Page 82 of Not Your Average Vixen
“That’s a complicated question,” he answered as Denise raised an eyebrow—not for a second falling for his legalese.
“This is your bakery, Uncle Scooter?” Carly asked, coming to his side.
What was he supposed to do? Lie to her?
Shit!
And what was he supposed to say? These two sweet old people didn’t keep up with the times and couldn’t maintain the financial demands of their life’s work?
He patted Carly’s shoulder. “Technically, I own Cupid Bakery along with Ernie and Agnes Angel. I, however, have a larger stake and can act unilaterally.”
“Uni-what?” the little girl replied.
He started to give her some bullshit answer when Bridget’s jaw dropped.
“You’re kidding? This has got to be a joke!” she said, clearly having put the pieces together.
He loosened his collar. Damn, it had gotten hot in here.
Feeling his cheeks heat, he held Bridget’s gaze. Sure, she’d given him side-eye, rolled eyes, and glared at him more times than he could count. He’d liked all that—their usual tête-à-tête, toe to toe, Birdie versus Scooter battle of wills. But this look, this look made him want to crumple up into a ball. Yes, she was angry, but he could deal with anger. This look cut straight to the bone. Visceral disgust burned in her eyes like nothing he’d ever seen—or felt.
Aside from his connection to the Abbotts, he hadn’t felt all that much in many, many years.
And this was why he didn’t allow business to become personal.
He squared his jaw.
He’d spent a lifetime closing off his heart and muting his emotions.
She would not get to him. He simply wouldn’t allow it.
“It’s no joke at all, young lady. I’m surprised to see you here, Mr. Rudolph,” Agnes said, still smiling as if she weren’t about to lose everything.
Bridget gasped. “You make them call you, Mr. Rudolph?”
He threw up his hands. “That’s just what they call me! I don’t make anyone do anything!”
“Besides buy their business out from under them to make a buck,” she threw back.
Holy holly and the ivy hell! The mittens were coming off this vixen!
“We know of your bakeries. There used to be one by us in Boston,” Lori said, throwing a worried glance at her sister.
If he didn’t want her to marry his best friend, he’d be grateful she’d taken the microscope off of him—at least for the moment.
Tom nodded. “We wondered what happened when it closed suddenly.”
Soren glanced at the ovens. Maybe it was cooler in there because it had become blisteringly hot in this shop.
“I run an outreach center for homeless teens, and Cupid Bakery always donated baked goods to our center,” Denise added.
What he wouldn’t give for about two hundred of Tanner’s “special recipe” gummy bears. And even that probably wouldn’t be enough to improve this shit show.
He’d never had the different parts of his life intersect like this in one giant cookie-infused cluster fuck.
He’d done a damn good job compartmentalizing his life. His parents existed in a box. A box he tried like hell never to open. His work occupied another. His friendship with Tom and his relationship with the Abbotts were completely separate from those realms. He’d incorporated a very specific set of behaviors for work and shutting out his parents—the two places where he couldn’t let his guard slip, not even for a second.
It wasn’t that hard.
