Oh my gosh, I think. What the actual hell is going on?
But I swallow hard and roll with it. “Takeout and a movie upstairs?”
Chapter 25
Denton
The bitter Chicago wind tries its best to pull the door to The Grind off its hinges. My agent, Paul, set this up under some flimsy cover about "potential sponsorship opportunities" for Taviani's developments. Like I'd ever plaster my face on one of his soulless glass boxes. But it got me the meeting and that's all that mattered.
He's already here. Sitting at a corner table, back to the wall, watching the door like he owns the place. Which, knowing him, he probably does or wants to. Tony Taviani. Hair slicked back, not a strand daring to be out of place. He sips something dark from a tiny porcelain cup, pinky finger extended like he's at a goddamn tea party. The sight of him sends a familiar surge of cold anger straight through me.
I weave through the clusters of people hunched over laptops. Taviani tracks my approach. His eyes are dark, calculating, missing nothing. He doesn't stand. Doesn't smile. Just watches me.
I slide into the chair opposite him. The metal legs scrape loudly on the tile floor. "Mr. Taviani."
"Denton Blake." His voice is smooth. "Chicago Blades' very own 'Wall.'" He sets his cup down with deliberate care. "Paulmentioned a sponsorship discussion? I must admit, I was… intrigued. Though surprised. I hadn't pegged you as a man interested in real estate branding."
"Skip the bullshit. I'm here about Holly James. About Sugar Rush."
One perfectly groomed eyebrow arches. "Sugar Rush? The little bakery on Wicker?" He takes a slow sip of his coffee. "What interest does a star defenseman have in a neighborhood bakery, Mr. Blake?”
He knows. Of course, he fucking knows. The photo is everywhere. He’s toying with me.
I lean forward, bracing my forearms on the small table. It forces him to look up slightly to meet my eyes. "You know exactly what interest I have. And you know why I'm here. Back off. Leave her alone. Leave the bakery alone."
Silence hangs for a beat. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away. Then, a low sound escapes him. Not quite a chuckle. More like a hum of genuine amusement.
"Back off?" He repeats the words slowly, savoring them. "Mr. Blake, I'm a businessman. I acquire properties. I develop them. I create value. Sugar Rush sits on a parcel of land that is critical to a very significant revitalization project. A project that will bring jobs, housing, and significant tax revenue to the city." He spreads his hands, palms up.
"Ms. James has been offered fair market value. More than fair, considering the… structural liabilities of the building." His gaze sharpens. "Repeatedly. Her refusal to engage rationally is the problem here. Not me."
“Your 'fair value' is a joke," I snap back and lean in further, lowering my voice to a growl meant only for him. "This stops now. Or you deal with me."
But instead of reassessing the situation and backing down, he smiles. A thin, cold curve of the lips that doesn't touch his eyes. It’s the smile of a predator who’s just spotted a weakness.
"Deal with you?" He tilts his head, studying me. "Mr. Blake, let me be perfectly clear. I know exactly who you are. I know your stats, your contract value, your reputation on the ice." He pauses, letting that sink in.
"And I know exactly who Holly James is to you." The way he says her name, casual, dismissive, sets my teeth on edge. "That little protest? The charming photo op? Very touching…"
He leans back in his chair, steepling his perfectly manicured fingers. "Here's the thing about public perception, Mr. Blake. It's fragile. Easily shaped. A story about a wealthy, high-profile athlete using his influence to pressure a legitimate developer… to protect his new girlfriend's struggling business…" He lets the sentence hang in the air between us. "Well, that wouldn't look good for anyone, would it? The league frowns on… distractions.”
He’s not threatened at all. He sees Holly – my connection to her – not as a deterrent, but as leverage. A vulnerability he can exploit. This is a different game, played with different rules, and he’s the seasoned veteran.
"You think dragging her name through the mud helps your project?" I manage, keeping my voice level through sheer force of will. Inside, the protective fury is roaring, but I can't show it. Not here. Not to him. That’s what he wants. "Neighbors love that bakery. They’ll see right through it."
"Will they?" Taviani counters smoothly, picking up his espresso cup again. "Or will they see a local business owner using her famous new boyfriend to avoid paying her bills? To fight progress?"
He takes a slow sip, his dark eyes watching me over the rim. "My projectisprogress. Sugar Rush is a relic. A charming one, I grant you, but a relic nonetheless. Ms. James clinging to it…aided and abetted by her hockey player boyfriend…" He shakes his head slowly. "It just looks desperate. And frankly, a little sad."
The dismissal in his tone, the casual way he reduces Holly’s dream to sentimentality and stubbornness, ignites a fresh wave of fury. My hand clenches into a fist under the table. I want to flip this fucking table. I want to wipe that smug look off his face. But I don't. Because he’s right about one thing: the optics would be terrible. For Holly. For the bakery. I came here to shield her, and instead, I might have painted a bigger target on her back.
"I won’t back down on this," I say, the words gritted out. It’s a bluff. And I’m sure he probably knows it.
“I'm simply outlining the reality of the situation. A reality Ms. James seems determined to ignore." He places his cup down on the table. "I understand you feel… protective." He stands, buttoning his suit jacket with precise movements. "But consider the cost. PR can be a real bitch. Are you sure this silly little bakery is worth the headache?"
He doesn't wait for an answer. Just turns and walks away, melting into the crowd near the register with the ease of a man who owns every room he enters.
Worth the headache? The question echoes. Holly’s smile flashes in my mind. Her laugh. The warmth of her curled against me. The fierce light in her eyes.
