Chapter Eleven
Bianca
It’s early as hell, so early that it makes me resent my entire life. The street is still quiet, the air crisp with the last bite of night, and I’m standing outside Sticky Buns, pacing in the parking lot, phone pressed to my ear.
Alex picks up on the second ring. “Bianca? Jesus, do you ever sleep?”
“No time for sleep,” I mutter, rubbing my temple. “We’ve got a problem, and we’re fixing it. We’re throwing a benefit dinner.”
There’s a pause. Then Alex exhales hard. “Shit. It’s that bad?”
She must have not gone as deep into the books as I have, which doesn’t surprise me — I hardly slept at all last night, maybe an hour or two, where I passed out on the couch amongst a pile of papers and red ink. “Yeah.”
I hear papers shuffling. “Okay. What’s the plan?”
“Go through our donor records, start pulling together a guest list — high-level donors, corporate sponsors, anyone with money who enjoys feeling good about themselves. We need everyone for this if we’re going to pull it off and come up with enough cash to save Safe House. I’m getting some food, then I’m heading in, and I’ll start calling venues and vendors as soon as they open to see if we can find somewhere to host this damn thing.”
Alex hesitates, her voice softer when she asks, “And how are you doing with all of this?”
I take a deep breath, plastering on a smile she can’t see. “Worried. Sick. Scared. But I’ve been in worse situations than this, so I know we can pull this off. And I’m gonna treat myself right first.”
Alex snorts. “Oh? And what does ‘treating yourself’ look like?”
I turn, looking up at the glowing neon sign of Sticky Buns.
“Sugar. Lots and lots of sugar.”
"Sounds like a plan. I’ll see you soon, Bianca.” Alex’s laugh rings in my ear, giving me a momentary lift before I hang up. I exhale deeply, forcing the tension from my shoulders with more conviction than success. The crisp morning air cuts through the premature warmth of optimism that the call sparked. How many times had I told myself everything would be fine, repeating it like a mantra until the words blurred into meaningless sound? Maybe if I say it enough, it might actually feel true. I take another deep breath, trying to convince myself that things really are under control.
Then it comes, the unmistakable prickling on the back of my neck—an instinct I can't ignore. Someone's watching.
I whip around, ready to confront this intrusion. And then I see him. Tank.
He's standing in the doorway of the bakery, arms folded across his broad chest, a smug smile playing on his lips. He looks every bit as pleased with himself as a cat with a cornered mouse. My defenses bristle at the sight of him.
I narrow my eyes, giving him my best glare. “Why are you staring at me?” I demand, my voice sharper than I intend.
His mouth twitches with uncontained amusement. “You were flapping your arms like you were trying to take off from the parking lot.”
The mental image forces its way into my mind. On a better day, I might have laughed. “I was talking with my hands.” I fold my arms across my chest to make a point.
Tank just raises an eyebrow, his expression infuriatingly entertained. “You looked like you were summoning a storm.”
My irritation bubbles over, but I can't deny the slight quirk of my own lips. Despite myself, I almost smile. Somehow, his gentle ribbing defuses the tension I cling to so tightly.
I roll my eyes dramatically, more for his benefit than mine, but he doesn't miss the betrayal of my mouth curving up. Tank jerks his head toward the door, his voice teasing yet warm.
“C’mon and get in here before you start attracting birds.”
The second I step inside, the warm scent of sugar and butter wraps around me.
Tank moves behind the counter, watching me, like he’s waiting for me to say something.
I don’t give him the satisfaction. The potential collapse of the charity that I’ve worked so hard to build, that means so much to me on a level he’ll never understand, is none of his business.
“So,” I say casually, leaning against the counter. “Did you actually kill Ricky?”
Tank smirks, like he was waiting for this question. “Nope. Made him a steak dinner.”
I blink two or twenty times. “I’m sorry… what?”
Tank pours a steaming cup of coffee, slides it across the counter. “You heard me. Drink up, you look tired as hell.”
I stare at him, trying to figure out if he’s screwing with me. “He’s alive?”
“Very.”
“…And chained to your bed?”
Tank shrugs, grinning. “Still. Neither of us is happy about that arrangement, but it’s necessary.”
“Necessary to keep a grown man shackled to your bed?” I shake my head, somehow not surprised. “You’re a lunatic.”
“I don’t expect you to understand why it’s necessary. It just is.” He pours himself a cup and sips his coffee, unconcerned. Then he says, “You think they actually love each other?”
I pause. “Ricky and Vanessa?”
Tank nods. “You know them better than I do.”
I sigh. Regretfully, honestly, I say, “Yeah.”
He studies me. “It’s not good for her, though.”
“No.”
He leans in slightly. “Why not?”
I shake my head. I know where this is going and I don’t have the mental capacity to dive into this minor crisis when something so much larger is happening and everything I’ve worked so hard to build is facing budgetary annihilation.
“I’m just here for pastries, not an interrogation.”
Tank snorts, but lets it go. Instead, he gives me a long, assessing look, nods, and then pulls a selection of pastries from the case, placing them in a small box. Then he pours another cup of coffee and sets it beside them.
“It’s on the house.”
I frown. “I can pay.”
At least, I can pay right now. A few weeks from now? Well, who knows? I sure as hell don’t.
Tank lifts a hand, stopping me. “I heard you out there. You said the word ‘money’ about a thousand times more than a normal person should. So I’m insisting.”
I hesitate, watching him. I should say no. I should argue. I know better than to owe money to dangerous men. I know what dark road that leads down…
But I’m tired. And he’s looking at me like I’m not just some woman who walked into his bakery, but something else. Something he’s trying to figure out. Someone he might genuinely want to help.
Which is a confusing thing to see from a man that I know has experience hurting people, kidnapping them, and has enough inked hints on his body that tell me his life story contains more than a few dark chapters.
I sip my coffee, letting the warmth sink into my bones while I ponder the question. Tank leans back against the counter, arms crossed, watching me. Then I realize that free food and free coffee — and not having to fight about it on a day when I already feel like I’m fighting for survival — is just what I need right now.
“Fine. Thank you.”
“So — all that money you were screaming about. Why?” he says.
My eyes narrow. Why is he so interested? “It’s for a fundraiser.”
“Throwing a big fancy dinner?”
I sigh. “It’s not a party. It’s a fundraiser. I run a shelter — Safe House — and there’s been a… setback… so I’m doing what I have to do to keep my shelter open.”
Tank's expression shifts, the humor fading from his eyes as he leans forward. "What kind of setback are we talking about?"
I hesitate, sipping my coffee to buy time. I shouldn't tell him. This man is a possibly a criminal and definitely dangerous in ways that his skill with fat and sugar can’t excuse; sharing my problems with him is like inviting a wolf into the henhouse. And yet...
Something about him makes me want to talk to him.
"Financial," I finally say, keeping it vague. "Big enough that if I don't fix it soon, we'll have to close our doors. Hence the benefit dinner.”
His blue eyes narrow slightly, assessing me. "Money problems have a way of becoming other kinds of problems real quick."
"Tell me about it," I mutter, thinking about the stack of unpaid bills on my desk, the dwindling bank account, and the faces of every woman and child who depends on Safe House. "But I'll figure it out. I have to. No matter what it costs.”
“Why do you care so much?” he says, his voice direct and uncomplicated.
The question hangs in the air, a lump in my throat. I freeze for a half-second, surprised not just by its bluntness but by the intense curiosity I hear. It's genuine, not the callous dismissal or veiled mockery I’ve braced myself against so many times before. The expectation that I should just walk away? It isn’t in his eyes. He really wants to know why this project is so powerful for me, why I’m so desperate to save Safe House.
The look in his eyes unsettles me, and before I can rein myself in, I let a piece of truth slip. “Because I know what happens when no one saves you.” Tank watches me, silent and probing, his focus unflinching and intense enough to make me squirm. I clear my throat, plastering on a smile so tight it feels like it might break. “Anyway. Not your problem.”
Tank’s eyes narrow slightly. “Maybe it is.”
I blink. “What? How?”
“You need money. I have money. Let me help.”
My stomach twists. A familiar panic claws at my insides. “No.”
Tank lifts an eyebrow. “Didn’t even hesitate.”
“I don’t take money like that,” I say, even though what I mean is I don’t take money from men like him.
“I said I’d help, not that I was looking to buy you.”
My face goes hot, embarrassment quickly turning to anger. I scowl at him, trying to regain ground. “You’re insufferable.”
His grin widens. “You keep showing up, though.”
I can’t handle this. He’s getting too close, and I need to shut this down before I end up in over my head. I move to grab my pastries and coffee, eager to escape.
Then Tank, all casual, says, “I should cater it.”
I freeze. “What?”
“Your fundraiser,” he says, sipping his coffee. “I make damn good food. People pay good money for good food.”
I narrow my eyes at him, trying to pierce through his calm exterior, trying to find some hint of an ulterior motive. “And why would you do that?”
He meets my gaze, steady. He shrugs. “I like a challenge.”
"It’s just baking. Is baking a challenge for you? Because, if so, this probably isn’t the gig for you.”
He gives me a pointed look. “I didn’t say baking was the challenge.”
I fold my arms. “I don’t make deals with people I don’t trust.”
Tank smirks. “And here I thought you trusted me already. What with all the flirting and the coffee dates.”
I scoff, but I don’t deny it. Instead, on impulse, I push back. “If I’m going to let you cater this thing, I need to see if you’re actually any good.”
Tank smirks, then his eyes darken, just slightly.
“You want a taste first?” His voice drops, rough. “Should’ve just said so. I can give you a taste, right here, right now.”
I regret everything. I should just walk away. But he’s challenged and taunted me. My cheeks are on fire, my heart is thudding like mad in my chest, and I refuse to let him or anyone like him win.
“Prove it,” I challenge. “Cook something right now.”
Tank rolls up his sleeves, the ink on his forearms rippling as he flexes his hands.
“Alright, sweetheart. Let’s see if I can impress you.”