditto for this hollow ache in the pit of my stomach.
It persists through the biscotti cheesecake prep and Nana’s cozy stories and frantic goodbye kisses right until I’m home in my own bed, curled up and staring at the evening sunlight scintillating on the wall. Catness curls up against my chest, a warm lump of fur.
It’s nerves. Like standing over a sheer cliff with water below while your friends are watching and no will to turn back and prove you’re a wuss.
Sooner or later, you just have to hold your breath, leap, and pray.
Only, I’m in so far over my head I can’t even see what’s below me anymore.
And in Big Fish’s strange pond, I’m afraid I don’t know how to swim.
8
SWEET SLOW DANCE (DEXTER)
Forrest Haute might be a ruthless iron-fisted magnate with dubious connections to the underworld and a proclivity for clogging his arteries, but if you’ve managed to impress him, you know it.
He’s a little too appreciative, if you ask me.
For fuck’s sake, how excited can a man get over lemon cheesecake? It’s certainly not because it’s the newest specialty item on the Sugar Bowl’s menu. I’m confident I could’ve shipped him any of their delicacies and gotten the same reaction.
“Thanks again for sending the box of goodies,” he says cheerfully. “And all the way to Florida, too. How generous.”
“No problem. I promised you a sugar fix and I delivered.” I press my pen tip against the desk, clicking my frustration.
“Yes, yes, the Sugar Bowl, you lucky lad.” Haute makes an obscene noise. “You sure hit the jackpot with her. She’s a lovely young woman, and the sweets she makes—wow—even lovelier.”
Fucking hell.
I can’t even tell if he’s having lewd thoughts about my ‘fiancée,’ but hot rage sweeps through my blood anyway.
The man is disgusting.
If this deal didn’t depend on playing nice with a pig, I’d have told him and his weird fantasies to fuck off long ago.
“Yeah. She’s a dream,” I offer, checking the clock. Fifteen minutes till she arrives, and if I’m not off this call by then, I’m going to murder someone. “Is there anything else you wanted to discuss today?”
“Just called to say thank you, really.” Right. Twenty minutes of thank yous and detailing what I sent as though I didn’t send the damn box myself. “I wasn’t sure, you know, whether you’d be amenable to my terms…”
“Well, I hate to disappoint.”
“I can see that. I’m not disappointed, Rory. In fact, I appreciate the effort you’ve put in. As for the Sugar Bowl—if I may say something, Rory, man to man—”
Oh hell, here we go.
“That place is something special. I’m a bit of a foodie—if you can believe that—and it’s painfully rare to find a gem that lives up to its hype.” There’s a serious edge to Haute’s voice. My God, I can’t believe he’s getting emotional over pastries when just the other day, he was digging his heels in about reviewing the paperwork and getting everything signed and ready to go. “My point is, don’t let it slip through your fingers.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say glumly, leaning back in my chair and pinching my nose. Twelve minutes till she arrives. “The deal’s moving forward then, I take it?”
“Onward and upward. No looking back,” he agrees. “I’ll see you soon, Rory.”
“I can’t wait.”
Finally free, I set the phone down and switch off my computer.
