Page 1 of Dirty Arrangement

Chapter One

ALICE

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NOTHING SMELLS BETTERthan fresh-baked cinnamon rolls.

And, not to toot my own horn, but the ones I make are some of the best in the city. It's not an easy task—I wake up before the crack of dawn, do a few jumping-jacks to pump myself up, then stumble into my shower. I also chug a pot of coffee.

It's not easy, but when you run your own bakery, you do whatever it takes to create delicious food.

Wiping my forearm over my cheeks, I look down at the tray of iced-buns I just set in my display case. The sky is turning orange outside. It's pretty, and as tired as I am, I never get sick of that view.It'd be nice to share this with someone,I think, eyeing all the work I need to finish doing before I open Simply Sweet. Not for the first time, I wish for a second set of hands.Maybe someday I can afford an assistant.

I've been running the bakery for two years. The business is small, but I'm proud of every flour coated counter top. I've worked here my whole life. When my mentor passed away, he left Simply Sweet to me. That memory always brings a sharp spike of sadness. This place is special for a lot of reasons, and I'm determined to make sure it succeeds.

After another hour of prep, I slip behind the cash register, bending low to make sure everything in the glass case looks beautiful. The cookies are stacked, the cake balls are bright and pink, and everything has that glossy freshness that makes for a good instagram photo. I snap a few pictures and post them online. I only started the account a week ago, after some prompting from my friend who understands social media way better than me. It's helped me get some extra foot traffic in my door which is exciting.

At this rate, those past due bills will be a breeze...

I flip the sign to 'open' then spot my coffee machine in the corner. What's one more cup? Or two? Or five? Okay, yeah, I have an addiction. At least it's a socially acceptable one.

Smoothing my dark hair behind my ears, I pour coffee into my zombie-unicorn mug until it's steaming. It smells amazing, but it needs something. Humming, I stir in ribbons of thick cream until my drink is pale gold. I don't need sugar, but I can never go without cream.

I lean behind the counter, sipping and enjoying the silence. The cup is empty when my first customer arrives. She's a regular; an older woman who always orders a box of donuts for her office. After her comes a young man, then a pair of teens, then a school mom with a flock of children. I fall into the flow of a normal day, smiling and offering both pleasantries and pastries.

As I finish wrapping a bag of cookies, I spot something I'm not used to seeing. A candy apple red car—the kind of flashy model I'd never imagine being able to afford—is parked in my front lot. I don't think a car as nice as this haseverbeen parked at my bakery.

Then the driver exits the vehicle, and I... I just gawk.

Wide shoulders fill out a pale gray suit. The shadow he casts as he strolls is long—he's tall, for sure. I can't see his eyes behind his glossy Ray-Bans, but his skin has a touch of bronze glow, like he just returned from a trip to a tropical island.

A handsome, clearly rich stranger, is walking into my bakery.

Am I about to get punked by some television show?

The tiny bell over my door tinkles as he enters. I go stiff, unable to act casual as I realize I'malonein my bakery with this intimidating stranger. His long fingers nudge his sunglasses up his forehead, revealing vibrant green eyes that scan my bakery up and down, looking at everything except me.

My unease morphs into irritation. His casual way of ignoring me is getting under my skin.

When he bends at the waist, peering into the glass case in front of me, I set down my empty coffee mug on the top of it hard enough that it goesBANG.It's enough to get him to glance upwards. I shiver under the intensity of his fierce gaze.

He stands to his full height, looming over me, considering me like I'm one of the pastries on display. It makes me feel exposed; no one has ever given me a hungry look like this. Not even my past boyfriends. I never thought of myself as the sultry-sexy-type, I'm more of a girl next door. Which is fine with me, my focus has been my career for as long as I can remember. So this... this is new. I like it, and I hate it, too.

“Can I help you?” I ask, cocking my head.

“Well, that depends.” His voice is thick, like freshly stirred caramel. He slips a hand into the pocket of his expensive jacket, sliding some folded papers onto the counter. “I assume you're the owner, correct?”

“Uh, yeah. I'm Alice Brighton.” I eye the papers warily. “And you are?”

“Forgive me. I suppose you should know me by name from here on out. I'm Thomas Volt, though you'll just call me Mr. Volt.”

“Uh, excuse me? I'll call youwhat?” My veins burn with my rising anger. Who does this guy think he is? The paper crinkles under my fingers. With a sense of foreboding, I unfold it. The words inside are crisp black on stark ivory. It has a professional feel to it, and instantly I realize these are legal papers. Scanning the words, my stomach twists. “What is this?”

“I think it's clear. Read the words again, if you have to.”

My grip begins to tremble, the edges of the form wrinkling with my tension. The letter spells out the situation; I missed my last rental payment for the bakery byone day, and as such, the bank has sold it to someone else. Someone who was rich enough to pay for the entire property outright.

Lifting my eyes, I stare at Thomas in a combination of dull pain and sour disbelief. “You bought my bakery?”

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