Page 255 of Hate Mates

No banks would have me, and the little bit of cash that I inherited from Mom went into bringing the bakery up to code. Mom was a great baker, but she was an artist at heart. And artists don’t always concern themselves with keeping their equipment up to date.

The ovens were old and two of them needed replacing. The furnace needed replacing too, and unfortunately, I found hills of unpaid bills.

I couldn’t bear the thought of losing the place, of giving up on her dream. Besides, her dream had becomemydream. I love baking as much as she did. Customers love my products—almond croissants, spiced peach tarts, and, of course, red velvet cake are my specialties. I expanded by opening for lunch, adding a few tables and a takeout menu. Fresh deli meats on fresh-baked white, rye, and sourdough.

Business was good at first…until that damned Big-Mart went up.

If Mom hadn’t left me with a pile of debt, I would’ve been able to see it through.

But I was starting underwater, and when Malcolm came in my bakery four months ago and ordered a ham and swiss on rye with dill pickle and salt-and-vinegar chips plus two red velvet cakes, he seemed like the answer to my prayers.

He turned out to be the devil in disguise.

Malcolm was a businessman—that much was clear from his tailored suit and his shiny cufflinks. He was charming too, or so he seemed. And of course my eyes were red from my recent cry over yet another unpaid invoice I’d discovered.

He was a lifeline, thrown to me just in time.

And I was naïve.

Nah. I knew everything wasn’t as it seemed, but I was desperate. So desperate that I took what Malcolm offered. Signed his contract.

I may as well have signed it in my blood.

The hours pass slowly. Nine o’clock. Ten.

Then the jingle of the bell.

I walk to the door, my nerves on edge.

It’s not Malcolm, as I suspected.

Instead, a broad-shouldered man with dark hair and piercing blue eyes stares through the glass straight at me.

I gulp as I turn the deadbolt and open the door.

He’s wearing jeans and a leather jacket, and his face…

God, he’s good-looking.

But as handsome as he is, there’s a coldness about him.

“Evening,” the stranger says, approaching the counter.

He doesn’t take off his leather jacket, and I can see a distinct bulge beneath it.

He’s packing, of course. What did I expect? Will he try to kill me when he finds out I don’t have enough money?

He glances around the bakery—the empty tables and chairs, the entry to the dark kitchen, the counter and glass cases where the remainder of today’s baked goods sit.

I swallow hard and try to keep my voice steady. “Good evening.”

“You’re Rachel?” he asks, though he clearly already knows the answer. He leans on the counter, his gaze unsettlingly intense.

I nod, gathering every ounce of courage I possess. “Yes. And you are?”

He chuckles. “Doesn’t matter who I am, sweetheart. I’m just the messenger.”

I walk behind the counter, reach under the cash register, and pull out the black pouch. It feels heavy in my hand. My last resort. I slide it across the counter toward him.

---