Page 27 of Decadence

“You’re such a dork,” Cleo laughed, clearly not taking her seriously.

“Please tell me it was silver elves,” Emmett whispered conspiratorially. “They’re very interesting. I’ll bet they’re like that thousand-credit wine pairing Cleo offers you at the start of your meal. It’ll be heavenly for a moment, but then you realize you’re in way over your head, and you’re probably going to get ruined.”

“Let’s get to work,” Sienna snapped, not wanting to hear another word about fucking Kordolians.

And that was how things had gotten back to normal.

Three days had passed since she’d returned, and the Whisk and Pin was back to full service, with a line out the door and every table full.

Sienna had been relived to learn that while she was away, Cleo, Emmett, and her evening waitress and good friend, Eva, had devised a limited menu. For breakfast, there were the cinnamon scrolls and croissants that Sienna had prepared ahead of time and put in the freezer. All they’d had to do was pop them in the oven, and the delicious aroma would waft out the store, enticing people in from the cold.

A selection of simple but flavorsome tapas and both sweet and savory muffins and delicious sourdough grills, all prepared to Sienna’s exact recipe, were offered for lunch, along with the best coffee in the city and a carefully curated wine and cocktail list.

A total disaster had been averted.

She owed them, big time.

And the last thing she wanted to do was drag them into her private little hell. The terrible ordeal she’d endured—none of that should touch them, ever. That was hers and hers alone to deal with.

Damn it.

Sienna slapped the ball of dough onto the bench a little more forcefully than was necessary. A knot of anger twisted inside her chest. She knew it was futile, impotent anger; the ones who had caused her all this trouble were either dead or about to be dead at the hands of the Kordolians that had rescued her.

At Ikriss’s orders, no doubt.

As Sienna moulded the dough into a neat ball and placed it into a warm metal bowl so it could rise, Cleo appeared in the kitchen entrance, looking completely freaked out.

That was rare.

Cleopatra Reid was tall and graceful, with regal features—oval face, long straight nose, strong cheekbones, full lips. She had deep bronze skin and often wore her lush coils in a colorful silk headwrap that provided a bright counterpoint to her sleek black uniform.

Usually, Cleo was the calm and collected one. When things got chaotic in the front of house, she would become a beacon of sanity, putting customers at ease, exchanging pleasantries in that cool, slightly clipped British accent of hers. She never appeared hurried or frazzled as she worked, whether she was taking orders, making smooth coffees with artistic flourishes in the creamy froth, or presenting the small but well curated wine selection to the evening crowd.

Somehow—Sienna didn’t know how she did it—Cleo was magically efficient, even when she appeared to be taking her sweet time.

That’s why it was so weird to see her so obviously unsettled.

Sienna wiped her hands on her apron and covered the metal bowl with a sheet of flexi-wrap.

“What’s up, Cleo? You okay?”

Cleo’s perfectly manicured brows drew together. “Not really.”

“What’s happened?”

“You know that ex-boyfriend of yours? The one I don’t like?”

“Who? Connor, or Michael?”

“The shady one. Er, the shadi-er one. Connor,” Cleo grated, unable to hide her distaste. She looked like she’d just swallowed broken glass. “He’s here.”

“Here?” What the hell does he want?

“I’d just unlocked the front doors to get a bit of fresh air in, because it was a little stuffy. He came in with two of his, uh, associates, and he just had to have a coffee. I declined. He insisted. I didn’t want to have my throat slit in a dark alley in the middle of the night, so I complied.” Cleo rolled her eyes. “They’re sitting out the front enjoying caramel macchiatos.”

“Connor wouldn’t hurt you,” Sienna said quietly, a tendril of disgust roiling around in her gut. He could be violent and nasty, but he had his own version of standards.

“Don’t you go defending him, Si.”

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