Page 2 of Broken Pact

I press my hand to my chest in a paltry attempt to stop it from beating right out of my ribcage. Fear sprinkles on top of the shock like some kind of emotional sundae. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Strange because I was about to ask you the same thing,” he replies, leaning his big shoulder against the wall and propping one ankle over the other.

I don’t tear my gaze away from him as I edge toward the counter. It has the added bonus of putting more space between us. I set my staging things on the counter, trying to covertly look for something I can turn into a weapon. “How did you get in here? I’m not open to the public yet.”

He arches a bushy brown brow at me. “You’re always open for me, girlie.”

It’s the casual innuendo that pushes some of the fear away, washing it clean to leave room for my indignation to take root. My hand falls from my chest and lands on my hip without conscious thought. “Excuse me?”

He tongues the toothpick tucked in the corner of his mouth and circles his finger in the air. “I own this.”

I shake my head, my brows folding toward one another. “No, I do.”

“Nah, girlie. You rent this space. From me.” He tsks.

My mouth drops open and my brain glitches, confusion overriding other emotions. But soon enough, it clears for dread to slink in like some kind of thief in the night. “Mr. Wright sold the building?”

“Nah, Uncle Joey kicked the bucket a few days ago. So I’m your new daddy now.”

I recoil, my gaze searching out the location of my favorite chef’s knife on instinct. I mean, if he was a strawberry, he should be scared shitless of my julienne skills. But outside of that, I’m not some kind of knife-wielding expert. I’m also not one to leave knives laying around, unless it’s for a prop. Goddamn type A personality trait is going to be the death of me one of these days.

But not today.

Because I’m wearing sensible shoes like my dad always taught me. Having two older brothers meant I was never the strongest or the biggest, so I had to be the quickest.

He clocks my movement easily, tsking loud enough I can hear it over Taylor singing. “Nah, I can see what you’re thinking. And I’m here to tell you, it won’t do you any good. So don’t even try.”

“Spoken like a true psychopath,” I mutter under my breath. Louder, I say, “Oh yeah? And what’s that?” I ignore his warning and take a step toward the glint of metal out of the corner of my eye. An icing spatula. I don’t reach for it, but it’s within reaching distance. An important distinction.

It’s not as sharp as a chef’s knife, but it is metal. And it’s pretty much my only option outside of using the ring light tripod like a bat. My sixth sense is going off like fireworks on the Fourth of July. There’s something off about him—about the whole situation.

“I’m not gonna hurt you.” He trails off a little, and I hear the word without him uttering a sound. Today. “Why would I jeopardize my new favorite tenant?” He muses, arching a brow and dragging his hand over his beard. It’s dark brown with spots of gray, a little greasy-looking, and long enough to just touch his tee.

“You’re legally obligated to inform me of any ownership changes via email and letter.”

“Ah, so you’ve read your contract, good. That makes this part so much easier,” he says, casually strolling around the room. He glances at the empty walls and pauses to look at the lines and shapes of blue painter’s tape across the floor.

When he trails off, I know he’s fishing for something. I grit my teeth and ask, “What’s that?”

He whistles, and like trained dogs, two men stroll in the front door, which is definitely not locked anymore. Guess that explains how this guy walked in here.

“What’s your name?” I ask the first guy with the beard.

“I already told you: your new daddy.”

The two lapdogs guffaw as they stroll inside the bakery, their boots thumping against the wood floor. It reminds me of some kind of war drums from a movie I watched. The three of them look like a coordinated trio without really matching. It’s the air of thinly veiled violence that shimmers around them, bold and deep-red.

The guy in the skull tee shuffles forward a step, craning his neck around to inspect the room. “What do we got here, boss? Some kind of restaurant?”

“Aye, Ernie,” the ringleader with a beard says. “But that’s not the real prize.” He looks at me, the insinuation clear.

I don’t buckle underneath the weight of their collective gaze, no matter how much I want to turn away. I’ve withstood far worse than the unwelcome perusal of three strange men in my life.

“We’re done here. Get the fuck out of my bakery.” I’m proud of how calm I am in my delivery. If they think they struck the jackpot with some wilted and weeping flower, they’re sorely mistaken.

I'm not a fragile peony. I’m a goddamn willow tree.

“You tell her we own her now, boss? Because she didn’t seem to get the memo,” Ernie drawls, staring at me with entirely too much interest.

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