Page 88 of Puck Yes

34

NOT CAPTAIN FOR NOTHING

Stefan

Since we fly to Detroit in the morning, the three of us agreed to take the night off from our festivities.

Shame. But the sex reprieve gives me a few minutes to pop into The Great Dane before it closes. I like to check it out while customers are here to make sure the vibe feels right, like it did when I ate here with Ivy and Hayes.

The thought of her does funny things to my chest. Things I’ll have to deal with quite soon. But for now, I swing open the door, say hello to Yasmine, then head to the bar, sitting down next to a guy with horn-rimmed glasses and suspenders. He looks vaguely familiar, so I give a friendly-ish nod and order a scotch.

“Coming right up, Mr. Christiansen,” the bartender says and once he gives me the drink, the man next to me turns my way and clears his throat. “Hey! You’re Stefan Christiansen. Number Eighteen.”

Ah, a fan. That makes sense.

Except, wait.

As I say hello I get a better look at the guy, and he feels awfully familiar—in astupid hatkind of way. He’s holding a canvas bag, and he sticks out a hand.

“Xander Arlo, The Dapper Man.”

Irritation curls through me at the sight of this fuckface—the asshat, toxic ex-boyfriend who treated my girl like shit and dumped her for someone with more followers.

I clench my fists.

“I’d been hoping to catch up with you. I see you’re a food man,” he says, glancing around.

No shit, Sherlock. “Yes. I like food,” I say dryly.

He gestures to me, indicating my suit. “And tailored duds.”

“Sure,” I say, cautiously. Why the fuck is he here?

“Well, I’d love to give you a chance to get in on a great opportunity.”

He’s come here to pitch me on something?

Oh, this is rich. He slides over the bag, then opens it to show me a loaf of wrapped bread. “It’s my special sourdough recipe. I’m going to open a brand-new shop,” he says, then makes a camera frame with his hands. “I’m calling it Dough and Duds. It’ll sell my homemade bread and my hand-selected bespoke suits. Small batch for what you put on your body and in your body.” He slides me a folder with a shiny cover. “There’s a presentation in here. I only have a few slots for investors, but I’d love to have you on board.”

Is he for real? I barely know what to say to an idea that’s so fucking ridiculous. “You’re opening a bread and suit shop?”

“Homemade bread,” he corrects.

“Pretty sure it’s not homemade. It’s bakery-made, or what we call house-made in the business.”

He taps the wrapped loaf. “Try it. It’ll blow your mind. Like I said, I only have a few slots left, but I’ll hold one for you.”

The chutzpah of this asshole. The motherfucking chutzpah. I’d like to punch his face. Rearrange his nose. Dislocate a shoulder.

But, however momentarily satisfying, those would be career killers.

I take the bread but slide the folder back to him. “I don’t need to check out your presentation to know this is a hard pass. And, frankly, so are you.”

Oh. Would you look at that? I was a dick after all.

Sometimes it happens.

* * *

---