“How do you know about that?” Every alarm bell in my brain sounds. The bakery is my dream. It’s my ticket out of the grocery store. I’ve clawed some savings from my meager checks all year just to have enough for a down payment.
“I have friends. In your real estate agent’s office.” The alert in my gut moves from orange to full code red.
“That’s stalking.” And probably a hundred other offenses, all of which any of her army of on-retainer attorneys could get her out of with one phone call.
“It’sprofessional courtesy,” she says. “And it’s not stalking. You’re just playing hard to get.”
“I’m sure that’s what Glenn Close said to Michael Douglas.” I am 100 percent sure Mal isn’t above boiling a rabbit if it’ll get my attention.
“Who?” She frowns.
“Fatal Attraction?” I add.
She just slow blinks. Mal doesn’t watch movies—old classics or any other kind. Also, she only listens to music that’s in commercials. I should’ve run for the hills when she admitted that. I didn’t. My fault.
“It’s a movie.” I sigh, irritated. “And, anyway, I didn’t ask you to help me with the bakery.”
“I know. Iwantto.” She reaches out and clutches my hand. Her palms are cold, fingers frigid. It reminds me of the time she dug her frozen feet between my legs in bed. I should’ve known then that her heart was ice. Couldn’t pump blood to her extremities.
I snatch my hand away.
“I can get them to sell,” she offers, overly glossed lips parting. “Then I’d own the building and you could stay thererent free.”
“Mal, I don’t want your help. I don’t need your help.”
She pouts, jutting out her lower lip, which looks like it got an extra boost of collagen recently. She can afford a whole team of medical professionals to keep her looking perfect. It’s all a facade. “Of course you need my help.”
“Mal.” The word’s a warning.
“Okay, okay, hands off the bakery.” She grins at me, and I can only pray she means it. “If…”
I knew there’s a catch. There’s always a catch.
“If what?” I squint.
“If you invite me to the Golden Chef Awards. I know you were nominated for Best Pastry Chef this year.”
Yes, and right up until this moment, I was happy about that. It’s a huge honor, and the winner gets bragging rights and $100,000.
“And I know you need a plus-one.”
“No.” The idea of Mal being my date for anything—ever—makes me want to poke my eyes out with the blunt piping tip of an icing bag.
“Come on. Please? It’ll be fun.” She leans over the counter, showing me her cleavage. I’m not interested. Might as well be the Valley of Death.
“No.”
Mal frowns. “Come on.Please.” She pauses. “You know I hate to say please.” She toys with a strand of her platinum-blond hair. Her bloodred fingernails are filed down to points, making her look like a vampire. Because she is one. She feeds on human souls. If I could somehow rescind her invitation to my life, I would.
“No. I don’t know how many times I need to say this, but we broke up. Because of what you did last Valentine’s Day.”
Even thinking about the debacle that was last Valentine’s Day makes me want to hurl.
Her lower lip juts farther out.
“You know I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You slept with your brother-in-law,” I say, exasperation making my throat feel thick. “So what did you think that would accomplish?”
