The Dangerous Game Of Sweetness And Steel: How A Charleston Underworld King Became A Fake Boyfriend To Save A Pastry Chef From An Unwanted Billionaire Family Trap

The sun was barely cracking the horizon over Charleston harbor when the heavy iron bell above the bakery door gave a soft, muted chime.

I was standing behind the walnut counter, wearing a plain black apron over my shirt, trying to figure out how the hell an industrial dough-sheeting machine worked without losing a finger.

Nora walked out of the back kitchen carrying a wooden tray loaded down with warm, flaky, golden-brown croissants that smelled so rich of butter and vanilla they could have revived the dead.

She stopped in her tracks, blinking sleepily at me, her dark hair tied up in a messy bun with a few strands falling across her forehead.

“You’re still here,” she noted, setting the tray down on the counter with a soft thud.

“I told you,” I said, wiping a dusting of flour off my hands and stepping around the counter.

“I don't break contracts.”

“It wasn't a contract, Evan. It was a temporary arrangement for a family brunch that ended twelve hours ago.”

“Details,” I dismissed with a wave of my hand, leaning against the counter and looking down at the warm pastries.

“Besides, your grandmother called at five in the morning to make sure you hadn't gone back to planning weddings.”

Nora’s eyes went wide.

“Grandmother called you? At five in the morning?”

“She wanted to know if I preferred espresso or drip coffee, and whether I was planning to take you out for proper Italian food tonight to celebrate the grand opening.”

Nora let out a groan, burying her face in her hands, though I could see the unmistakable grin spreading across her fingers.

“She is going to be the death of me.”

“She likes me,” I pointed out reasonably.

“She adores you, which is honestly terrifying because it means she probably has a double-barreled shotgun waiting in the trunk of her car for our wedding.”

I went completely still for a fraction of a second.

Then a slow, dark, absolute smile touched the corners of my mouth.

“Wedding?” I repeated softly, reaching out to pull her hands away from her face so she had no choice but to look at me.

“Did you just skip straight from fake boyfriend to wedding planning?”

Nora’s cheeks flushed a deep, beautiful red, but she didn't look away from my eyes.

“I didn't say our wedding, Evan.”

“Right,” I murmured, stepping closer until there was barely a breath of air between us.

“Keep telling yourself that.”

Before she could come up with a sharp comeback, the front door swung open with a cheerful chime, and a familiar, silver-haired figure marched into the bakery leaning heavily on a cane, wearing a bright emerald silk scarf wrapped around her neck.

Eleanor Bennett took one sniff of the air, closed her eyes in pure bliss, and pointed her cane straight at my chest.

“I smell butter and rebellion,” the old woman declared triumphantly.

“Evan, get behind that counter and pour me an espresso before I decide to disinherit the lot of you.”

I looked down at Nora, whose dark eyes were shining with a mix of disbelief, exhaustion, and absolute, hard-won happiness.

“Your grandmother has terrible timing,” I whispered against her ear.