Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 68515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Seconds later, I saw a reply to whatever message he sent come in on his phone and said, “You got a response.”
He grunted, glanced at it, then reached for his cut that he’d placed nicely on the bedside table.
I watched as he shrugged that one on much more carefully than the rest of his clothes.
I had so many questions, and zero time to ask them in.
I shrugged into my own clothes, reached for my hat, and was just about to shove it onto my head when he caught the hat and threw it across the room.
“That hat covers up some beautiful hair, honey,” he rasped. “You should burn it.”
I was staring at him in shock, wondering what in the hell I was supposed to say to sweet words like that, when he turned away and reached for the deodorant that was on the nightstand.
Why it was on the nightstand and not in his bathroom, I didn’t have time to ask.
“Can I use some of that?” I asked. “If I leave now, I might be able to make it to my interview in time. But I definitely don’t keep deodorant in my truck.”
He handed it to me, and I slicked it on, loving the smell right away.
“Can’t believe you’d want that on,” he muttered, looking at me like I’d surprised him.
“Deodorant is deodorant,” I told him. “I don’t care what it smells like, as long as I don’t turn into that smelly person that everyone purposefully steers clear of.”
His chuckle had me smiling despite the urgency in which I needed to leave.
I’d taken two steps toward the door when my phone beeped, causing me to pause at the threshold of his room and look at it.
Only, his phone beeped seconds later, causing him to frown and reach for it.
I did the same for mine, finding a text from an unknown number.
Unknown: This is Drea. I’m the woman who interviewed you the other day. I’m sending you the location of a cabin. It’s where Jer wants to meet since he’s running late. Says to call him when you’re at the gate and he’ll buzz you in. Here is the address.
I clicked on the address, only to be led to the exact place that I was standing.
Then I got another text message, this one with Drea and another number that wasn’t marked as ‘unknown.’
Unknown & 903022434: This is Drea. Jeremiah, I sent your cabin address to Gracelynn. Gracelynn, if you have any questions, call Jeremiah with them. I’m headed back to bed. Good luck, y’all.
I felt my stomach drop.
Turning, I stared at Jeremiah, who was already staring at me.
“What are you interviewing for?” he asked casually.
I licked my very dry lips and said, “A bakery position at Sweet Spot Bakery.”
I then looked down at his cut, which had a small embroidered tag right above his heart that said, ‘Tiny.’
I swallowed hard and said, “You own the bakery, don’t you?”
He walked to the kitchen sink and started to wash his hands.
Then he dried them methodically with a towel before turning around, leaning his hips against the counter just like he’d done last night, and said, “That’s me.”
Well, fuck.
The door that I was standing in front of opened toward me, and I had to scramble to move out of the way of the wood before it whacked me in the face.
That’s why I heard the voice before I saw it.
“Stepdaddy dearest, I need a favor. I’ve had eight people quit on me the last week, and I was wondering if we could share the hiring process for both of our businesses.”
That’s when I realized my other mistake.
Not only had I slept with my boss, but I’d slept with my ex-boyfriend’s father.
I turned, dawning horror in my veins, and stared at my ex.
“What are you doing here?” Erich asked, finally spotting me.
I swallowed hard, wondering how in the hell I was going to get out of this one.
But, luckily, Jeremiah came to the rescue.
Like last night.
“Ms. Reed is here to interview for a position at my bakery,” Jeremiah answered, lying straight through his perfectly white teeth.
Erich frowned, looking from me to Jeremiah and back. “I thought you hated baking?”
I did.
When I was forced to do it without pay. Or under pressure. Or when Erich made me feel like shit when it didn’t meet his standards.
I loved it when I got to do it on my own, or when I made money while doing it.
It was my passion—baking. I loved seeing the look on people’s faces when they took that first bite of my cupcakes, or my pies, or even my bread.
I loved the way they walked into my house and smelled the scent of fresh baked bread.
I loved even more the way that it centered me.
“I love baking,” I told Erich. “I just don’t like working with people that are lazy slobs who don’t care about their work. Nor do I like working for someone that expects perfection when baking isn’t about perfection. Let’s not forget, I don’t want to work in an environment that is hostile.”