“You should really consider using this to your advantage. There’s an opportunity here, Lila.”
“Everything is an opportunity with you,” I say on a laugh.
“That’s why you hired me.”
“Yeah, let’s go with that.”
When I announced that I was moving to Daisy Hills and openingThe Boozy Bakerya couple of months ago, Marley offered to help me get started. She has experience getting small businesses off the ground, and I was eternally grateful that she was between consulting jobs. Even more grateful that she offered to help me for free. I’m one helluva baker, but a business manager I am not. She’s my best shot when it comes to making my new business successful.
Well, that and Sullivan getting Roxi out of here before anyone finds out about my intruder.
“Yes! Roxi could be your new mascot. It’s not too late to upgrade your sign out front. Wouldn’t it look fabulous with a fat-bellied raccoon passed out in the last Y of the logo with a cupcake in its little paw? How could anyone resist that?”
Dammit, thatwouldbe cute as hell. “I can’t.”
“Why?” Marley protests. “It’s genius!”
“Because Grandma Val would be appalled. Not to mention that this whole thing is a serious health hazard.” I glance around at the mess, noticing more wreckage with each scan. There’s frosting on the walls, decorated with tiny paw prints, for fuck’s sake.
“I really wish you had one of those sweet grandmothers. Why does yours have to be the Cruella Deville type?”
“She’s notthatbad. She’s just…set in her ways. And not my biggest fan. She also happens to be incredibly influential inthis town. His disapproval could be enough to run me out of business.”
Marley ignores my comment, holding out her phone as she moves around a softly snoring Roxi. Too tired and overwhelmed to argue that filming the critter is pointless, I return to mopping.
A few minutes later, Sullivan appears holding a medium-sized dog crate. His shirt sleeves are still rolled up to his elbows. Never mind that it’s February. The man can’t seem to be bothered to wear a coat. Not that any number of layers of clothing could make me forget what he’s hiding beneath them: cut muscle, tattoos, and the Hammer of fucking Thor in his?—
“You must be Sullivan,” Marley says, putting away her phone as she shoots me a look that says she caught me staring at the fine specimen of a man. “I’m Marley.”
“You’re here to help?” he asks, the hint of compassion in his tone causing me to do a double take. Surely, I’m imagining that part.
“I’m her assistant.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” I chime in. “She’s my business manager. At least for the next two weeks.”
Sullivan nods but doesn’t say anything else as he sets the crate near Roxi. He seems to assess the situation as he pulls on a thick pair of gloves.
“Smart,” I say. “But I really don’t think you’re going to wake her up. Home girl is in a coma.”
Sullivan ignores my comment as he lifts the fat raccoon by the armpits. The half-eaten cupcake rolls from Roxi’s little paw as he holds her up, revealing that the cute little girl is very much aboyraccoon.
“Still want to call him Roxi?” Sull asks, flashing me a rare half smile that assaults me with the overwhelming urge to rip off all my clothes and insist he take me right here and now. Dammit, I wish he weren’t my landlord. I also wish I wasn’t stupid enoughto insist on the whole one-night stand rule. Why not five nights? Or ten? Surely by fifteen we’d get each other out of our systems, right?
“I’m committed to the name,” I say, unable to look away from the impressive pair of dangling raccoon balls—also smeared in frosting.
“I think Roxi suits him,” Marley agrees.
I hold the crate still while Sullivan maneuvers the furry thief—still out cold—inside.
“Guess I didn’t need the gloves after all,” he says, securing the little door and standing. “Hey, I’m going to take a quick look around before I head out. See if I can figure out how he got in. You mind?”
“Knock yourself out.”
I return to mopping, feeling a sense of dread trying like hell to drown out any ounce of calm I have left. The bakery doesn’t open until ten, thanks to the law not allowing alcohol sales any earlier than that. But it still seems like an impossibly short time to clean up the evidence. And I have yet to brave the kitchen. It’s suddenly hard to breathe.
“Hey, it’s going to be okay,” Marley says, her voice the anchor I need before panic completely sets in. “You’re not in this alone. I’m here to help, okay?”
I offer her the best pitiful smile I can manage without crying. I feel a breakdown trying to surface. One I can’t fucking afford today.