Page 18 of Savage in the Sweets
Unfortunately, he catches me staring at the tight, v-shaped valley that perfectly compliments his well-defined abs.
Oops.
I force my eyes to the children who are splashing merrily in the shallow water. Two of the girls are barely able to doggy paddle, the other four are able to navigate the waters safely, but I make sure they all stay close.
Mr. Tracksuit’s son, Michael, is an adept swimmer for his age and begins showing off underwater somersaults and twists that could have only been taught with formal training. Which isn’t surprising considering his father owns a gym.
Another boy named Jacob, who April has been friends with since preschool, shows off by diving underneath the water, but he’s poor competition to Michael, who is now weaving in out of the girls’ legs, sometimes going a full minute without coming up for a breath.
I have to somehow figure out a way to tame this man who has set out to destroy my business. After just one school board meeting, he has me literally backed up against a wall, unsure of how I will continue on if the school decides to cut ties with me.
I’ll try to play nice, but if he comes at me again, all bets are off.
Because my eyes can’t help themselves, my gaze finds him again, and I realize that I’m not the only one struggling.
Oh, yeah—he’s all out ogling me.
And it’s obvious that he likes what he sees.
“A-hem,” I utter out to draw his attention.
His cheeks flush pink. I smirk.
I love calling this man out.
His eyes dart to mine, and he blinks half a dozen times as though he’s reprimanding his wayward eyeballs.
I position myself next to him, facing the children so they’re all within view.
I’m never going to have more ammo than I do now, so I decide to get to the point.
“I really think you need to lay off your campaign against my business,” I say bluntly.
He snickers. “Of course you’d want that.”
“It’s not something I want from you—I demand it.” I let him know I mean business by casting him a quick glare.
That falls on his washboard abs.
Shit!
“I’ll be at the next school board meeting if you’d like to debate me on it,” he says. “I’m sure you could get some local dentists to speak to your cause.”
His smug attitude is infuriating. What’s worse is the fact that he makes me feel like I’m some kind of low-life drug dealer, waiting on street corners for children to sell rocks of sugar to.
“You might need to call up a few people of your own to invite.”
He quirks a brow. “Yeah, and who would they be?”
“Local prostitutes,” I say in a low voice so none of the children can overhear me. “Perhaps they’ll be able to convince the school board to allow your cesspool business to operate in conjunction with the school, even though it promotes getting laid. Perhaps not.”
“That’s a gross exaggeration,” he says, his jawline tense and full of hostility.
“So is comparing me to a drug dealer.
Mr. Tracksuit says nothing, and after a full minute, I continue with. “Just back off, and help make this go away. I’ll offer a line of healthier treats so you can act like you’ve accomplished something. Everyone wins.”
“Except the children,” he finally replies.
