It doesn’t come.
Instead, his expression hardens. The warmth in his eyes chills, freezing into something sharp and assessing. His gaze locks onto the photo, not with pride or amusement, but with a fierce, laser focus.
He takes the phone from my hand and zooms in slightly, his jaw tightening visibly. The muscle near his temple ticks.
I feel a sudden, cold drip of unease. “Denton?”
He doesn’t look away from the screen. His thumb swipes, scrolling down through the article text, his eyes scanning rapidly. His stillness is unnerving. It’s not the relaxed quiet I’ve come to cherish; it’s the coiled stillness of a predator sighting prey.
“This journalist,” he says, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. “Maddie Chilton. Is she reliable?”
“Uh… I think so?” I stammer. “She covered the bookstore protest last year when Taviani tried to push them out too. Seemed like a good journalist.”
His eyes lift from the phone, finally meeting mine. The storm-gray is icy now, focused with a chilling intensity. “Tell me exactly what Taviani has said to you so far. Any details you can remember.”
“The details? He… basically wants me out of the space ASAP. He’s delivered several offers. And the number keeps decreasing. He implied things could get problematic after the holidays. Legal stuff.”
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly chilled despite the bakery’s warmth. I try to keep my voice steady, but the memory of Taviani’s slick smile, the unspoken threat in his eyes, makes my stomach clench.
“He also mentioned issues with violations…”
“Violations?” Denton interrupts. His gaze is locked on me, unblinking. “What violations?”
“Oh, you know,” I wave a hand dismissively, trying to recapture some of my earlier bravado. “The usual bogus stuff they dredge up when a small business annoys them. Fire code technicalities from decades ago, zoning complaints from phantom neighbors… his lawyers have a whole playbook. It’s all scare tactics. Expensive, time-consuming scare tactics designed to make us give up.”
I force a smile. “But it won’t work. Not now. Not with this.” I gesture towards the phone he’s still holding, the image of us united.
Denton doesn’t smile back. His expression remains carved from granite. He places my phone back on the counter with deliberate care. Then he leans forward, bracing his hands on the countertop on either side of me, caging me in without touching me.
His proximity is overwhelming, not in the usual warm, possessive way, but in its sheer, focused intensity.
“Tell me everything else, Holly,” he says, his voice low, each word precise and cold. “Every conversation you’ve ever had with Taviani. Every time he’s been here. Every threat, veiled or otherwise. Dates. Times. Who was there. What was said.” His eyes hold mine, demanding. “Leave nothing out.”
So I do. Haltingly at first, then with growing detail as the memories surface. The first “friendly” offer over a year ago, disguised as concern for the neighborhood. The gradual pressure. The sudden rent hike justification. The anonymous code complaints starting right after I refused the second offer. The veiled threats about “accidents” befalling businesses that didn’t cooperate. I tell him about the fear that kept me awake at night, the feeling of being slowly suffocated, the desperate hope that community spirit would be enough.
As I speak, his stillness deepens. His jaw is clenched so tightly I can see the muscle standing out under his skin. Thewarmth in his eyes is completely gone, replaced by a glacial fury that makes my breath catch.
He listens with absolute focus, his gaze fixed on my face, absorbing every word, every nuance, like it’s critical game tape. He doesn’t interrupt. He just… absorbs. And the fire in his eyes burns brighter, hotter, with every piece of information I give him.
When I finally trail off, he pushes off the counter abruptly, straightening to his full height. He runs a hand through his hair. Then he looks down at me, his expression softening minutely, but the icy core remains.
“Okay,” he says, his voice still that unnervingly calm. “Okay, Holly. You don’t have to worry about this anymore.”
“What?” I whisper, searching his face. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he says, leaning down slightly, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that pins me in place, “that Tony Taviani just made the biggest mistake of his miserable life.” There’s no bravado in his tone. No anger, even. Just a cold, hard fact. “He threatened what’s mine. And I don’t tolerate threats.”
The words should sound melodramatic. Over the top. Like something from a cheesy action movie. But coming from Denton, in that flat, deadly calm voice, backed by the glacial fury in his eyes, they feel like a vow.
“Denton…” I start, unsure what to say. Reassure him? Tell him it’s not necessary? But the certainty in his eyes silences me. Hebelievesthis. He willdothis. For me. For Sugar Rush. The thought is overwhelming and… profoundly calming.
He leans in then, his lips capturing mine in a kiss. His arm wraps around my waist, pulling me flush against him. I melt into it, responding instinctively, the taste of him – coffee and cold air and that sharp, dangerous edge – flooding my senses.
He pulls back too soon, leaving me breathless, my lips tingling. His eyes scan my face, lingering on my lips, then meeting my gaze again.
And like a light switch, he goes back to only intense Denton rather than uber-intense Denton.
“Okay, now that we have that figured out… what should we do tonight?” he asks.
