“Yes. We bake everything fresh every day.”
I don’t even realize I’ve wrinkled my nose until his lips twitch like I’ve given something away. My expression must be screaming what I don’t say aloud: Vicki is a nightmare. She’s pushy, anal, and somehow both too involved and completely clueless. She hired Lucy first, then me, then sat back, expecting us to keep the place afloat while she micromanaged the wrong things.
It wasn’t until Lucy and I took matters into our hands—experimenting, creating new flavors, and pushing the menu forward—that the bakery began making real money.
Vicki was furious until she saw the cash flow.
Now, she demands more.
Ben tilts his head, his gaze heavy and knowing. “Your silence is telling, Miss Graves.”
I’m already tired of this forced, polite conversation. I know men like him don’t invite women like me to lunch for small talk. I want to know what he wants, and then to be on my way.
“It’s a job, Mr. Volkov. Nothing that special about it.”
He takes a slow sip of his drink. “So, you don’t want to open your own bakery?”
“I didn’t say that. Working for one and owning one are two different things.”
“More control.”
“More everything.”
His index finger traces the rim of his glass, but his eyes never leave mine. “Except you’ve been serving more than sugar.”
I frown. “What?”
Ben leans forward to rest his forearms on the table. The shift in his posture makes the space between us feel smaller. The way he looks at me now is different. It’s not casual or amused, it’s calculated and intentional. Like I’m not just sitting across from him but caught in his web.
His tone is smooth and firm like he’s telling me something obvious that I should’ve already known. “Your bakery has been used to pass messages among people with a lot more to lose than you do.”
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline. He’s joking. This is some weird test or game that rich, brooding men play when they’re bored.
When the silence stretches too long, I chuckle and shake my head. “You mean people on diets?”
His expression doesn’t change. “I mean dirty cops and politicians.”
My face lifts with a mix of disbelief and amusement. “Excuse me?”
“I didn’t stutter, Miss Graves.”
“Um, okay.” I lean back in my chair and fix Benedikt with an expression that saysI’m going to leave in two seconds if you keep talking like a crazy person. “Is this… some sort of roleplay, Mr. Volkov?”
“If it were, Miss Graves, we wouldn’t be out in the open like this.”
I have zero clue how to interpret that, but it still doesn’t stop the ideas from sprinting through my head at full speed, completely unsupervised.
Him, leaning back in his chair, all relaxed and confident, dark eyes burning with something unreadable.
Him, demanding I sit on his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
His strong thighs underneath me, solid and warm, his big hand running up my leg, and his fingers teasing the edge of my dress.
His lips just a breath away as he murmurs how he wants me to straddle his?—
I clear my throat so hard that I nearly choke. “What about cops again?”
“The dirty cops that place orders at your bakery, Miss Graves.”
