Chapter 13
FITZ
“We validate parking, you know.”
Winnie squawks, jostling the big box of pastries she’s carrying as she hurries through the Seattle drizzle that’s quickly turning into rain.
“You can’t tell me—” Shifting the umbrella to one hand, I grab her around the waist then drag her to me. “That you’re so spiteful that you won’t even let me validate your parking?”
“I don’t mind the walk.”
“You’re really going to sacrifice these pastries because you hate me that much?” Flipping up the butcher paper over the top of the box, I reach in and grab a strawberry croissant, still warm.
“Hey, those aren’t for you.” She jerks the box away.
“Creampuff, you’re literally taking them to my hotel. Of course they’re for me.”
“Oh my god.” She demands, “how do you know about that meeting?”
“What?”
“You know that I’m bringing these to the kitchen manager.”
“She’s so cute but so paranoid. Creampuff, I am going to my hotel on my business. Like I don’t have better ways to spend my time than following you around.”
She glowers.
And no, before you rat me out to my brother, I’m not stalking her. She and I happen to be going to the same place, my flagship hotel. So what if I’ve been monitoring the schedule and got an alert that she was coming in? Like I said, it’s business.
I grab a pretzel stuffed with herbs, cheese, garlic, and pepperoni.
“Don’t.”
I brush her hand away. “Stop arguing. My umbrella—because I came prepared—is keeping them and you dry.”
“They better be,” she grumbles. “These are new pastry recipes.”
“I approve. We’ll take the lot.”
“That’s not how your kitchen is run.” She’s exasperated. “The Soundview purchases freshly baked and fresh-frozen so that your guests can have the very best artisanal baked goods. I like to inspect your ovens periodically as a courtesy. Can’t have them baking the croissants in a low-temp oven.”
“Control freak.” I swallow the last bite. “Hey, it’s sexy.”
She tries to jerk away when I reach for another. “And stop eating my samples. Is this normal for you to be eating this many carbs?”
“Body-shamed by my own chef.”
“I’m not your chef.”
“Drop off your resume and you could be. I’m not nepo-hiring you just because of your rack and the frankly scandalous things you do with French bistro food. No, no, no. You’ll have to do a tryout. Wear your nice Crocs—the ones with that hot little cutout on the big toe.”
“Fidget chewed that.”
“You neglect that dog.” We walk a moment, then I say, “If you’re not going to come be my chef, come be my date.”
Her step skips, and I grab her before she and the pastries can go sprawling.
“You want—I’m not—no!”
“No?”
“I’m not going on a date with you. No.”
“It’s not a date, it’s a business dinner.”
“Hard pass.”
The doormen waiting at the ornate overhang with the outdoor chandelier greet me with a chorus of “Mr. Svensson.” One takes my umbrella from me, and the other grabs the door.
“Oh, I can’t go in through the front lobby, not like this.” She balks. “I use the side entrance.”
“I insist.” I turn to the doorman. “Charles, please take the lady’s pastries to the kitchen manager’s office. We’ll be in shortly.”
“No, I will be in now.”
My fantasies of Winnie and pastry go up in smoke, though, when I notice my horrified staff huddled by the concierge desk. “We called security,” one of them whispers.
I follow their horrified gaze. “Creampuff,” I say, voice low, jaw locked so tight it might crack, “you sicced your granny on me? And here I thought you liked me.”
I’m not flirting.
I’m furious.
Because my lobby—my tower—is full of topless senior citizens with knitting needles, terrifying half my hotel clients. I take pride in my hotels. French antiques sourced myself, bespoke carpeting, and my hand-selected marble foyer backdrop a dozen bare breasts swaying like revolutionary flags.
“I’ve cast three hundred stitches of rage!” her grandmother roars, holding up a half-finished scarf like a battle banner.
“Get rid of them,” I snarl at her.
Winnie takes a nervous step back, eyes wide.
Good—she should be nervous.
“You stole my café,” she fires at me.
“And you threw coffee on me.” My voice is cold. Sharp. “Get these women out of my tower. Now.”
She hesitates. Like she’s considering taking their side.
Of course she is.
“Maybe they have a point,” she mutters.
I stare at her.
“Are you going to whip your shirt off and join them?” I snap.
Her face goes strawberry-jam red as my eyes drag—slowly—from her chest back to her mouth.
Her breath catches.
I feel it.
I ignore it.
“I wouldn’t. This is—we’re in public.”
I give her a sharp smile. “Do that,” I offer, “and I might let the protest continue.”
She swallows hard.
I step up to her, crowding her with my height. Sure, flirting’s fun, but this is business.
Her eyelashes flutter.
“And here I thought,” I say, “I was one of your biggest clients.”
Her face blanches. Sure, the fresh-pastry budget is an insignificant line item to me, but to her small business? It’s a lifeline.
She looks like she wants to die.
Good. Let her feel the pressure. She’s not the only one who can be cornered. If she loses this hospitality contract, she’s finished. We both know it.
But only I know that I won’t rip up the contract.
Set her free?
Never. She belongs to me. Wholly.
She just doesn’t realize it yet.
I follow her as she rushes toward her grandmother, my hands jammed in my pockets, in full control as I slowly trail her.
Over by the fireplace, two elderly women string up a knitted banner.
KNOTS NOT HOTELS!
“You need to grow a pair,” her granny is shouting at her. “You can’t let a man treat you like shit and still expect to hit that.”
My eyebrow lifts.
Winnie glances back at me. “He’s not hitting anything.”
“If you don’t get these half-naked elderly women out of my tower, I might.”
“Gran…” Winnie begs.
Her granny steps into my space, hands up for a fistfight.
“You’re a bully.”
“Booo!”
“Bread, not beds!”
“Crochet, don’t pay!”
The topless women encircle us.
I squeeze my eyes shut. If they’re not Winnie’s, I don’t want to see them.
“He acts like he’s never seen tits before,” Granny Frances huffs. “Maybe you should fuck the neighbor’s son, Winn.”
My eyes snap open. Straight to Winnie.
Heat. Anger. Something darker. “Is that why you refused to go on a date with me, Creampuff?”
Her chin lifts. “No. I refused because I hate you.”
I exhale, steady, even. Then I reach up and undo my tie. Watch her eyes bug out as she realizes what I’m doing.
“NO CROISSANTS, NO PEACE!”
I twist off my dress shirt. It’s not lost on me that her gaze slides down my face to my collarbone, down my chest, down…
The chanting starts to trail off.
“Are we sure he needs to be protested?”
“He’s a liar and a thief!”
For a second, I wonder if Winnie knows about the dress. And the panties.
Her granny waves her knitting in my face.
“I think”—I raise my voice over the chanting—“that we might have had a little miscommunication.”
“There’s no miscommunication.” Winnie makes air quotes. “I reviewed the paperwork. You’re evicting me.”
“It was a suggestion, Creampuff. I’m open to negotiation.” I sprawl on the couch.
“Well, that sounds reasonable. Maybe we should hear him out,” one elderly woman says, lowering her voice.
I’m trying very hard to look only at Winnie.
Winnie is losing it. “You’re just pissy because I’m talking to other developers.”
“Damn right you are. Know your worth!” Her grandmother whoops.
“I agree,” I say smoothly. “And I love an independent baker.”
A blue-haired lady hands me yarn and needles. “He sounds like an ally.”
Crawford and his team burst through the front doors, stopping short when they see the banners.
What the fuck, Crawford mouths.
I shrug one shoulder, sending the elderly women tittering.
Crawford moves in closer, gets a view full. “You didn’t tell me they were ass-fucking naked,” he hisses to me.
“Have you come to join the knit-in as well?”
Crawford backs away. “Some marine you are.”
A couple ladies admire my needlework. “And now, that’s a very clean stitch. You should come to our knitting club.”
“Is Winnie in it?”
“No,” the baker snaps. “Winnie has a real job.”
“Wandering around all alone with a box of pastries isn’t a job, Creampuff. It’s a kink.”
“Oh, look at that cable stitch.” The ladies all crowd around, making noises of admiration.
“You all are terrible protesters. Hold the line!” Gran hollers.
“We might have been a little hasty with him,” her friend says.
I wink at Winnie, who scowls. “Stop encouraging them.”
“I’m trying to encourage you.”
“He looks like he can make babies.” One lady makes a grab for my crotch. “I thought you said Winnie needed babies,” she says.
“If she’s not going to take him, my grand-niece is single.” Another woman tosses her sign away.
“Well, now, wait a dang minute. Winnie saw him first. Winn, you need to stake your claim. This man has money.” One woman waves her sign at them threateningly.
“I thought you were on my side!” Winnie’s shocked.
“That’s a nonrenewable resource. Man like that doesn’t come along every day. Winnie, stop ogling his chest.” Frances pats my pec. “Pay attention, girl. Business is happening.”
“This isn’t business, it’s my life, and he’s not in it.”
“Her friend is getting married. She’s a little testy,” Frances tells me out of the side of her mouth. “You know how us gals get when we hit our thirties and no ring in sight.”
“Loony Laura is not my friend.”
“She’s difficult.” I gaze at an angry Winnie. “This is what I have to deal with on a daily basis.”
“You poor man.”
I accept their sympathy. Winnie’s about to grab a knitting needle and stab me.
“I told her to just come to dinner and we’ll discuss it. Businesswoman to businessman.”
“Psycho,” Winnie grumbles.
“Sounds like you have her best interests at heart.”
“I assure you I do.”
The elderly women start packing up their knitting.
“Glad we got that all sorted out.”
“I was going to donate all my old baby toys, but I’ll just keep them. Sounds like you’ll need them soon.”
“Your top, Irma.”
“Ooh, yes.”
“So, Winnie, sounds like you and I have a date.” I smirk at her. “I win,” I whisper.
She slaps my hand away when I reach for her.
“And I’m not dating you or moving in with you or having babies with you. Now, I’m late for a meeting.”