Page 11 of Knot Your Sugar Rush
But also... he’s not wrong.
“Anything else you’d like to critique while you’re here?” I ask sweetly.
“Plenty. But I’ll pace myself.”
I bark a laugh before I can stop myself. “Wow. You’re charming.”
Dane glares. I grin.
And for a moment, the tension shifts—twists—into something else.
“Jamie said that out of the three co-owners, you’d be the tough sell,” I add. “I can see why.”
His mouth twitches. “I’m not a sell. I’m the one who keeps things from falling apart.”
“And I’m the one trying to build something.”
We lock eyes.
Fireworks. Static. Something slow and hot rising under my skin.
Dane blinks first.
“Well,” he says. “Let’s see if you can.”
And despite everything—my messy heart, his stormy eyes—I think he’s already curious.
Which is exactly the kind of dangerous spark I wasn’t expecting today.
He takes another lap around the room, pausing by the front window.
“You’re facing west,” he says. “Gets golden light in the late afternoon. Good for window displays.”
I blink. “That’s... actually a helpful observation.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I mean, you did start by pointing out all my flaws.”
“I started by making sure you don’t have a lawsuit on your hands when someone pulls a shelf down on themselves.”
“Touché.”
He walks to the table I’ve been fussing with for the past twenty minutes. Tilts it slightly.
“There. That’s your angle.”
I look. Damn it. He’s right.
He catches my expression and smirks.
“I hate that you’re good at this,” I grumble.
“You’ll live.”
We end up working side by side for over an hour. Him checking the shelf stability and grabbing his drill from his truck like he justhappensto keep it on him. Me fussing with labels and layout while we volley soft barbs back and forth.
Somewhere in the middle of arguing about bin height and kid-accessibility, he crouches to adjust a screw and mutters, “if you put the sour ropes that low, you’ll get a toddler riot.”
