Page 16 of Sweet Surrender

“I’ll remember that for next time I meet you for the first time.”

“Funny.”

“I try,” he murmurs.

Silence stretches between us as I let it sink in that Jase Gizmodo is on the other end of the phone. And not just on the other end, but the man actively sought out my phone number to call me. But why?

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but I don’t have any stunning revelation to share with you as to who I am. I’m not famous. I don’t do any surprising parlor tricks to wow your friends and make them like me. Hell, I don’t even know what I’m saying right now . . .”

“No tricks needed. I like who you are or I wouldn’t be calling.”

“And why is that again? The you calling part.”

“Because you mentioned needing money to save your business—the cookie bakery, I presume.”

“You’ve presumed right.” Those words are so hard to say. Failure isn’t an easy thing to admit.

I wait for him to ask why, to question why I’d partially put my faith and future in another person’s hands—much the same way I’ve questioned it every minute of every day since I walked in on Paul and the bimbo—but Jase doesn’t.

“Okay, well, I might have a way, an opportunity, for you to earn what you need to help you stay afloat.”

“That sounds shady as shit. ‘Earn what I need’ spoken from a man I just met.”

He barks out a laugh. “You sure don’t disappoint, do you?”

“What . . .” Does that mean? That I don’t disappoint? But the thought dies because I’m still trying to focus on the opportunity he’s hinting at that will allow me to earn what I need.

And this is where my brain needs to take a rest. I’m a baker. He’s a famous musician. The man is calling you for cookies. Probably a lot of cookies. That’s the only reasonable answer for this very bizarre, flirty, and coded conversation.

“How big is the order?” I ask.

“Order?”

“Yes. How many cookies do you need? I’m short on staff and supplies—hence my off-the-cuff comment about needing money,” I say to simply save face. “So it just depends on the timeline and quantity needed if I could take your order.”

“I don’t want your cookies, Hendrix.” The way he says those six words sounds like the most seductive refusal I’ve ever heard. He laughs. “Yes, that sounded just as bad as we both think it did.”

“Glad I wasn’t the only one thinking that. But I am wondering if I should be offended that you don’t like baked goods.” I pause.

“Something tells me that no single cookie order will net you the kind of cash you muttered at the coffee shop.”

“Oh. Okay. So no cookies then?”

“No.”

“Then . . . what?”

He clears his throat. “I can’t exactly tell you.”

“You’re offering me an opportunity to make a considerable amount of money but you can’t tell me what that is? You do realize that’s—”

“Weird. Strange. Yes. And totally not my idea, but Legal says in order to talk about it, they’d need you to sign some documents first to ensure confidentiality is kept.”

“A non-disclosure agreement?”

“Yes.”

“Just to talk about whatever it is you want to talk about?”