Page 2 of The Mob Boss's Bride
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Yes. Every order from Sweet Ferns is handmade."
"By you personally?"
"This order, yes. I handle all the specialty requests."
He picks up a petit four, examining the delicate sugar work before taking a bite. His eyes close briefly, and I see a flash of something almost like pleasure cross his face. When he looks at me again, there's a new intensity that makes heat climb my neck.
"How old is your bakery?"
"Three years. I opened it after culinary school."
He nods, like I've confirmed something. "You'll deliver all my orders personally from now on."
My mouth opens and closes. "I—usually we have delivery staff who?—"
"No." Just that. One word, brooking no argument. "You. No one else."
"Mr. V, I don't normally?—"
"Atlas." He steps closer, and suddenly the kitchen feels much smaller. "Just Atlas."
I nod, afraid that if I speak, my voice will betray me. Up close, I can see a scar that cuts through his left eyebrow, the stubble darkening his jaw, the way his pupils have expanded to almost swallow the iris.
"Say it." His voice drops lower.
"Atlas," I whisper, the name foreign on my tongue.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a money clip that makes my eyes widen. Peeling off several bills, he extends them toward me.
"For the pastries. And your time."
I reach for the money, our fingers brushing for an electric second. Counting it later will reveal a thousand dollars—nine hundred more than the cost of the order.
"This is too much." I try to hand some back, but he closes my fingers around the bills, his hand engulfing mine.
"It's what your work is worth to me." There's something proprietary in the way he says it that makes my stomach flip. "You'll come again next week. Same day, same time."
It's not a request. It's not even an order. It's simply what will happen, as inevitable as the tide.
"I have to get back to the bakery," I say, desperate to escape the gravity of his presence.
He walks me to the door, his hand hovering near the small of my back without quite touching. The almost-contact is more unsettling than if he'd actually touched me.
"Next week, Fern." The way he says my name makes it sound like a secret between us. "Come yourself. Not an employee. Not a friend. You."
I nod, not trusting my voice, and hurry to my car. My hands shake as I put the key in the ignition. In the rearview mirror, Ican see him watching from the doorway, still and focused as a statue.
I'm halfway down the winding driveway when I hear it—sharp cracks in the distance that could be construction, could be a car backfiring. Could be gunshots.
I press the gas harder, my heart thundering. It's only when I reach the main road that I realize I've been holding my breath. Only when I pull into the bakery parking lot that I realize I've agreed to return to the wolf's den, to the man with eyes that devour and hands that could break me.
And worse—part of me is already counting the days.
two
. . .
Atlas
