Page 88 of Between Love and Loathing
She shrugged. “If we’re discussing our meeting this afternoon, then tit for tat.”
I hummed. “Does that mean you’re going to pay me back the half a mil you spent today?”
“It’s for the good of your resort.” She lifted her chin like she would never say she was wrong. I enjoyed that about her, how she didn’t cower from me like most would.
“What about for the good of your bakery? You think your bakery deserves it over Valentino’s restaurant.”
She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she folded her elegant little fingers together and clenched them tight enough that I figured she was imagining strangling me. Maybe she’d even try it by the time this conversation was over.
“My bakery is close to the lobby. It needs to make a statement. Plus, my desserts are near perfection, which means the interior of my bakery should be also.”
“Confident tonight, huh?” I sat down and waved her forward. “Bake the best for me then.”
“I…” Her mouth snapped shut. “You know what? Fine.”
She didn’t even hesitate. She pulled ingredients from the cupboards, turned on the convection oven, and was mixing a batter within minutes. I watched her in awe and silence. I loved that here I got to see her without makeup, without the mask of the pushover she pretended to be for everyone. Here she was a masterpiece no one could replicate.
She could have fed me shit that night and I would have enjoyed every single bite of it because she baked with love and the tension in the air filled those cupcakes.
They’d taste like sex to me, I knew it. Mouthwatering, decadent sex. They’d be just as divine as she was.
When she set the timer and slid them in the oven, she finally locked eyes with me. “You know, if we’re going to fight about this floral arrangement, you should know that you can just change it to fit what’s best for you.”
I hummed. I didn’t want her to back down. I didn’t want to see the fire in her eyes dim at all. I wanted to push her to make her see her full potential. She deserved everything she wanted as long as she was proud enough to stand up for it. “Remember that bridge I built? You know they didn’t agree to it at first?”
“Okay.” She dragged out the word.
“I might be your boss, but you’re the artist. The customer doesn’t tell an artist what they want. Nor does a boss. You’re the artist. You’re the expert.”
She pursed her lips and my eyes dipped to them. Something charged both of us in that kitchen right then. Her pushing back, fighting me on my ideas of what was right versus wrong. “So, you’re saying the flowers were my choice?” She scoffed. “You’re obviously angry about it and honestly, I don’t agree. What about when there’s so many requests for something new that you have to bend to the will of who you’re selling to?”
I tsked. “Still your choice when you bend or if you don’t. Either way, we own our choices, and our art. We make the decisions. Not them. Don’t be a pushover when it comes to your art. Own it.”
She shook her head at me. “And what? Just own that you’ll like it when it’s installed?”
“Yes.”
“Even if I own that the floral arrangement is perfect for my bakery, it seemssomeone”—she pointed to me—“is going to be mad.” As she said it, her gaze trailed up and down my body as I got up to walk toward her. Before I did, I took off my suit jacket and unbuttoned the top of my white shirt before I rolled up my sleeves.
We let silence fill the air before I walked over to her, caged her into the island countertop and said, “You realize that a customer or a boss will always listen to you when you’re confident that you’re right, Clara? That they’ll actually reward you for steering them in the right direction?”
We were so close to one another now that she only had to whisper out, “You can’t possibly think what you’re saying is true. Haven’t you heard the phrase ‘the customer is always right?’”
“Of course, little fighter. It’s for those who aren’t willing to work to prove their idea was perfect. Want to test my theory?”
“I want to prove it wrong, if that’s what you’re asking.” Her breath trembled as she exhaled, looking up at me with eyes that were confused but also knowing.
She knew I was going to punish her or fuck her. She probably wasn’t sure which. I wasn’t either. But I wanted to see which way the night would go. I deserved that with her after the day we’d had.
“Good. I’ve missed my fake girlfriend while she took her time coming to talk with me about her frivolous tantrum today. And she’s wearing a sleep shirt that makes me want to feel what’s under it. Care to be my client?”
My little fighter didn’t fight at all. Our bodies were pulled to each other now, no use resisting it. I wanted to fuck her, and I knew she’d let me. Still, she shrugged like she wasn’t that interested and turned to the beeping oven. She’d only made a few cupcakes, and the convection oven cooked them quickly.
She pulled them out and set them in the freezer, then she grabbed the whipped cream and the poppy petals she’d made earlier from the fridge. After a few minutes, she pulled them out and I let her delicately assemble her presentation.
“You be the client first.” She handed me the cupcake. “I’ve updated the recipe. Tell me if they aren’t worthy.”
We stared at each other as I took one bite, and it was like my body surged to life tasting it. My dick hardened, my blood rushed, my taste buds practically sang her praises. She knew she had me. “They’ll fit the bakery,” I confirmed.
