Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“That's... wow.”
“The agreement would require a minimum two-year commitment from you as managing partner. We'd need to discuss specifics, but we're thinking in the range of $300,000.”
I move further from the party noise. Three hundred thousand dollars.
“I've been worried about keeping my staff fully employed during the slower seasons,” I admit. “This could solve that problem.”
“Precisely. Your retention rates are impressive. We see potential for a small chain if the second location performs well.”
A chain of bakeries. My own little empire of sugar and butter.
“I'd love to meet and discuss this further,” I say, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds. “When works for you?”
We set a meeting for next week. After hanging up, I stand still in the darkness, the party's bass thumping in the distance while my mind races with possibilities. The pain between my legs seems insignificant now compared to what might be coming.
A future I can plan for.
Three
Melissa
Three hundred thousand dollars. Enough to open a second location.
I can't wipe the grin off my face as I push through the bakery doors at five a.m. the next morning. The conversation with Richard Donovan replays in my head as I snap on the lights and tie my apron.
I begin the morning routine, pulling out flour and sugar, but my hands move on autopilot. My thoughts drift from expansion plans to last night's encounter against the garage wall. The excitement of the investment call fades as I remember Hella's cold dismissal.
My hips still ache from his grip. It was good. Rough. Exactly how I like it.
“What's your name again?” His voice echoes in my memory as I attack the dough.
I’m not stupid. I wasn’t expecting hearts and fucking flowers. Just… something other than being scraped off his shoe the second he was done. The batter takes every swing of my rage, my shoulders rigid, because my highest high always comes with a goddamn price.
The front door swings open as Peter strolls in with a laughing Karian.
I slam the oven closed with my hip, turning to the fresh bowl of cake batter and sucking it off my finger. “And I quote, 'Don't care.'"
Peter pauses as if walking in on something he shouldn't and Karian whines in a voice that sounds strangely close to I told you so.
Deciding to skip forward because I cannot be bothered going down the road of 'why the fuck did you sleep with a biker!', my tone brightens. “Guess who's expanding?”
Peter freezes mid-motion, white chef's coat half-buttoned. “No way.”
Karian's eyes widen as she hangs her purse on the hook. “Are you serious?”
I nod, focusing on the mixer settings, grateful for the distraction. “Richard Donovan. Three hundred thousand dollars. Second location.”
Peter whoops, rushing over to lift me in a bear hug that knocks flour across my apron. “Holy shit, Mel! You did it!”
When he sets me down, Karian embraces me next, her thin arms surprisingly strong. “I'm proud of you,” she whispers, and I hear the unspoken relief in her voice. A second location means security. For all of us.
It means safety.
“We're celebrating tonight,” Peter declares, tying his apron with dramatic flair. “I'm making that chocolate bourbon cake you pretend not to eat straight from the pan.”
I laugh, turning to prep the display cases. “Meeting with the investor tomorrow. We need to finalize the paperwork and...”
“And explain why you look like you've been mauled by a bear?” Peter interrupts, eyebrows raised as he gestures to my neck with a sway of his wrist. “Please tell me you got dick last night since I didn't.”
My hand flies up to cover what must be a visible mark. Damn it.
“A biker?” Peter's grin turns wicked. “Spill. Every. Detail.”
“There's nothing to spill.” I reach for the pastry bags, arranging them by colour.
“That hickey says otherwise,” Karian murmurs, a small smile playing at her lips. She's doing a great deal to not lecture me, considering her baby daddy is Nomad for an MC in Australia.
Peter blocks my path to the refrigerator. “I want the full story. Was it in the bathroom? The beach? Please tell me it was somewhere interesting.”
“We have work,” I say firmly, sidestepping him. “Morning chaos starts in thirty minutes and I haven't even started the cinnamon rolls.”
“Fine,” Peter sighs, but there's no weight in it. “This conversation isn't over.”
I focus on measuring ingredients. Cinnamon. Sugar. Butter. Each measurement exact. Each motion controlled. This is what matters now. The bakery, the expansion, the future I'm building.
Not the man who couldn't even bother to remember my name.
The bell chimes as the front door swings open. Four hulking frames block the morning light, leather cuts with patches declaring their allegiance. My stomach drops as they saunter in like they own the place. Beast, followed by a guy with a massive beard, another with a shaved side head, and... Hella. I know Phoebe rambled off their names last night, but I can't remember.