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?”