He stands close enough that his sleeve brushes mine, dressed in clothes most people wouldn’t notice. A fedora hat, a festive sweater, and a red scarf that looks like something his grandmother made. He’s morphed into the kind of man people trust without thinking twice, blending into the crowd.
“Mr. Moseley, how are you today?”
He shrugs, handing me another brand of sugar just out of my reach.
“I’m running a few errands,” he says casually, but the hint in his tone is prevalent. “Making sure my contacts know what’s expected of them after the new year.” He raises a brow, that stupid mustache slightly twitching. “You making cookies?”
I nod, gulping in fear. “Have a Christmas party coming up.”
“Good. Good. You know, Ms. St. John, I’ve missed your smiling face around the shop. I was sad to see that closed sign on your door.”
“I’m rebranding,” I lie.
He laughs. “Is that what you call it? Do you think you’re protected with him? That I won’t find you wherever you are?”
“I’m not hiding.”
“That’s what they always say before they run.”
A woman hums to herself as she passes by us, her child whining for cereal he can’t reach in the cart. She shushes him and apologizes for his behavior as she passes us by.
Moseley smiles warmly at the woman, tipping his hat to her. “Cute kid.”
“Thanks,” she says with a smile. She’s completely oblivious of what’s going on.
“Christmas party, huh? And why wasn’t I invited?” he asks casually, dropping the sugar into my cart like he belongs there.
“You know why.”
He smirks, enjoying how uncomfortable I am. “How lovely,” he says, mouth setting flatly. “I hope you enjoy your little party while you can.” His voice lowers just enough so only I can hear the next part. “Especially since it’s the last one you’ll get to enjoy as a free woman.”
My fingers go numb as I push the cart forward, hoping he won’t follow.
He does.
We move further up the baking aisle side by side, like old friends shopping together. I reach for a bottle on the shelf, side-eyeing him to anticipate his next move.
“Vanilla extract,” he says thoughtfully. “Don’t cheap out on that. Real vanilla makes a difference.”
“I’m aware,” I reply flatly, grabbing the bottle with a shaking hand.
He chuckles softly. “Of course you are. You’ve always taken pride in your work.”
A man appears out of nowhere, reaching between us for a jar of nutmeg. Moseley steps back politely, smiling. “Excuse us,” he says kindly as the man quickly grabs the spice and disappears down the aisle.
Then, without looking at me, he says, “Running would be a mistake, Ms. St. John.”
My heart slams against my ribs.
“I’m not—” I start, but he cuts me off, his hand stopping my cart from moving even though he’s not even looking my way. When he finally turns to me, his gaze darkens, mouth pinching tight.
“Don’t,” he says quietly. “Don’t try to lie. It insults us both.”
When reach the end of the aisle, I stop my cart, pretending to check a list I no longer need.
“What do you want, Mr. Moseley?”
He sighs, like I’ve asked something tiresome. “To remind you of our contract,” he says. “The New Year is approaching, and your ownership transfers over to Mr. Nostra directly at midnight.
