Page 2 of Beautiful Cruelty

“Yep!” My cheeks flush at his unexpected praise.

No one'severnoticed these technical details before, let alone commented on them with such precision. Even Nathan dismissed my shoe designs as a "cute hobby." He preferred that I focus on dresses while he promised to get me the starting capital to open my own store.

So much for those promises,I think bitterly.

He nods. "Are they an engagement gift from your fiancé?"

Huh?

Oh right! Ugh! That stupid ring.

"Made them myself, actually. And it's ex-fiancé," I correct him on both counts, fighting the urge to twist at the stubborn band of metal again. "The ring seems more committed to the relationship than he was."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Was it recent?"

"About eleven hours and..." I glance at the clock behind him, "twenty-three minutes ago. But who's counting?"

"Not you."

"Not me."

His lips curve into the shadow of a smile that transforms his stern features, sparking something dangerous and thrilling in those storm-gray eyes.

"Before you ask." I hold my hand up to stop him from speaking. "It was his secretary."

"I wasn’t about to." He pauses, those storm-cloud eyes studying my face. "But Iwasabout to suggest that olive oil helps with stuck rings."

"Speaking from experience?"

"Let's just say I've had practice helping people out of... complicated situations. Speaking of which." Casually, he looks at Mrs. Klossner as she lays my dry cleaning down on the counter next to his. "Have you considered my offer for this place, Mrs. Klossner?"

Those words slam into me like a punch to the gut.

Wait, what?

"You can't sell, Mrs. K!" I protest before I can stop myself.

Both of them turn to look at me. I know I’m speaking out of place, but I can’t back down now.

Mrs. Klossner’s dry cleaner has always been a refuge for me. After I’d been forced to drop out of Seattle Pacific University to help save money for Mom’s chemotherapy treatments, Mrs. Klossner was more than happy to give me discarded materials so that I can still practice designing dresses and shoes. She’d offer me the use of her sewing machines, and would stay with me deep into the night to talk about anything, everything, and nothing.

When Mom lost her battle with cancer three years ago, Mrs. Klossner’s dry cleaner became almost a second home for me, and she a second Mom.

With my own upcoming marriage now circling the toilet bowl, I can’t bear the possibility of losing this place—and by extension—her as well.

I’ve already lost so much in the last three years.

"The price is fair." The man starts explaining before Mrs. Klossner can. "The store will offer more?—"

"Services? Enhanced value? Let me guess, 'synergy'?" I cut him off. "Save the MBA buzzwords. I've heard them all before."

"You seem to have a lot of opinions about business deals you're not involved in."

Whatever feelings I might’ve felt towards him earlier now disappear in an instant. I reach over the counter and snatch my dry cleaning, not caring that I'm probably wrinkling the hell out of it.

"This place has been here for three decades!" I gesture around the shop. "It's not just a number on a spreadsheet!"

"No," he agrees, surprising me. "It's a business that's been operating at a loss for the past eight years, with outdated equipment and rising maintenance costs. Mrs. Klossner deserves to retire without worrying about bankruptcy."

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