Chapter 12 - The Final Word On King Street And The Weight Of A Business Card
Miles Harper stood there for five long seconds, his chest heaving as he realized that no one in this room—least of all the woman he thought was his guaranteed future wife—was going to rescue him from the silence.
Slowly, painfully, Miles let his shoulders drop.
He looked from my face down to my hands, then back to Nora, who hadn't moved an inch from behind the walnut counter.
“You’re making a mistake,” Miles muttered, his voice sounding small, thin, and entirely defeated.
“You’ll regret this, Nora. When the bills pile up and this place goes under in six months, don't come crying to your mother’s friends for a bailout.”
He didn't wait for an answer.
He turned on his heel, pushed open the front door with enough force to make the iron bell ring hysterically, and practically bolted down King Street toward his matte-black Porsche.
The silence in the bakery lasted for another beat after the door swung shut.
Then, from the back corner near the pastry display cases, a sharp, delighted cackle broke the tension.
Grandma Eleanor, who had apparently slipped in through the rear delivery entrance while everyone was distracted, lowered her tortoiseshell sunglasses and pointed her cane at me.
“Well handled, boy,” the old woman declared loudly enough for the remaining customers to hear.
“If he tries to come back, tell him I’ve got a shotgun with his name on it.”
Nora let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob, setting the tray of scones down on the counter with a loud clatter before walking around to stand right in front of me.
Her dark eyes were bright, fierce, and swimming with a kind of unfiltered emotion that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with freedom.
“You didn't have to scare him quite that badly,” she whispered, though a wicked little smile was tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“I didn't scare him,” I replied mildly, reaching out to brush a speck of flour off her cheek.
“I just gave him a realistic preview of what happens when he tries to interfere with a business transaction involving my favorite pastry chef.”
Nora’s breath hitched.
“Your favorite pastry chef?” she echoed, her voice dropping into a low, teasing register.
“Am I the only one you know?”
“For now,” I admitted, my hand sliding down from her cheek to rest securely against the small of her back, pulling her close against my chest in plain view of half of King Street.
May you like
“Good,” she whispered, rising up on her toes.
“Because the exclusivity clause in my contract is non-negotiable.”
