Page 86 of Sugar

“Oh. Right. Where do you get the iced coffee from?”

He turned a quick glare my way before returning his focus to the road. “Thatwas your question?”

I nodded.

His heavy sigh was for show. “You played it up like it was something serious.”

“I learned it from watching you, Tyrant.”

Easton didn’t look displeased about that. “Fair enough.”

“And this question is serious.”

“You know what I mean. I was expecting a question about our arrangement.”

I waved a hand and forced my voice to be as dismissively nonchalant. “Oh, no, I already decided to say yes to that.”

“You did?” He kept driving, but I got the distinct impression he would’ve pulled over if it wouldn’t cause a pileup.

“Yup.”

“With the new terms?”

“Yup,” I repeated.

If I’d been on the fence about my final decision, Easton’s smile wouldn’t have nudged me off it. It would’ve catapulted me. It was more than his usual smirk or trace of what could possibly be categorized as a smile. It was a full-on, insanely hot grin.

“I’m glad. Wish you would’ve told me when we were heading to dinner and not a boring party that I’d already rather not attend, but I’m still glad.” He glanced over, and I could’ve sworn his focus was on my own smile, but it was impossible to tell in the flickering streetlights. “If you do think of questions—about us and not coffee—make sure you ask.”

“Got it,” I said. “But you still haven’t answered my question. It’s the best coffee I’ve ever had.”

“I’m not telling. You want the coffee, you have to keep me around.”

“Manipulative,” I muttered, actively ignoring the voice in my head. The one that was repeating his words on a loop.

About us.

Keep me around.

Oh hell.

Well, Easton hadn’tbeen wrong.

The party was boring. Like, excruciatingly, dreadfully, on-the-verge-of-slipping-into-a-comaboring.

I’d assumed I would feel like a kid in a candy store surrounded by so many high-ranking politicians, city officials, and prominent personalities. Not that I thought they would be openly discussing scandals or shady business dealings, but I thought there might be at least some boastful storytelling. Reminiscing about a wild case or airing grievances about the thankless job, like a scene out of a TV drama.

But life wasn’t TV.

If there were exciting conversations taking place, it was hard to overhear them because the party itself seemed to be having an identity crisis. It felt more like an upscale dinner service of individual tables and not a cohesive celebration. There was very little mingling, and even less talk about work. When there was, it was nothing scandalous or even entertaining. Everything I overheard was polite small talk, family discussions, or golf plans.

Golf, the most boring of the sports.

Beyond that letdown was the even worse fact that the food sucked. It wasn’t that the Justice Unrestrained dinner had set a high bar. Okay, that was also true, and I’d purposefully skippedlunch in anticipation of a similar meal. But it plain and simply sucked. Every course was a tiny portion of some statement dish with funky plating. Beyond the taste, the size of the party far exceeded the capabilities of a dinner like that. Hot dishes were cold by the time they were served. Cold dishes were tepid. Foam dishes were puddles on tiny plates, and everything was soggy.

I clearly wasn’t the only one who thought so.

Food was either politely choked down or mixed around the plate to appear picked at. The servers looked frazzled. The chef was heard shouting from the back more than once. Even the man of the hour looked unhappily resigned at a nearby table while his wife fussed about like a moth let loose in a lamp warehouse.

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