Page 17 of Sweet Surrender

“Yes.”

“Again . . . you’re aware how odd this sounds?”

“I am. But I’m also aware how easy it is in my line of work to discuss something with someone and then have it splashed all over the internet because the best gossip goes to the highest bidder.”

“Like I’d even know who to or how to sell your juicy story.”

“You’d be surprised how quickly people come out of the woodwork and what they offer when they know you’re associated with me.”

That very fact is scary and probably truer than I want to acknowledge. And still . . . very weird to be asked this.

“Is whatever it is you want to do, or me to do, or talk about me doing, illegal?”

“No.”

“And yet you’re calling me, a woman you just met . . .”

“Look, I know it sounds crazy, but there’s a situation and my lawyer and team told me I needed someone to help me with it. They made their own suggestions and none of them called to me in the way you did.”

“Called to you?”

“Yes. You were the first person I thought of.”

“Why?”

“I’m known for being impulsive.” There’s humor in his voice but also a good dose of honesty, if I’m reading his tone correctly.

“But we only just met. You don’t even know me. I could be a serial killer or a stalker.”

“True. You could be although in order to stalk me you’d have to know who I was, and I didn’t exactly get that vibe then or now. I think the boyfriend would have been axed first if that was the case, and you were on the phone with him so we all know he’s alive.”

“There’s time yet,” I grumble as he laughs.

“And this is why I like you.”

“Enough to ask me to sign an NDA to talk about things that we can’t talk about so that I can—”

“Yes. Please. Are you trying to talk me out of not liking you, because if you are, you’re starting to do a good job of it.”

“Way to sweep a girl off her feet,” I tease.

“So?” he asks, and the hope in the word hangs on the line. I look around at my bakery, at the blood, sweat and tears I’ve put into this place so far, and acknowledge the real fear that I might lose it all very soon if something doesn’t change.

Maybe this chance meeting is the change I didn’t know I needed.

“Tell me something,” I say.

“Only if I can get a yes or a no after I tell you.”

“My name . . . why did you say it was fitting?”

“Jimi Hendrix was ballsy for his time. A little out there, complicated, daring, and beautiful all at the same time. That was also my first impression of you.”

Of all the things I expected him to say, that was most definitely not it. I hate that tears are welling in my eyes from the answer. How is it that someone has seen me so clearly in such a short time? And that I love that.

“Yes,” I say.

“Yes, you’ll come tomorrow?”