Wrong (A Bad Boy Romance)(9)
“Sarah,” he continues, “I had a good time last night. I’m really glad I met you. I’m glad we danced.” Reaching over the top of the display case, he holds his hand out. “Very glad.”
I manage a smile in spite of the hot sense of humiliation that’s washed over me. I set another pastry in the box and then reach out to take his hand. His strong fingers squeeze mine gently, and then he lets go. “How about some rolls?” he suggests. “And bread. They always like to get fresh bread for sandwiches.”
I nod. “I’ve got some more bread in the back. I’ll go get some as soon as we finish out here.”
I’m filling another box with Danishes—cheese, cherry, lemon. He nods approvingly. “So how’s business? You get a lot of customers?”
My stomach dips a little. “Okay. It could be better. There’s a lot of work I’d like to do that I just can’t afford right now.”
“That’s too bad. Everything looks wonderful. And the smell in here is heavenly.”
That ekes a smile out of me. I love the way this place smells, too. It’s my favorite thing about it. I can only eat so many pastries and so much bread, but I can smell dough and yeast all day and never get tired of it. “I’ll tell you what,” I say. “When I go back to get the bread, you want to come along? I can show you the behind-the-scenes scoop.”
“That sounds great.”
Now my stomach’s fluttering with excitement. I seem to be riding a roller coaster, emotion-wise. Why does he do that to me? Yes, he’s handsome, and he’s been nicer to me than anybody has in a long time, but still, he’s one of Spada’s men, and that means I should stay far away. Very, very far away. There’s nothing but trouble, pain, heartbreak, and probably death down that road.
I add a few crullers to the last box then close it and set it on the counter. While he looks over the stack of boxes, I head to the door and turn over the sign so it says CLOSED. I’m about fifteen minutes ahead of the posted closing time, but it doesn’t much matter. Nobody’s out on the sidewalk waiting to come in.
When I turn around to go back to the counter, Nick’s looking at me. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize he’s been checking out my ass this whole time. I don’t know whether to be annoyed or flattered. He’s a man, after all. I decided on flattered for the moment. If he says anything crude, I’ll reevaluate.
He doesn’t say anything, though—just moves aside as I head back behind the counter and wave for him to join me. “Let’s go. I’ll show you the fascinating inner workings of a small, not-very-successful bakery. It’ll be the most interesting thing you’ve done in, oh, at least the last fifteen minutes.”
He chuckles. I like him, and he’s managing to charm me even more than he did last night. Of course, he’s on his best behavior. Even Sal can be charming when he works at it. There’s no telling what this man is like when he’s not after something. And I’ve been around these guys long enough to know he’s after something. Everyone is.
He joins me behind the counter. It occurs to me it’s probably not the best idea for me to be alone with him like this, but on the other hand I’m not getting any warning signals. All I’m getting from him is genuine interest.
Like you can trust your instincts. I mentally roll my eyes at myself. “Come on this way. I’ll show you where we do all the magic.”
He listens attentively as I show him the equipment we use to mix dough, the ovens where we bake the pastries. “And by ‘we,’” I tell him, “I mostly mean ‘me.’ Although Mandy’s learning the ropes for a lot of the basics.” I manage a small surge of pride at what I’ve built here.
“What’s up here?” He indicates one of the ovens, which is half disassembled, and that surge of pride comes crashing down.
“It’s broken.” Why did he have to notice that? Why can’t I just have a nice little moment being happy about my business? “And so is that mixer, and that setup over there needs to be updated something fierce. Oh, and you’ll notice we have no coffeemakers? Yeah.”
“What’s stopping you?” He’s peering closely at the broken oven as if he thinks he can tinker it back into shape.
“Money,” I admit. “Or, rather, lack of some.”
His eyes cut toward me. “Sal’s got money. Have you asked him to help out?”
My stomach twists. The last thing I want to do right now is go into my fucked-up relationship with Sal. “It’s a long story,” I tell him. “Short version—yes. He said no.”