Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Although maybe that has more to do with the way his suit fits over his broad shoulders like it was made for them.
He’s a handsome devil, I’ll give him that.
Even his business card is nice and flashy. Lacquered, gold embossed, and it has that extra weight that whispers money.
Bad puns aside, Big Fish really knows how to make a splash.
I purse my lips as I tilt it so the lettering catches the light.
Higher Ends International, huh?
Whatever that is.
Sounds expensive.
Sounds successful.
The name makes me wonder if whatever he’s up to could be a good opportunity.
But I know not to get my hopes up. I’ve met guys like Dexter Rory before. Rich men who think they’re entitled to the entire world just for breathing.
Nana didn’t raise a dummy. Whenever a big, easy opportunity knocks, there’s always a catch.
There must be.
I just need to figure out what this one is before it sticks in my skin like a rusty hook.
By the time closing rolls around, I need a hairband to keep my frizzy hair in check.
My whole head goes to war with the summer as soon as the humid months hit.
My cheeks are red from whizzing from one side of the store to the other, only stopping a few times under the creaky ceiling fan to take the sweat off my neck.
My accounts still aren’t done, and we had such a late influx of customers I’m still recovering from whiplash. Long summer nights and no school means older kids come pouring in for their sugar fix less than an hour before close.
I scuttle through cleanup and flip the sign on the door, switching off the lights on the front. I notice a couple letters burning out in BOWL.
Another repair.
Awesomesauce.
Maybe the money slated for the computer will have to go toward the lighting after all.
I rub my hand over my throbbing face and lean back against the door.
And there, striding through the late crowds of people shopping and heading home, is Mr. Big Punctual Fish. It’s not a minute past six-thirty.
Clearly, he doesn’t wait.
Emmy and Jake are in the back, taking off their aprons and washing up one more time before heading home. I told them I’d clean up tonight, and they’re all too happy to leave me to it.
Listening to them chattering happily about their plans after work, I can’t quite push back the bite of jealousy.
Once, that was me.
And now I’m here, mopping and scrubbing and meeting with a guy who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else now that he’s here.
The bell tinkles cheerfully as he lets himself in, ignoring the Closed sign.
Go figure.
He also looks just as attractive as he did earlier, though there’s something tight around his jaw.
Something tense.
The guy’s straight pissy about something, which does not bode well for me and this little business meeting.
“Coffee?” I ask, switching on the machine. “I’m having one.”
“Sounds great. Thanks.” He parks himself at a table near the freshly cleaned bakery case.
At least he’s playing nice, despite the way he glares around the room like he has X-ray vision looking through the walls, searching for the slightest reason to back out.
I get two coffees going and lean back on the counter as I look at him. He’s wearing a navy-blue suit that brings out his tan and the blue depth of his eyes.
Those sharp eyes fall on me with a calculating intent I’m not expecting.
For a second, I wish I wasn’t still slumming around in an apron with my hair going wild, without a bit of makeup on my face. I wish the summer humidity wasn’t more than a match for our clanking A/C that’s also overdue for a tune-up.
In another life, I wish I wasn’t here, and I was going out for a date after work with a man who looks like Mr. Rory but who knows how to smile.
He’s used to dealing with a very different kind of professional, no doubt. Definitely not the kind who daydreams.
Okay, deep breath.
You can do this.
“Cupcake?” I offer. “On the house.”
His eyes flash to the few items still on display and he wrinkles his nose.
“Thanks, but I’m not one for sweets,” he says in that deep rolling voice of his.
“Oh, right. You’re hoping the next president starts a war on cookies.” I can’t resist the wisecrack, so I don’t snort.
Not one for sweets is one hell of a way to describe his outburst the other day, when he told me he thought sugar should be illegal.
But since he’s here I should hear him out, so I check my inner sarcastic bitch and bite my tongue until it hurts.
“Frankly, Miss Winkley, my tastes don’t matter. I’ve seen what a hit your creations are,” he adds, resting his elbows on the table. “You’ll be glad to know my associate was an instant fan.”
“Oh, great. What a relief. I was actually worried something went wrong when I saw you here again.” I grab the drinks and walk to the table with a cupcake for myself. He might not want one, but that doesn’t mean I’m going without. “We don’t get many complaints, but there’s always a chance.”