One Bossy Proposal: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Bossy Seattle Suits)

Ileave work, still preoccupied with the platinum-blond hellcat from Sweeter Grind.

She had an angel’s face, an hourglass figure counting down my patience, and the mouth of a demon.

Isn’t that how it always is?

Normally, it’d fucking turn me on since I’m sick in the head, but not when it comes to my rolls.

Nobody fucks with Lincoln Burns’ Regis rolls.

Yes, I was desperate. Somewhat manic. Unapologetically unhinged.

But not crazy.

I wouldn’t have offered her five hundred damned dollars for a cinnamon roll if it wasn’t life and death.

Right now, those stupid rolls are the only thing keeping Wyatt alive in the grip of his depression. He has just enough strength to fight me off if I try ramming anything healthier down his throat. Not enough strength to run on more than glazed sugar.

When that snapping turtle of a woman couldn’t part with her God-given roll, I went back inside a few hours later after putting in some time at the office and bought a bear claw. Long after she was out of my sight.

I said a Hail Mary, hoping my best friend might be in a mood to try his sugar fix in a different composition today.

Then I brought it to Wyatt’s tent in the park a few blocks down, marching past rows of human misery in the same situation.

He wouldn’t even leave his sleeping bag.

A Regis roll is the only way to get him out of hibernation, and bike chick just had to deny him that to make some pitiful moral point.

When I tried to pull him out, he fought me like an ambushed possum. I wound up with a face full of sticky bear claw for my trouble.

I appreciate his opinion, even if it’s irrational as hell.

My ma loves the stupid rolls, too. A few times, I’ve wondered if my sweet, unassuming mother would unalive some poor SOB for the pleasure.

Every time I go by Sweeter Grind to make a sugar drop for Wyatt, I pick up one or two for Mom.

Not today.

All because I was robbed by the one girl in the city who wouldn’t have a grown-up conversation about a simple exchange.

Fuck it. Maybe she’ll forget about it.

Mother is a little less stubborn than Wyatt when it comes to those rolls, but not by much. I have a while to replay the encounter as I take the ferry over to her place on Bainbridge, standing where the wind can slap me in the face and clear my head like it usually does.

A little while later, Ma meets me at the door with a hug and her usual sunny smile.

“Look who’s back! Come on in. Did you bring me one of those heavenly cinnamon rolls today?”

So much for forgetting.

I heave out a sigh.

“I tried. There was some sort of cinnamon shortage—or just the world’s worst excuse for incompetence—and then some donkey in front of me bought the last roll in the entire place. She wouldn’t let me have it no matter how much money I offered—”

Mom bends over laughing, shaking her curly silvering hair.

“Sweetheart, relax! My doctor would thank you for making me wait for my fix. You don’t owe me a cinnamon roll. Your company is plenty.”

Right.

She pulls the door open and stands aside for me to enter, then shuts the door once I’m inside.

“I couldn’t even get a Regis roll for Wyatt, Ma. I tried feeding him a bear claw and he wouldn’t even get out of bed.”

She frowns, noticing the slight bruise on my temple.

“Oh, my. Is that—”

“Not his fault. I tried to drag him out of his den when I should know better. He’s not well,” I remind her.

I always have to when she worries like nobody’s business. And she’s doing it now, sizing me up, checking me over with the world’s sternest mom expression for more battle damage.

“Lincoln…the way you take care of that poor man really is admirable, but he’s not your responsibility. He should’ve seen a professional a long time ago. You deserve more of a life than just working and taking care of that lost soul—”

“That lost soul is the whole reason I’m still alive,” I remind her. “I’d be dead without him like I’ve told you a thousand times. So, yeah, he’s my responsibility. He can still find his way back, dammit, and somebody needs to try. Just because we’re not blood doesn’t mean Wyatt isn’t my brother.”

She presses her lips together, knowing she’ll never convince me otherwise.

“Have you had dinner yet? I made your favorite tonight.”

“Ma, I’m a grown man,” I say with a frustrated sigh. “I don’t need you to feed me.”

“My bad for thinking hangry is still your first language.” She smiles. “It’s pot roast and garlic mash, by the way.”

Damn her.

My stomach betrays me, growling like a Bengal tiger.

“…fine.”

Whatever. She can still see right through me and must have a psychic read on my blood sugar. Without further protest, I lead the way to the dining room.

She laughs behind me.

“You go ahead and sit, Lincoln. I’ll grab everything from the kitchen.”

A few minutes later, there’s a heaping plate of meat, mashed potatoes, and buttery vegetables in front of me and another plate a third that size across the table in front of my mother.

I barely let her dig in first to save face, listening as she cuts her meat.

“So, besides the stubborn doll who stole your cinnamon roll, have you met anyone lately?” she asks.

Kill me.

The only thing I hate talking about more than Wyatt’s latest brush with the abyss is my nonexistent dating life.

“Not doll. Donkey. Big difference,” I say, stuffing food into my mouth.

“I could tell she was pretty, though, from the way you said it.”

“She looked fine. Just a normal girl,” I lie, watching as she waits impatiently for more. “Personality wise, I’d rank her somewhere between roadkill and an ER trip for killer bees.”

She laughs so hard she almost spits water. At least someone appreciates my humor.

“You should’ve asked her out! It would’ve been interesting, Lincoln. You’re not getting any younger.”

“Neither are you,” I toss back.

“I have a family. You’re single.”

“You are, too. Technically.”

“I’m widowed, son.”

“Yeah, sorry. Poor choice of words. That’s not the point, though.” I scratch the plate as I hastily carve another piece of meat. “You’d still be eating dinner alone tonight if your son hadn’t shown up.”

She beams at me like the sun.

“Oh, I’ve already had the love of my life and a smartass son. I just want the same for you, and anytime I don’t want to be alone, all I have to do is put a pot roast on.”

I take a big bite, enjoying how it practically melts in my mouth.

She may annoy me, but she’s not wrong. If she doesn’t pack up leftovers on my way out, I’ll come back tomorrow.

“All I’m saying is, a little dating never hurt anyone,” she tells me. “It’s been so long since—”

“Don’t. Don’t say her name,” I snap, pointing my fork like a weapon for emphasis.

The only thing that might ruin this meat is thinking about Regina and her shit.

“But Lincoln, it’s—”

“Hardly just that. Ma, you know if I take any girl out, it could easily become a public matter. There are reporters out there who stake their entire careers on capturing a ten-second TikTok clip of anyone like me fraternizing. It would be uncomfortable and messy for us both. No thanks. Running Haughty But Nice is all the trouble I need. It keeps me busy, and that’s how I like it.”

“I know. I built it, remember?” She hits me with her knowing mom look.

“I know you did. Only, media moved slower in your time and fashion trends could stick around for years.”

“Oh, media,” she mutters. “You know, there must be a thousand ways to take a girl out without anybody knowing. You’re rich enough to have some Hollywood makeup artist fix you up with a disguise!”

I try not to snort mashed potatoes.

“Great idea, Ma. Just what I need, luring some poor girl in so I can peel my face off in front of her when it’s time to kiss like a B-movie monster.” I pause. My mother glares, clearly unimpressed with my razor-sharp wit. “You know how the Seattle press stalked me last time I was dumb enough to date. What’s the point in making it worse by throwing someone else in the drama? I spend enough time trying to dodge them now. I can’t even get a beer without winding up on ten Instagram posts laced with dumbass rumors the next day. Don’t people have anything better to do than sling shit at strangers online?”

She covers her mouth, hiding a laugh, even if she pretends to disapprove of rough language.

“Apparently not when it comes to handsome eligible men, or they wouldn’t be hounding you, son. Doesn’t the new wedding line give you any interest in romance? Doesn’t it make you want to find a nice girl and settle down?”

I pretend to think about it for five seconds, stroking my chin.

“No,” I tell her bluntly, stabbing my fork in another piece of roast.

She stares, frowning, waiting for more when it’s a dead subject.

“How about a ‘hell no’?” I venture.

She cocks her head. “You know I don’t give up that easily, Lincoln Burns. I want grandkids and you’re my only child. Don’t you think it’s about time you deliver for your poor old mom?”

“I tried to get your Regis roll, Ma.”

“Oh, Lincoln. This is a little more important,” she says, so exasperated I almost laugh.

“Is there anything I could ever do to make you happy besides grandkids? Something that will make you just as proud? I’ve added twelve billion dollars to the fashion brand you built, for crying out loud.”

Mom’s usual easygoing smile fades into a firm arc of her lips.

She shakes her head severely.

“No.”

“See? That’s exactly why I can’t give you a grandkid right now. You’ll just be disappointed for the rest of your life because nothing else will ever measure up. You have to wait for the right moment so you’re not disappointed.” I fan the slightest breeze on her hopes, hoping to end this as I take another bite of buttery roast. “I can’t have my mother disappointed.” I grin at her. “Besides, I’ve gotten far enough to launch such a lucrative line because I keep business and life totally separate.”

Technically, that’s true. I don’t have a personal life.

Not unless you count Regis roll runs for Wyatt and the odd charity event outside work, which is good enough for me.

“They don’t mix at all. Period and end of story,” I say.

“Lincoln, your story hasn’t even started,” she says, getting up to put on tea like she always does when she’s flustered.

I wish I could say my mother knows best.

I wish I could be the good son and not disappoint her.

I wish I could pry open my heart and give someone a second chance to poison me from the inside out.

But after seeing what a heart-hacking bastard serial killer cupid can be, I’ll settle for being the rich and respected bachelor son.

A few days later, I raid Sweeter Grind for Wyatt’s roll.

Bright and early this time.

I can’t risk coming too late and finding them sold out again. Wyatt lives on his sugar high and that’s how it’ll stay until he either snaps the hell out of it or forces my hand into dragging him off to treatment.

The barista makes a drink, hands it to the person in front of me, and rings them up.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

The bell above the entrance dings. I glance over.

A slender blond in a black dress that hugs her body in all the right places walks in. If it weren’t for the hair, shimmering like faded spun gold in the morning light, she’d be the portrait of a human raven. There’s something about her movements, graceful and birdlike, but with patience and sharp eyes that could be imposing if she settled long enough to stare at you.

Alert. Elegant. An old-world charm in her unfussy dress that licks her skin.

Something innocent and mysterious about her face, her emerald eyes, holds my gaze hostage.

Then she meets my stare, scrunches her nose, and rolls her eyes with all the disdain they can muster.

Bullshit.

It can’t be.

With her face twisted into a scowl, I recognize her.

Goddamn if she isn’t even more gorgeous scrunched into that dress than she was in jeans.

When she comes closer, I can’t help smirking.

“So you’ve come dressed like a bandit while you’re robbing away delicious pastries today? You look like an undertaker,” I grind out.

Her mouth drops momentarily, then she tries to shake it off like she’s only insulted. The hellcat narrows her eyes at me.

“I have an interview, and no, Captain Dipshit, I wouldn’t dirty my hands with you. I’d let someone else scrape you off the ground like roadkill.”

Captain Dipshit? Roadkill?

How charming.

That green-eyed little mouth needs someone to bend her over their knee and teach her to talk nicely to strangers.

In another life, maybe that someone would be me, but I’m remembering just how draining an encounter with this woman can be.

“No plans to join any dead raccoons today. Sorry to disappoint you. However, I believe I will deprive you of your pre-interview sugar rush. No pastry ever made rivals sweet revenge,” I tell her.

She gives back this jarring laugh, tossing her bright hair before she looks at me like an angry lioness.

“Revenge for what? Because I beat you here last time and bought the last cinnamon roll? How petty are you?”

Excellent question.

She’s about to find out.

I flash a vicious smile at the barista. “I’d like every Regis roll you have, please.”

“Every—all of them? Every single one?” The poor barista blinks.

“Correct.”

“Umm—there are three—almost four dozen today if we’re counting what’s in the back. Are you sure you—”

“All four dozen, then. A nice easy number.”

“Whoa. You and your people must really love them, huh?”

I nod like I have a human soul.

In fact, the damn things are too sweet for me by far. After I drop off a few for Wyatt, I’ll put the rest out for my senior staff. They all adore these overhyped cinnamon rolls as much as everyone else in this easily impressed city.

My own satisfaction ends with the roll witch behind me, deprived of her cherished fix today.

I turn slowly, casting a heavy look over my shoulder at her.

“Would you look at that? Some raging asshole just bought the last Regis roll. Maybe he’ll share if you offer him an insane amount of money for one—or, better, how about an apology? Or maybe he’ll just bite into it and lick his fingers like a cat walking away from a milk truck spill.”

She smiles so sweetly, but her eyes are blazing green daggers.

“Nah. I don’t hand out exorbitant sums for cinnamon rolls or apologies to jerkwads I never wronged. I make financial decisions with my brain, not my stomach. You should try it sometime,” she snarls. “Also, I’m happy for the asshole who got the cinnamon rolls. He clearly must be missing something in his shriveled little ego and needs to overcompensate.”

Damn her.

Damn her again for making that little sliver of space between her thumb and forefinger.

Oh, baby girl, if only you knew. No woman ever calls me little.

“I’ll have you know, I woke up with a mad craving for a bear claw this morning,” she continues, batting her lashes. “I’d hate to think my friends at Sweeter Grind put all that work into Regis rolls that went to waste.”

For a second, I want to walk up to her, stare her into the ground, and tell her what’s at stake.

How these rolls are the only way to keep a homeless man alive while he’s in his funk.

Deprive him, fuck me over for a laugh, and you’re single-handedly responsible for starving a veteran. I hope that helps you sleep at night.

Of course, I say none of those things.

This girl may have a taste for tormenting me, and she could be legit crazy. There’s no upside to letting her know anything about me or my real need for these rolls.

“Nice cope, lady. You can’t prefer a bear claw over a Regis roll. No one does,” I growl.

What am I saying? I don’t even like these stupid pastries.

I have no earthly idea why everyone hyperventilates over them ever since this little Montana cafe opened in Seattle. I just know that they do.

A voice in the back of my mind whispers, You know it’s not her fault that Wyatt didn’t eat. Wyatt had debilitating problems long before you couldn’t buy him his daily cinnamon roll.

“Whatever, entitled douchebag,” she huffs out.

For a second, I stop and glare.

“Just what makes you think I’m entitled? Because I offered you a car payment for your cinnamon roll?”

“Nope. You were pissed because I got the last cinnamon roll in spite of my being here before you, and then you didn’t just offer to buy it. You offered me more than some people make in a week for it. Like I said, I make financial decisions with my brain. No one who works for their money would have offered five hundred bucks for a freaking roll that would be available again the next day. You need your own hashtag. #BornRich.”

What the fuck is she talking about?

“Watch your step. You might have no idea who you’re talking to,” I warn.

“Oh, I have a pretty good idea. Someone who doesn’t get how much money that is.”

“You don’t think I know it’s a lot? Obviously, if someone is willing to pay five hundred dollars for a damn roll, it’s important to them. Any sane person would’ve snapped up the offer.”

I hate how good she is at hooking her little claws under my skin.

I can feel my blood boiling.

“Oh, please. Forgive me if I found my Regis roll craving just as important as your five-hundred-dollar craving. And who am I talking to? Why don’t you enlighten me? Are you some European prince? Royalty? Should I curtsy to His Majesty, Grand Duke of Dickheadistan?”

I have to bite my cheek to hold in a laugh. I hope this firecracker moonlights in stand-up comedy.

“You’re a riot. And if there is such a country, it sounds like they’d better make you an ambassador. You’re fluent in the neighboring asshole dialect.”

She shrugs, finally taken aback, glancing away sharply.

“I was being serious. You suck,” she says, still avoiding my eyes.

“And you think you’re cute,” I fire back.

“No, but apparently you do,” she says, finally looking at me.

I fold my arms, waiting for whatever bullshit she’s about to fling.

She grins. “You wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t think so.”

Fuck.

Cute is an understatement. There’s no denying she’s gorgeous.

She just happens to be a coldhearted, ruthless, pastry-stealing queen bitch on top of it.

“Sir? I have your cinnamon rolls packed up. Are you ready to check out?” the barista says like a voice cutting in from another world.

“Almost. I need a box of black coffee, too.”

The barista nods, moves to the back counter, and preps my coffee.

“I hope all that’s for the miserable souls who have to put up with you,” the little thief says.

“It’s for my staff. I feed my people well so they can keep up with me,” I grumble, knowing that’s only half true.

“Keep telling yourself that, Big shot.” She goes quiet for a minute before clucking her tongue and saying, “You would have a staff.”

“What’s that mean?” I ask slowly.

Why do I even care?

I don’t know this chick from Eve and what I know about her, I despise. Who cares what she thinks about me? I don’t, and I hope today is enough for her to buzz off.

With any luck, she’ll pick a different cafe and I’ll never see her again. It’s a big city, or at least big enough.

I pay for the coffee and sweets without looking back at that literal green-eyed monster. The barista hands me three neatly packaged boxes of cinnamon rolls and a huge box of hot coffee.

I didn’t plan on ordering breakfast for the whole company this morning.

I haven’t thought this balancing act through, hoisting the coffee on my shoulders and heading for the door. I try to carry everything, but have to set it all down, reposition things, and try again at the table by the door.

The devil in the black dress lingers there as she waits for her bear claw, watching as I finally manage to get everything stacked in a way so I can trudge out the door.

That’s all right, sweetheart. Don’t get the door for me. I can manage just fine.

She must read my mind because she smiles at me.

“I’d like to help, but…”

“Offer not accepted. Save your energy for that breakfast you’ll pretend to enjoy,” I snarl, kicking the corner of the door open and spinning my way out.

Her high-pitched laugh is the last thing I hear.

I roll my eyes, swearing as a broken section of sidewalk catches my shoe. I almost drop hot coffee on my feet three times before I make it back to my car.

“Oh my God. Oh my Gawd, this is heaven,” Lucy moans as she gnaws at a Regis roll and drops into the seat between Ida and me with a thud.

Apparently, eating for two makes you treat a pastry like it’s a wagyu steak.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She’s going to pop any minute, and I’d rather it not happen here. I also wish her the best.

I don’t know how this office—especially yours truly—will survive her maternity leave. As my executive assistant, Lucy keeps the place in order so I can focus on what I do best. Making money.

“Oh, I’m fine.” She takes another bite that makes her eyes bulge. “Say, since when do you sit in on interviews?”

“I told him it wasn’t necessary,” Ida, my HR director, says with a flourish of her skunk-striped silver and black hair. “It’s a senior copywriter position.”

“Not just any copywriter position,” I correct. “This new wedding line stands to make us billions of dollars—if it’s marketed properly. I’m personally invested when the talent will make or break us. Besides, anyone we bring on right now has to be fully competent. You’re about to go on maternity leave, Lucy, so that means I can’t have new hires who need endless coddling. There’s no time. Anyone we hire has to hit the ground running.”

Lucy laughs. “I love being essential. How will you survive without me around here, boss?”

“We’ll manage,” I snap, hating that she has to rub her absence in. “Just get back as soon as possible.”

“I’ll get him a temp,” Ida says.

“Ugh, good freaking luck. That never works out. It’s usually worse than not having any assistant at all,” Lucy says, wincing. “If you really want, I can try to sort your emails and the small stuff from home.”

“Like hell. I won’t have you working with a newborn. I’m not a complete ogre,” I say, raking a hand through my hair.

“Not only that, but it’s against the law, boss,” Ida remarks. Leave it to an HR director to bring legalese into it and downplay my generosity.

She shrugs. “Hey, as long as I’m getting paid. I’m happy to help however I can when I’m not sneaking in naps.”

“Just take care of your kidlet and be ready to put out any fires when you get back. Mark my words. Shit will fall apart,” I tell them.

“Well, it’s nice to be needed.” She takes another heaping bite of the roll and lets out a moan of pure bliss.

“Stop that. We’re having breakfast before an important interview, not recording adult audiobooks here,” I snarl.

Lucy and Ida share a laugh.

“And what would you know about erotic audiobooks, Mr. Burns?” Ida asks.

“Not enough to play into anything that would invite the ire of corporate harassment policies,” I say.

“Is that why everyone loves these things so much? They’re better than sex?” Lucy twirls the last knob of her roll in her hand, staring at it.

Her words are jumbled because she’s still chewing. She swallows loudly.

I don’t dignify her musings with a response.

Thankfully, Anna Patel walks in a second later. My marketing head wears her usual bright colors like she just stepped out of a van Gogh painting. Today, it’s a vivid yellow dress. Exactly the person I need to whip our focus back on business and not on erotic cinnamon rolls or whatever the fuck.

“Good morning.” She hands me and Lucy a copy of the resumé in question before she sits beside Lucy. “I have a good feeling about this candidate, Mr. Burns. She could be the one.”

I scan the resumé. The name jumps off the page.

Dakota Poe.

I snort.

“Any relation to Edgar Allan?” I mutter out loud, looking up. I haven’t read any of his morbid classics since I was in high school, but you never forget one of the few authors who made sophomore English class interesting. “Did Mr. Poe give up his stint in poetry for a junior level copywriting position?”

Everyone groans.

Apparently, they like my audiobook jokes better.

I’m not nearly as impressed as Anna with the prospect, either. Hell, this is probably one of those social media hotshots who legally changed their name to make themselves look more appealing. I don’t need gimmicks. I’ll even take solid work over experience at an alphabet company.

“She is quite good at copywriting, though it looks like she dabbles in poetry too.”

I meet Anna’s eyes.

“So, Poe’s a woman? How do you know?”

“I checked out her website. She’s done rather nice work for smaller companies. I don’t think she’s worked with an organization this large before, but if she brings the same creativity here that she’s shown in her portfolio, she could freshen up the big campaign.”

My brows pull down, my skepticism growing by the second.

“How many other candidates are there?”

“Well…I got about a hundred resumés, but only three candidates worth talking to. If the three musketeers don’t work out, the only thing I can think of is sending the job requisition back to HR and having it reposted.”

“I can repost it if we need to,” Ida says.

Lucy sighs. “I hope it doesn’t come to that. We need someone now. The clock is ticking to get them trained in.”

She points at her bulging belly. The other women laugh.

That’s the God’s truth and I hate it.

“Good help is damnably hard to find. We’ll work with the three you’ve narrowed down and hope one of them can hack it,” I tell them.

“The sooner we get started, the better,” Anna says.

“With the earnings potential of this line, I agree, Miss Patel.” Maybe I’ll catch a lucky break today. I can’t afford more delays.

The receptionist peers into the open door. “Your nine o’clock is here.”

“Send her in,” I say immediately.

She disappears and comes back a second later with a striking green-eyed blond whose black dress fits her like a glove. If this is Miss Poe, she has a ravenesque figure, everything except for the stark white-gold hair that almost reminds me of—

Wait.

Hold the fucking phone.

It’s not that she looks familiar.

The realization feels like a bullet between the eyes.

What the hell kind of sick, psychotic joke is this?

I whirl around in my chair, glaring at my staff one by one, already trying to suss out the traitor. Only, nobody’s hiding a red-faced laugh at my expense behind their hand.

Anna stands, completely normally, and holds out her hand.

“Anna Patel, I’m the marketing director. Nice to meet you.”

The green-eyed, pastry-thieving witch flashes a wide smile. “Dakota Poe. It’s great to meet you.”

Fuck.

Her name was Dakota, wasn’t it?

Ida shuffles out of her chair and moves behind me to shake Dakota’s hand. “I’m Ida, the HR director.”

I can’t even bring myself to look at her.

I have no intention of shaking this woman’s—anything.

This will be a short interview, and the poor girl doesn’t realize it. She hasn’t made eye contact with me yet.

Lucy grasps the arm of her chair and launches herself—baby belly and all—out of her seat. After the Herculean effort, it would be ridiculous of me not to stand, I suppose.

Biting my tongue, I try not to roll my eyes out of my head as I scramble to my feet woodenly.

Lucy holds her hand out next.

“Lucy Smith, I’m EA to our CEO, Lincoln Burns, but I pretty much run the show around here,” she jokes.

“Great to meet you,” Dakota says with a friendly smile I’ve never seen on that face before.

“The pleasure is all mine, but if you don’t mind, I’m going to sit back down,” Lucy tells her.

“Of course,” Dakota says.

My turn.

I suddenly have a horrible need to see how far this punk-ass prank goes.

Slowly, I push past Lucy and extend my hand.

Raven chick looks up with the guarded expression of someone meeting their life’s gatekeeper.

Our eyes connect. I wait.

Then comes grim realization.

Her breath hitches, a gasp so tiny I think the women miss it.

She corrects her reaction immediately, but not before I see the way her eyes go wide and round when my face clicks in her memory.

Goddamn, that feels good.

I bet she regrets stealing Wyatt’s Regis roll now.

Is she hearing a record scratch? Are the bitter words she said to me this morning playing through her head right now like a cheesy comedy film?

I’d like to help, but…

Because they’re damned sure on repeat in mine.

I’m half expecting a laugh track to go off from nowhere and to see Seinfeld’s Kramer come skidding through the door next.

Poe fidgets with her hands and stands on the other side of the table with her lips trembling. The red, defiant anger I’m used to seeing looks drained from her pale face, her eyes whirling with confusion.

How does it feel to be cornered, Nevermore?

“Have a seat,” I bite off, forcing a too-wide smile and gesturing to the table.

Her hands fall to the chair closest to her.

I point to the end of the table.

“We’d like to have you closer. Try over there,” I say again, slowly and darkly.

Dakota stares at me in horrible silence, then nods and moves to the end of the table, where she’ll be right next to me.

Looks like my sweet revenge could gag an elephant.

Lucy, Anna, and Ida all look at me, tossing curious looks around the room.

“Just sit wherever you’re comfortable,” Anna says as Miss Poe lingers without quite sitting down.

“She’s comfortable there,” I say matter-of-factly.

She nods—too briskly—and pulls out the chair at the other end of the table.

I turn my head to Anna again. “Miss Patel, would you kindly bring Miss Poe a cinnamon roll? I believe we have a few left in the box outside and I’m sure she’d enjoy one for visiting us today. Everyone in this city is practically ready to go to war over those rolls.”

Anna nods at me and stands.

Dakota throws up her hand, finally showing me a hint of the hellcat I’m used to. “No, Miss Patel. Thank you, but I’m good. The roll looks lovely, but I had a huge bear claw on my way in. I really can’t eat another bite.”

Anna nods again with a polite smile and sits.

“From Sweeter Grind?” I ask.

Dakota looks at me like she’s drilling a hole in my head.

“Is there anywhere else in Seattle worth the calories?”

“I believe there are many places in this city where you can get delicious pastries,” I tell her. “Of course, the Regis rolls are their signature creation. People will fight over them.”

“I suppose that’s true,” she says awkwardly.

I shrug. “Maybe. Or maybe someone in front of you buys the last pastry in the whole place and refuses to sell it for a stupefying profit. Then you have no choice but to go somewhere else to satisfy your sweet tooth.”

She holds my gaze. “Sounds like you value availability over quality, Mister—Mr. Burns, was it?”

“Lincoln Burns,” I say harshly, giving a name to the sneer she won’t forget for the rest of her natural life.

Such a shame.

She has the right backbone to work long hours on a luxury line. Too bad I have a policy against hiring deranged pastry thieves who put pride over commonsense profit. Even if it’s not in the HR handbook, it’s my policy, made up right here.

Still, I’m not above making her squirm like a worm on a hook for the next half hour.

Anna and Lucy sit quietly, watching this baffling tennis match of words with muted, wondering looks. Finally, Anna clears her throat.

“So, Miss Poe, I checked out your website,” Anna says. “You’ve done some excellent work. The project I was most interested in was the campaign you did for a local florist last year. That’s exactly the kind of creative edge we’re looking for. Can you tell us about it?”

For a second, Poe looks at me. The eyes live up to her namesake, at least. A whole army of ghosts and nineteenth century killers dance in her gaze.

“You heard Miss Patel. Can you?” I whisper slowly when she’s quiet for too long. “Expiring minds want to know,” I say, deliberately swapping out inquiring for expiring.

I’d love to think I threw her off her game. Knocked her flat with the sheer shock of seeing me here, a hate note from the universe that what goes around comes around in spades.

Only, she smiles, exuding an annoying confidence with teeth that seem too sharp.

“I’d love to,” she says, locking those bewitching green eyes on me. “Let’s see, where do I begin…”