His hand settled on her knee, big and comforting. “Nelson read it as an electrical fire, which is pretty damn straightforward. As far as the claim itself, I’m guessing there are no curve balls. You weren’t stockpiling mink coats or laptops with your sugar and spice?”
“I was fresh out of mink coats. My losses are total, but not out of the ordinary for my business.?
?
“Okay then, it might take their lab a few weeks to corroborate Nelson’s opinion on cause, and their adjudicator will need to spend some time with your claim, but there’s not a lot for the investigator to chew on. You’ve given them a clean set of facts.”
“Yeah…” Except there was one not-so-clean fact lurking in the shadows.
She dredged up what felt like a half-hearted smile. Everybody knew Babycakes had been closed New Year’s Day, and she’d confirmed to Booker, Nelson, and her insurance agent that she’d personally locked up the prior afternoon. But nobody had asked if she’d returned to the premises any time after closing. She hadn’t volunteered the information because…well…she wasn’t stupid. It looked bad. Discovering she’d not only been in the bakery the morning of the fire, but had cleaned out her safe, would definitely give the investigator something to chew on. Something that maybe looked and tasted a lot like insurance fraud. It might take years to rebuild Babycakes. If she got the chance at all.
She also had to think of Booker’s reputation. If the investigation turned up anything off-putting and they pointed the finger at her, there’d be no stopping people from jumping to the wrong conclusion.
Would they fire Booker for dating a suspected arsonist?
No. Nelson already had a decent idea of when and how the blaze had started, and she hadn’t seen anything to confirm or dispute his impressions during her short stop to get Denise her go-the-fuck-away money. Bringing her mother into it, airing that nasty bit of dirty laundry, added nothing useful to the investigation. Things would fall into place. They had to.
“Meanwhile”—he squeezed her knee—“you’ve got time to evaluate what worked well the first time around, and what you want to do differently.”
“You sound just like Chelsea.”
“I doubt that. Her voice is much higher than mine.”
“Har. You know what I meant. By the time she finished giving me a long-distance pep talk yesterday evening, she almost had me believing this was all a blessing in disguise. Babycakes will be back, bigger and better than ever, and to help make it happen, she’s determined to stake this big bonus she might get at her new job.”
His brows lowered a notch. “Let me get this straight. Accepting a loan from me violates your standards of self-sufficiency, but it’s perfectly fine to take Chelsea’s money?”
Okay, somehow she’d offended him, but dammit, there was a difference. She pushed up her sleeves and propped her elbows on the table. “I didn’t take anything. There’s nothing to take. Her bonus is completely speculative at this point.”
“But if she gets it?”
Of course he wasn’t going to let her punt the question. Fine. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Then yes, if my best friend wants to invest her hard-earned money in Babycakes—”
“You, Lauralie, are a snob.”
“Are you kidding me? I’m not the one who grew up at the top of the hill, with my wealthy family and my fat trust fund.”
He leaned forward, into her space, and she belatedly realized she’d made a tactical error. She’d literally given up ground.
“No, that would be me. I’ve got money to spare, but it’s not hard-earned enough for you.”
The softly delivered accusation nevertheless packed the power to momentarily stun her, and make her question her motives. Did she disqualify people from certain roles in her life simply because they’d been born with advantages? And if so, did that make her some kind of reverse snob, or did it make her smart enough to know taking money from a rich guy—particularly a rich guy she was sleeping with—made her look like a gold-digging whore, and people around here already expected that kind of behavior from Denise Peterson’s daughter?
“I’m not a snob. And, as it happens, I am accepting money from you.” She glanced around, and then leaned in, too, attempting to reclaim the territory she’d ceded. “In fact, I’m on the clock right now.”
He didn’t give an inch. “That’s different, and you know it.”
It was different, but the six grand he’d pay her for helping him keep his mother out of his personal life for the next little while was as far down the path as she intended to go. They both had good reason to keep their business discreet, and, frankly, nobody would question where she got the money to refund a handful of deposits. The stickier question would be why wasn’t it sitting in her safe in the first place. But people sure as hell would question where she came up with the kind of funds needed to reopen the bakery, and if the answer was Ethan Booker, she’d find herself on the receiving end of a whole lot of unflattering assumptions. So would he, for that matter, but the nice thing about sitting at the top of the social hill meant, generally, shit rolled down.
“Look, I am not a snob—”
“Oh my God, Booker!” A female voice broke in. “This place is crazy tonight. Can we join you?”
Chapter Eight
Booker turned and aimed a stare at his sister intended to convey one word. No. A quick glance at the scalpel-thin woman standing beside Kate, clutching a Hermes bag, and looking like she might contract a disease if she inhaled too deeply had him upping the silent message to a Hell, no!
Not that it would do any good. Kate hadn’t forgiven him for the New Year’s Day hangover. Her guileless smile tightened at one corner, just enough to issue a silent message of her own. Revenge is mine.