Chapter Fifteen
Sloane half-heartedly snapped a few photos of the interior of the new Sugar Blitz location. Sooo exciting. But at least she could lie to herself that she was getting some work done. And taking the pictures allowed her to not think about what had almost happened yesterday during the nanosecond it took her to press the button on her phone.
Was August avoiding her? Probably, but no more than she was avoiding him. Isn’t that what you did when you almost kissed someone you vowed to never want to kiss again?
Some might say she was hiding out and avoiding a conversation. Those people would be correct, but she didn’t care. She could do the mature thing and discuss what had almost happened with him, but maturity was highly overrated. Limiting her embarrassment was her only real course of action.
And it’s not like he was making much of an effort to speak to her about it. He was in the kitchen counting bags of sugar or something. She hadn’t really caught what he mumbled as they crossed paths that morning. Yesterday, after the Three Musketeers departed, they’d decided to call it a day rather than talk about what had almost happened.
Was he actually attracted to her or had he gotten caught up in the moment? Even if he was attracted to her, so what? She refused to go down that road again.
Her decision to stay away from him meant she was currently failing at her job to document his every move, but she’d look for her courage a little later.
Sloane snapped a couple more shots, then quickly scrolled through the camera roll until she came to yesterday’s final photo. August wielding a hammer, giving her epic side-eye. Damn, he was ridiculously handsome.
Wait. What was that?
Sloane cocked her head to the side. A hum of noise like a… chant. She moved closer to the shop entrance, where the murmuring was coming from.
Were they saying…?
Oh, God, they were. She rushed to the front window. A crowd of about ten marched back and forth outside the store, all holding picket signs and chanting “No, no, we won’t go. We don’t want yo’ sto.”
Oh, shit.
Worse, they were attracting the attention of passersby—both those on foot and those in cars. More than one vehicle slowed as it went by.
Oh, shit! “August! August!” She hurried back toward the kitchen. As she turned the corner, she slammed directly into a brick wall. A warm, delicious-smelling brick wall named August. Her nose planted directly into the soft cotton of his T-shirt. It smelled like detergent, sugar, and August. She inhaled. Sue her. She was only human. Hopefully, it was inaudible and didn’t make her sound like the sex-deprived fiend she clearly was. At least she didn’t reach up and lick his exposed collarbone. She had a little bit of self-respect left. Just a smidge, but she held on to it like a talisman with all her might.
That is until she met his eyes. He stepped back, but his hands remained at her waist. Never had she been so jealous of denim. If he tried even a little, he could reach under her waistband and touch her skin.
“Hey, hey, are you okay?” His dark eyes probed hers and then slid to inspect every inch of her body. He didn’t mean it that way, obviously, but it felt like a caress nonetheless. Her nipples pebbled under his scrutiny. Yes, she was officially a sex-deprived fiend. Thank God for a decent bra and shirt.
He briskly ran his hands up and down her arms. Totally harmless. “What’s wrong?”
His concern, his fierceness, his determination to fix whatever had befallen her wormed its way past her defensive walls and aimed straight for her heart. At that moment, she couldn’t have looked away from his penetrating gaze if her life depended on it.
“Sloane.” His voice rose. “Sloane. What’s wrong?”
She blinked. Right. She had gone looking for him, yelling his name, causing him to believe there was a problem. Which there was.
She pointed behind her. “There are protesters outside.”
He blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.”
He rushed to the front windows. Sloane lengthened her stride to catch up with him. It was the first time she’d ever seen him in a hurry. He always moved at a measured pace, always considering his surroundings, including the people in his space. Even on the football field, he seemed to move at his own pace, often anticipating his opponent’s next step before he made it.
He yanked open the door and stepped outside. “What’s going on out here?”
Cynthia stepped out of the picket line. “Oh, look, it’s the two lovebirds. We’re exercising our First Amendment right to protest,” she said with a flourish as the other picketers cheered her on.
Sloane twisted her lips into a facsimile of a smile as a non-protesting pedestrian gave her a clear “girl, what’s going on here?” look. Sloane gave her best “nothing to see here, folks” smile.
“Why are you protesting?” August asked.
Cynthia’s chest puffed up. “We don’t like what you’re doing to our community.”
Her husband, Ben, stepped out of the picket line to join her. “You’re destroying it! And you don’t even care as you two kids make googly eyes at each other.”
Sloane barely stifled a groan.
“How are we destroying the community?” That came from August, who had apparently decided to ignore the inflammatory ending of the sentence. Good plan. She would follow his lead.
Cynthia stepped closer to August and glared up at him. “This used to be a business run by hardworking folks, who were part of this neighborhood. You come here with your money thinking you can just change things. You ran them out!”
August held up his hands. “This building sat empty for eighteen months before we purchased it.”
The old man harrumphed. “You still bought it and are intent on destroying what made it great. We don’t care that you’re football players. You’re trying to change this neighborhood, and we’re not going to let you. You’re trying to drive us out and turn this whole block into your little playground that only the rich can afford.”
Sloane’s attempt to stifle a groan was less successful this time, but she managed it. She couldn’t stop a full-body shudder, however. They were accusing the Sugar Blitz owners of gentrification. She knew her brother. She knew the neighborhood they’d grown up in and the harm gentrification had done to it—driving out long-term residents who couldn’t afford to stay as rents skyrocketed in the quest for “progress.” He would never want to be part of such an endeavor. He would be horrified, actually. And so would his friends and business partners.
“No, we’re not.” August kept his cool, laying out the bare facts as he saw them, like always. Another reason to admire him. If she was in the business of admiring him, which she so was not.
Waving her sign in the air, Rosa joined her friends. “You’re not from around here. You don’t care!”
“Yeah, you don’t care. And we’re not going to let you do it.” Cynthia tapped a clipboard she was holding.
August sighed. “Everything we’ve done for this location is aboveboard. We have the right permits. We purchased the building legally. We’re following all local ordinances.”
Cynthia’s face made it clear she was unmoved by these facts. “You didn’t ask anybody if we wanted you here.”
Sloane stepped next to him. She couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “That may be true, but it’s also true that they didn’t have to do that. You don’t have a legal reason to be here.”
The older lady sniffed and tapped her clipboard again. “Maybe not, but there’s more than one way to skin a rabbit. We’re gathering signatures from everybody in the neighborhood who doesn’t want you here. They’re all pledging not to step foot in your store and to tell everyone they know not to either. Once we work our magic, we’ll see how long your business lasts.”
Sloane’s stomach dropped to the pavement. This was a disaster for several reasons—for Sugar Blitz and for her own professional aspirations. The shop hadn’t even opened yet and trouble was brewing.
Ben adjusted his glasses and lifted his chin. “My wife is spot-on. We’re going to be out here every day until you go away.”
The other picketers nodded in unison.
Sloane met August’s gaze. The look on his face was clear to read. Mainly because it echoed the thought running through her head.
What. The. Fuck?