Page 15 of Go Back to December

There’s no date by his side, and I mentally smack myself for noticing. As anxious as I am about him heading this way, at least he’s alone.

Clusters of Money Honeys dissolve into scattering antelope as he strides across the deck, stone-faced. He walks with a fluid gait, a grace that demonstrates he has total command over his body. His charcoal bespoke suit outlines the broad planes of his wide shoulders, narrow waist and long legs, hallmarks of his years as a competitive swimmer. The image of that body beneath those clothes, covered in water, twists knots in my stomach.

I should look away, but I can’t seem to stop staring, and the realization stuns me. For two years, I’ve been needling Baz every morning as some pathetic attempt to get him to remember who he was, instead of accepting the cold sellout he’s become. Maybe my memory of him was nothing more than a dream. Because this Baz—the real Baz—chooses profits over people.

As he steps closer, the scent of evergreens and cinnamon wafts toward me. It has to be the heady decorations, the obnoxious perfumed candles on the high-top tables behind us.

Baz can’t smell like a scratch-and-sniff Christmas book.

“Melody.” His voice is a cool sort of gravel. He hardly glances at me. Instead, he reserves his icy stare for the bartender, who slinks back to the bar slowly, so he doesn’t provoke Baz with sudden movements.

When Baz turns to me, his attention doesn’t linger south of my pendant. I’m relieved that there’s nothing there to attract his notice.

And then I’m a little insulted there is nothing to attract his notice there.

“Are you two together?”

His tone is so low, I’m sure I’ve misheard.

He repeats the question. Louder. Frostier. “Are you two together?”

I don’t know what offends me more. That he’s not afraid of my retaliation after he threatened the café, or that he thinks he’s entitled to inquire about my personal life. “That’s none of your business.”

A thrill of delight flutters in my chest at the coldness of my reply, and the heat that flares in Baz’s eyes.

“If he’s harassing one of our employees, it is my business,” he asserts.

“You harass my entire staff every morning.”

“Not intentionally.”

“You do nothing unintentionally.”

“Neither do you.”

“I intend to do whatever it takes to save the café from you and your bullshit study.”

“Promise?”

I inhale sharply, and the tension releases from his brow. He looks like he’s relaxing for the first time in days.

“What do you want, Baz?” I shout over the band. “To gloat about your ambush yesterday? Trash-talk our chances of success? Or did you want to discuss your other pastimes, defrauding the elderly and drowning kittens?”

“There are some people here I’d like to introduce you to who want to talk with you about the café. Potential sponsors.”

I aspirate my sip of champagne with a garbled, “What?”

“Lacy said you were working to recruit support.”

“She told you?”

He glances theatrically over both shoulders and mock whispers, “Is it supposed to be a secret plan?”

The bastard knows exactly how to offend me: strike at my pride. Lacy’s bringing him into the tent on our strategy to save the café makes no sense. “Where’s Lacy?”

“Can’t find her. She’s probably caught in that mess off the exit.”

If she doesn’t show, the entire plan will fall to pieces. I can’t pull off the requisite wheedling of a true lady boss socialpreneur without her.