“Probably somewhere in the middle. I’ll give you a cut if you help me out.”
She pulls down another tray. “Do you know how much the Baileys paid us to keep their secret?”
“A lot?”
“Not to you, but definitely to me. They trusted us to keep our mouths shut.” She casts me her first smile and it’s all pink lips and wry amusement, such a perfect mixture of sugar and spice that it makes my stomach churn impatiently. “Sorry, but helping a stranger win a bet isn’t worth losing that for me.”
“Which one? The money or the trust?”
She doesn’t answer as she breezes by, heading back inside.
I follow closely on her heels. Inside the pantry she takes the tray from me silently, squeezing past me in the narrow doorway and leading me back out to the van. We work in wordless tandem as we empty the vehicle, even the boxes holding the cake pieces. She puts them in my arms with a sharp look in her eyes that warns me to be good.
I smile devilishly in reply.
CHAPTER FOUR
LILLY
This pantry is too small. Or maybe he’s too big. A big, beautiful fish in my little pond. It’s probably a combination of the two, but I’m blaming him. All of him. I’m blaming his big shoulders, his heavy biceps. His full lips, dark hair. Big blue eyes. Cleft chin and square jaw.
That’s the biggest problem; his face. I try not to look at him because he’s beautiful and dangerous like a cliff’s edge. The view is amazing but the fall will break you in two.
It’s surreal being here with him. I’ve seen him before. Not playing football, I hardly watch it, but in the Dairy Queen commercials he’s in with two other players. They stand half-naked with ice cream cones over their junk and try to sell… actually, I don’t know exactly what they’re trying to sell. Sex and candy? That’s about the sum of it. It must be working because I’ve had Dairy Queen two times in the last month. That’s two times more often than I did before Colt Avery’s abs told me how delicious it was.
Now I keep my eyes averted, locked on the white chocolate dipped Oreos in my hands, but there’s another problem, one that might be bigger than his face, if that’s possible; I can smell him, and the guy smells good. Like cologne and hot honey.
“So, us, huh?” he comments offhand.
I cast him a quizzical glance. “Us?”
“You asked if I knew how much the Baileys paid ‘us’. You own the bakery?”
“No. Well, half of it. My friend Rona owns the other half.”
“How old are you?”
I sigh internally. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-three.”
“I’m twenty-four.”
“You don’t look a day over twenty-five.”
I chuckle in surprise. “Thanks, I think?”
He grins and it’s an awful thing. A charming, boyish, damning thing.
“Everyone asks that,” I continue, training my eyes on a straight line of Oreos instead of the curve of his lips. “It’s the first question that comes up when people hear we own a bakery. ‘Really? How old are you?’.”
“Twenty-four is young to own your own business.”
“Not in California it’s not. There are people younger than me with software firms or clothing lines. Twenty-four in L.A. is not the same as twenty-four in Tulsa. Ask any actress.”
“You know what else she’ll tell you about L.A., right?”
“Never get discount Botox?”
“No,” he chuckles.
“It’s not who are, it’s who you know?”
“That’s it.”
“Okay, yeah,” I admit reluctantly. “Rona and I didn’t build it from scratch. It’d been in business for over forty years when we started working there. We were fifteen. The people who owned it were getting ready to retire. When we graduated high school, Rona and I went full time instead of going to college and they taught us how to run the place. And a year and a half ago they sold it to us. We would have been in debt for decades trying to start a place from the ground up.”
“How’s it going?” he asks frankly.
I hesitate before answering him, not sure what to say here.
Great! It’s really thriving and it’s so much fun!
We’re butt deep in debt but we’re turning a profit, so that’s good!
The hours are long, I have no life or identity outside of work anymore, it’s stressful as shit being the boss, but this is my dream. It’s what I always wanted so I can’t complain.
Can I?
“It’s going good,” I tell him lightly. “Tastetastic is coming to film an episode in the bakery tomorrow. We’ve gotten a lot of hype going around our K?sebrezel. It’s a German pretzel with baked cheese on top. So far I’ve made seven different flavors, changing up the taste of the dough or the type of cheese on top. It’s good.”
“I’ll have to try come in and try it.”
“Come in early,” I warn him blandly, not believing for a second that he’ll do it. “It sells out fast.”
“I will. And that’s cool about the Food Network taking notice. I’m impressed.”
“You’re impressed?” I scoff. “You who probably makes more in a year than I will my entire life?”