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As he lets the door shut behind himself, he scowls at theSorry We’re Half-Baked, Please Come Againsign.

“Cute sign,” he says, like the sign is not cute at all.

Justin thinks it’s cute. I told him it sounds like we’re getting stoned in the back room. I can see Harlan agrees.

“My boss picked it out,” I say, heart thudding, as I move to lock the door behind him. I thought I already locked it.

Our eyes connect.

We’re now standing way too close for a super hot boss and an employee he blackmailed and then kissed who are suddenly alone together in a room. Yet neither of us backs away.

“You mean your other boss,” he growls, in a low, displeased voice.

“I mean the man I’m seeing.”

Unfortunately, that’s still present tense. Technically. Though to my girlfriends’ delight, it’s about to become past tense, officially. They all know about Justin’s cheating by now. He still hasn’t said a word to me about chocolate girl, or made any attempt to repair the broken state of our relationship. In fact, he seems grossly oblivious to it. So, I’ve decided to put my big girl panties on and tell him that it’s over. Tonight.

He’s swinging by to pick me up soon. He thinks we’re going on a date—a date that I insisted we go on, to a decent restaurant. Which means he probably thinks he’s getting laid afterwards. It was the only way I could ensure he’d show up, the man has been so tuned out lately.

None of which is Harlan Vance’s business.

“What are you doing here?” I ask him warily. “I have dinner plans.”

He wanders around the bakery, and even looks into the back room, like he owns the place.

While I stare, unfairly fascinated with his every move—wolfish, predatory, commanding—in that black suit.

“Yes… I see life is good.” His eyes drag over the mop handle that’s still in my hand, with what I think is resentment.

“What, this?” I tip my chin up. “It’s called making lemonade.” I tuck the mop away, embarrassed, but clinging to my dignity, and trying to appear unfazed that he caught me dancing with it.

I have every right to try to make lemonade out of the lemons I’ve been dealt lately. I don’t have to justify it to him.

The truth is, it’s been a sucky month, the highlight of which was dinner at his place. I have to admit that I kind of liked what happened that night with his family, when we pretended to be lovers.

It was a nice fantasy for a few hours.

So, yeah.

Sucky.

“Are you here alone?” he asks me, frowning as he completes his nosy lap of the place.

“Yes. Why?”

“You should turn the volume down when you’re working alone.”

“Good idea. I wouldn’t want any overstepping employers creeping up on me.”

His frown deepens. But what can I say? Ever since he kissed me at dinner, then ignored me through dessert, then rushed me the hell out of his house—after I did everything he told me to do, against my better morals—I’m feeling pretty over his whole just-do-whatever-I-say-because-I’m-your-employer thing.

Or maybe I just didn’t like it that he told me—repeatedly—that we’d never see each other again.

I don’t like this feeling, either, that I don’twantto never see him again. I know I’m in danger of wanting too much, things Ican’t have, with this man. I feel drawn to him, and I don’t know what to do about it—except never see him again.

“We need to talk,” he informs me.

“Yeah. We probably do.” I take a breath. “I feel like we should clarify things.”