One Big Little Secret (The Rory Brothers #2)

Two Truths And A Marriage Preview

Sweet Relief (Juniper)

There are days when I wish I was a college girl.

Not often, mind you. And not because I love the thought of having a gazillion dollars in debt on my shoulders, either. Because with the Sugar Bowl creaking along on its last legs, the very last thing we need is more debt.

But a few more math classes would sure as hell help my brain hurt less with these numbers.

“That can’t be right,” I spit.

I rub my eyes, squinting at the spreadsheet for the fifth time.

Nobody warned me that inheriting a business means spending more time hunched in front of a computer screen than actually working. My already pale skin practically glows white. I’m ninety percent sure the blue light from the screen is making my hair frizz.

Numbers.

Ugly money numbers.

Numbers with sharp teeth and a ferocious appetite for chewing up my dreams.

Yeah, things aren’t looking good.

I take a break from the nightmare on the screen and glance around. The back office looks about like it did in Nana’s time.

Same old tall metal filing cabinets propped up against the dusty wallpaper—probably less dusty when Nana ran the shop with an iron fist, of course—and the old faded photos hanging everywhere.

Same awards plastered to the wall. Newspapers and cards and bronze plaques proclaiming some version of best in Kansas City! for more years than I can count.

As I always do when I need a moment to get my wits, I stand up, push my chair back—ignoring that one squeaky wheel that cuts my ears—and pace the room, slowly taking in the wall of photos.

There’s Nana, young and bright, standing by the shop with her parents on its opening day in June, 1955. The date is recorded at the bottom of the photo, taken at a time when the world would shine in black and white with a certain charm no Instagram filter will ever match.

My gaze flicks to photos of the interior renovation in the late fifties. And again right around 1970. Before 2000, the Sugar Bowl had a stunning redesign every decade or two, and each one generated a flurry of news and happy, hungry customers pouring in for the grand reopening.

Unimaginable now.

I’m surrounded by an entire gallery of reasons to succeed, to keep going, to remember this bakery’s greatness. But I’m also buried in the fact that those fond memories and fabulous accolades come to a screeching halt in 2021—the year Nana stepped down.

Glaring evidence of my failure to take flight.

This is my family’s legacy, all wrapped up in a store that used to soar.

With me at the helm, it’s struggling to even crawl.

It’s enough to make my throat close up.

If I was the woe-is-me type, I’d have thrown in the towel a year ago. Instead, I put my hands on my hips and look around. My eyes stop on another photo, Nana and my mother when she was a little girl.

“You better not be watching, Mom,” I warn. “This isn’t my finest hour. I mean… neither was last year or the year before that. Come back in a few. The store will be hopping again or the sign will be swinging in the wind.”

I wince at another possibility—we’ll keep stumbling along, just like we have been since I took over the place, twenty-two and fresh-faced. Back when I still had a boyfriend and sky-high hopes for the future.

Better times.

Easier times.

I take one last melancholy look around at every sharp reminder of why I need to step it up—and why I suck—before turning back to my computer.

“Hunk of crap,” I whisper. The ancient thing was probably on the Titanic with its boxy monitor that’s big enough to fit Nana’s flower garden inside.

One day, it’ll give up the ghost, just like everything else here, but I don’t dare replace it.

Not when revenue looks so thin I’ll be lucky to buy an ink cartridge for the printer next quarter.

My chest swells as I sigh and melt into my chair.

The spring menu’s pushing new coffees and light pastries, but they’re lower ticket items for a fast-casual customer base.

Two weeks ago, the ovens randomly stopped firing and our accountant retired, meaning we had to shell out big bucks for a new guy with triple the fees.

Not to mention the payroll needed to run this place, cutting deeper and deeper into my skeletal profits.

My projected turnover, if these damn numbers are to be trusted, looks like—

Well, let’s just say it’s litterbox territory.

Instead of pressing my face into my hands and screaming until my throat rips—totally reasonable under the circumstances—I lean forward until my forehead thunks against the screen.

The very hot screen.

Which almost certainly shouldn’t be hot enough to slow cook an egg.

“Oh, no. Oh, shit,” I hiss, shoving back and almost knocking the giant machine off the creaking desk.

That’s when Emmy pokes her head in. Perfect timing. “Hey, Junie!” she says, tucking her static curls back with one hand. “There’s a guy waiting at the register.”

I rub the sore spot on my forehead, grinding my teeth.

A guy? What guy?

The only kind I meet.

Another rude prick expecting the red-carpet treatment and a lifelong discount because his espresso was three degrees too cold.

But it’s my store. I’m effectively the boss and I’m expected to defuse every temper tantrum that comes barreling through the door.

I didn’t say I was good at it. I’m only slightly better at customer relations than I am at math.

My armpits are already sweaty in this heat. Missouri summers always have that merciless phase and we’re in the thick of it.

God, if I have to choose between replacing the archaic computer and functioning air conditioning, I’ll be in real trouble.

I suck in a breath and step away from the glaring monitor, hoping to leave my nervous breakdown behind with the overheated machine.

Maybe by the time I return, the numbers will magically change.

“Lead the way, Emmy,” I say with way more enthusiasm than I feel, fanning a bit of much-needed air up my shirt before following her to the front and the asshat waiting for us.

And what an asshat.

Holy hell, I wasn’t ready for this breed of scary-hot alpha male to be standing at my counter, waiting to tear my face off.

I expected a scowling prick—and let’s be honest, he certainly is one—but he’s a finalist for world’s hottest prick.

Toweringly tall? Check.

Dark-blue eyes flashing with sin? Yes.

Mile-wide shoulders that look like they could hold up the sky? Oh, baby, he’s got them.

He’s the full Prince Charming package, up to and including the intimidating look etched on his face that’s pinched with a thousand demands.

While I take my place behind the register, he glances at his digital watch with the designer gold band and sighs.

Yep, definitely a prick.

But rich as hell, if his designer brand oxford shirt and bright-blue tie are anything to go by. I don’t have it in me today to offend rich paying customers.

So I do the only sane thing a struggling business owner can—I reach down, dive deep, and dredge up a smile from the bottom of my soul.

“Hi there,” I say, my customer service voice bright and bouncy, ready to deflect the avalanche of crap he’s about to dump on me. “Is there a problem with your order?”

“No. I haven’t made one yet,” he clips. He’s not even looking at me. His eyes are turned up, fixed on the overhead menu.

O-kay.

Good thing I’ve been doing this for a while.

One prick, no matter how sharp his cheekbones are or how defined his jaw is—and God, what a jawline—will distract me from making money.

“Sure,” I say cheerfully. “How can I help you then?”

“Can you execute a large custom order for delivery today?” He doesn’t even wait for me to nod before waving a hand at the glass case gleaming with pastries. “I need a sampler of this crap. Tortes, cheesecakes, turnovers, cupcakes, the works. Make it extra sweet.”

This crap?

I’m frozen, stunned and staring as my brain tries not to get ragey and defensive.

This is an order, even if he’s placing it in the rudest way imaginable.

A real oh-shit-this-is-expensive order that will make good money.

My favorite kind of order that only comes up a dozen times a year, if I’m lucky.

I turn my smile all the way up to blinding. “Certainly! Do you have any specific requests for your crap?”

There goes my tongue. It didn’t get the memo to be polite.

He looks at me like I’m a crushed bug under his shoe and swipes a frustrated hand through the air. “All of it. Everything you do here. I don’t care.”

I blink at him, waiting for more, but he stares at the bakery case like it’s personally offending him.

“Okay, yes, we can do that,” I say slowly, looking him up and down.

So, he doesn’t look insane, but maybe he’s unhinged in the usual rich people way. The kind where you walk in and buy out an entire store without even caring what it sells. “I’m sure we can accommodate your needs with a custom package of—”

“Extra sweet,” he snaps. “So rich you’ll choke.”

Oof. I hate the way his eyes flash when he makes me imagine gagging.

“Sure, sure. It’s easy to scrounge up our sweetest creations or add a little extra frosting to the lighter stuff.”

“Whatever, lady. It needs to be perfect. I’m trusting you.” The way he narrows his eyes at me says he trusts me to muck this up beyond recognition.

“Perfect, huh? You’re in luck. We’ve been doing that for over fifty years,” I bite off nicely at his assholery, beaming an even wider chipmunk smile that hurts my cheeks.

He hate-glares at the bakery case, then turns his dubious eyes back on me like swords.

Oh, boy.

My hair’s probably a worn red ball in this humidity plus the back office turning into a sauna.

But why does he look so skeptical?

“Sir, trust me, you’ve come to the right place. This place lives up to its name,” I tell him, gesturing to a few framed thirty-year-old newspaper reviews behind me. “Whatever you need, you can count on us. Cakes, éclairs, apple turnovers, honey-olive tortes, or anything you can imagine. Custom orders, bulk orders, samplers, the lot. You tell us what and when and we’ll deliver. Even today. ” Oh hell, I’m rambling. But that’s not a bad slogan. “Whatever you need, we’ve got you covered.”

“Right.” One dark eyebrow rises and he rakes me over with a look.

It isn’t fair.

No grouchy customer barging in has any business making me feel this vulnerable.

“Would you like a few samples to give us your feedback?” I ask brightly. “It’ll put a smile on your face, guaranteed.”

Somehow, his mouth turns down even more.

“I don’t do sweets and I don’t have time to gab. ” He spits the word like it’s dirty. “Can you have this order ready for six o’clock?”

Eep.

My eyebrows almost fly off my head.

But fine, fine.

If he wants to play bad cop and put us under the gun for turnaround, I’m more than happy dropping the cutesy act and getting to work.

“The Sugar Bowl isn’t a Kansas City institution for nothing,” I tell him in the same hard-edged tone he just used on me. “We’ll get it done. Early.”

“I hope to fuck that reputation is as sterling as you claim. Here’s the delivery address,” he mutters, pulling out a small Post-it note and slamming it on the counter with enough force to rattle the display cabinets. “Six o’clock sharp. Don’t even think about being late.”

Then, with one last frigid scowl worthy of a mafia don, he storms away from the store, the bell tinkling behind him like it’s glad to send Satan back to hell.

Emmy and Jake immediately start snickering behind me.

“What a dick!” Emmy whispers, and Jake bursts into more giggles. “Way to go, Junie. You’re a lion tamer today.”

I don’t acknowledge that.

Let them be kids.

I’ll be the grown-up professional owner who keeps her shit together, even if I’m inwardly turning into a basket case. I can always beat my pillows at home after we get paid.

I tense my shoulders, just for a second, and inhale sharply.

The address he left is a fancy-ass hotel a few miles away. The kind that only lets people in if they smell like money.

Figures.

“Okay, team,” I say, turning to the two laughing teenagers behind me with my best boss face. “We have two hours to buckle down and get this done. And the man said extra sweet for—everything, I guess. I’m calling in backup. No matter what happens, we are not screwing this up.”

The engine whines as I ease my foot on the gas, hoping the lights at the intersection don’t go red.

I’m making beautiful time, just as long as nothing else goes wrong and the late rush hour traffic is kind to me.

Flipping caramel apple tortes.

But I’m the genius who decided to break out the sweetest treat in Nana’s old recipe arsenal. It took three batches to get them just right.

I was almost forced to leave without them to meet Mr. Sweet Tooth’s life-or-death deadline. Luckily, they came out and passed a quick taste test just before the deadline, but it was close.

So much for the promise I’d be early.

Even now, I’m pushing it, grinding through the bustling traffic of a summer evening. I swear the humid nights bring people out like bees.

I really can’t afford to be waiting at the intersection, though.

To my eternal relief, I only whack the wheel once before the light turns green, and then I head down by the Riverwalk, passing the Winthrope KC hotel on the way.

The engine’s whine morphs into a rattle.

“Oh, no, are you joking? Not now!” I grimace at the windshield. Just another big ugly repair bill I’ll need to scrounge up money for. “Come on, baby. You can make it. I’ll let you rest as soon as we get there…”

The rattle shakes through the seat as I stomp the gas and ease off it again.

Ugh.

I’ve never been much of a praying type, but I will sell my soul to any deity right now just as long as I make it to this stupid hotel.

This dude’s order is big enough to cover several big car repairs and then some. It’s so huge that if he didn’t reek like money, I’d have worried whether he could pay it.

And if he isn’t a total scrooge when he tips…

Ohhh, if he tips, I might actually be able to live on more than home-baked banana bread and frozen burritos for a few weeks.

But I try not to get my hopes up.

Hefty tips are never guaranteed, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned about jackass customers, it’s that they’re often halfway decent tippers. Almost like they’re trying to buy off their guilty conscience when nobody’s looking.

Of course, that hinges on everything going right, and I have to make this deadline.

Miraculously, I swerve into the hotel parking lot without the van breaking down.

No time for celebration.

After a quick chat with reception, I grab the first set of boxes and haul them into the conference room. Thankfully, it isn’t far from the main door.

To my surprise, Mr. Sweet Tooth stands in the conference room alone, leering over everything like a general surveying a battlefield.

He leans on the ginormous walnut table with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his lips slightly tilted and those cutting blue eyes ready to flay me open for the slightest error.

But I don’t think he sees me at first.

He doesn’t seem to hear the door or my panicked footsteps; he just stares out of the long, wall-length window overlooking the city basking in the sunset.

“Nobody else coming to the party yet? This is a lot for one guy,” I joke as I set down the first box.

He starts, whipping toward me with that familiar stormy scowl.

“Unbelievable. You’re five minutes late.” He taps his watch in case I’ve forgotten the concept of time. “Your desserts better be goddamned ambrosia. Where’s the rest?”

“Um, coming right up!” I say nervously, biting my tongue on adding you absolute jackwagon.

It takes him two seconds to realize it’s just me unloading the stuff.

To my surprise, he follows me outside to the van and helps grab the remaining boxes, stacking them high in his arms.

“Can’t believe people eat this stuff,” he growls once we’re back in the room, popping open a lid and checking out its contents—Nana’s famous strudel bites. “It’s begging for diabetes. There are places where sugar bombs like this get a sin tax.”

Yikes, talk about opening a can of worms.

“So, what? You think no one should ever be allowed a little sugar?” I ask flatly.

“In any sane world, it’d be a controlled substance enforced by DEA troopers. If I were dictator for a day, I’d ban the shit entirely.”

…he’s mighty serious about a world without glucose, isn’t he?

And I wonder how a man this painfully handsome wound up with the world’s biggest stick lodged up his ass.

“You’re hilarious.” I stop what I’m doing and stare at him, trying to brush it off as a joke. He’s hot, sure, but clearly a little—okay, a lot—deranged. “Do you hear what you’re saying?”

“I know. I shouldn’t bother debating the merits with someone who makes a living peddling death salt.”

“Death salt? Excuse you?” One second later, I bite my tongue and sigh.

His glare cuts right through me.

For the love of everything holy, be nice.

Remember the money.

“Um, I mean… I’m a little confused. Help me out. You’re the one who ordered this stuff extra sweet , right?” I rip open another box a little too forcefully and frown at the raspberry and white chocolate cheesecakes inside. “Please don’t tell me you’re some sort of health freak.”

“If health freak means I actually take care of myself, then yes, sue me,” he snarls.

“Oh, that would be the day,” I huff under my breath.

His glare just got ten times hotter.

Putting all the samples out on the tables and arranging them neatly clearly isn’t his talent, so after I tidy them up a few times, he gives up and watches me with an unwavering stare that makes me sweat.

Dude, could you let up on the evil eye?

It’s a minor miracle I don’t drip all over the dessert spread.

When I turn around, he’s folding his arms. I hate the way the shirt tightens around his biceps like a second skin. Nope, not staring.

“You want to know the truth? If it was up to me, we’d have mandatory tracking and weekly workout times to offset every gram of this stuff,” he grouches, looking past me at the treats.

So, he’s not just a sugar-hating prick then—but a prick who’s anal enough to obsess over the metric system, too.

I ignore his insanity and step back to examine my handiwork. Not a bad presentation, if I do say so myself, especially considering the time crunch.

“Well, we’re lucky it’s not up to you. Too many control freaks already in power,” I say with a sunny smile I hope hides my total contempt. “Anyway, sorry about the five-minute delay. I’d be happy to knock fifty bucks off the price for your trouble.” I lay on the emphasis real thick and his scowl deepens. “But everything is here and customized to your liking.” A smirk escapes before I can bite it back. “I mean… clearly not to your liking. But customized to your order, I should say.”

His eyes flick around the room, probably searching for something else he can blame me for.

He looks like that kind of walking horse dick.

Nothing’s ever good enough. There’s always something to complain about.

But there’s nothing wrong with what I’ve put out—I triple-checked—and after a breathless minute, he nods. Grudgingly.

“As ordered,” he admits. “Forget the discount, I’ll pay you in full.”

Holy crap.

I stagger back a step.

I’m not used to things going right.

“Great!” I shove the paper bill and the credit card reader at him before he can change his mind. He raises his eyebrows at the bulky plastic reader pushing fifteen years old.

Jerk.

I half expect him to make a pointed comment about convenience—and I would’ve been half tempted to take the cherry pie and shove his face in it—but he just scrawls a signature on the bill and jabs his black credit card in the reader like a knife.

Like he just can’t wait to get rid of me.

Right-o. The feeling is mutual.

While he stares at the screen and waits for it to finish processing at a speed slower than molasses, I stick my tongue out at the back of his head and that thick dark hair.

Childish, yes, but it makes me feel better.

Then the door opens.

We both look up to witness the Kingpin of All Money swaggering in.

He’s a bear of a man, probably in his fifties. Sweet Tooth is built and lean, yes, but he looks almost small compared to this older guy with thick limbs and a penguin belly.

Sweet Tooth immediately stops scowling. Oh, is he nervous?

Interesting.

So maybe Kingpin is Sweet Tooth’s boss or something?

Makes sense. Doesn’t every shark answer to a whale?

I turn back to face my tormenter with a saccharine smile.

“As you can see, everything’s here and perfectly in order,” I announce loudly while he gives me a look that tells me to scram. It’s kind of delicious, the way his eyebrows sink low above his eyes. They heat with a blue-fire rage he can’t indulge, not while he’s in front of this other guy. “And extra sweet, just like you asked for. I’m not sure if you have any allergies, but just to be sure, the items with nuts were baked separately and are off to the left, over there, and—”

“Yes,” Sweet Tooth clips through gritted teeth. “Understood, ma’am.”

Kingpin stares across the spread with raised eyebrows and a shit-eating grin on his face. “Rory, color me impressed! Or should I be thanking our lovely delivery gal?”

Sweet Tooth inhales sharply and glowers at me.

“Thanks,” he grinds out without an ounce of sincerity. “This all looks… great.”

Lame, dude.

You aren’t even trying.

I smile innocently.

“You don’t think it’s too sweet, do you?”

He shoves the bill into my chest and guides me to the door with one big hand pressed against my back.

I don’t even have time to glance back at Kingpin and find out whether he’s enjoying the cheesecake before Sweet Tooth practically picks me up and throws me out the door.

It closes behind him with a loud click!

“Jesus.” I turn around, rubbing my arm and yelling, “You’re welcome!”

Then I decide not to press my luck and beat it.

I get out of there as fast as I can without running.

It’s only when I’m back in the van that I bother looking at the signed receipt.

There’s a name scrawled across the bottom in a garish slash. Dexter Rory.

“All right,” I say, rubbing my face. “Let’s find out how crappy a tipper you are, Dexter Rory.”

I skim down to the tip line and my eyes nearly exit my face.

My jaw drops.

Well, crap.