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“Since they bullied me because?—”

“I don’t care,” I cut him off, but he keeps talking.

“Because I’m trans.” He widens his arms to show me…what exactly?

I give him a once-over. Big lips, long hair. The level of wariness in his eyes is odd for a person this young, unclouded of any delusions. Which tells me he had a rough life. “Does being trans affect your work efficiency?”

He frowns. “Uhm, no.”

“Izzy, here is your batch.” Charles comes out of the kitchen to leave a tray on the counter. He tilts his head at me and goes back to work.

“I don’t remember those pastries on the menu.”

“Oh, I made them.” His cheeks turn pink. “I noticed most customers take coffees to go, and the cakes we provide are not easy to carry.” He shrugs.

I make my way to the tray. The presentation is nice, they look inviting and smell good.

“These are strawberry tarts, and those are lemon cheesecake bars.”

I toss a round tart in my mouth, and fuck, it’s good, at an incredible level. It melts on my tongue, the balance between sweet and sour is perfect. Now that I think about it, a week ago, Charles told me there was an employee who is very good at baking. The Russ and Linda fuck-up discovery pushed that discussion aside.

“Do you have a culinary degree?” I ask.

“No.” He turns his eyes down and sighs. That must be the reason why he got a job as a barista and not as a baker.

“I’m moving you to the kitchen. I want these pastries on the menu,” I let him know.

“What?” he replies, seemingly baffled. Deciphering people’s emotions is a drag sometimes. And why do they always need explanations? Can’t they just take what they’re given? Sari included. Damn it.

“You’re the best employee here, always on time, never complain, a hard worker. Also, you could be an alien, and I wouldn’t care. That’s your private life. None of my business. I’m your boss, not your pastor.”

Nobody bothered me when I was finding my way, and I turned into the best version of myself. I’m simply giving Izzy the same courtesy. Why? Because an idea is whirling inside my head. I saw a for sale sign a few weeks ago outside an old bakery near Rami’s warehouse apartment. My eyes fall on the pastries Izzy made. This could be a new opportunity for a franchise.

“I’ll give you a three-month trial. Keep the status of this café high. Don’t, and you’re fired,” I finish. Three months is enough time to see how he does and to start planning accordingly.

He is still looking at me like a dead fish, mouth open and all, but he nods after a second.

I keep talking as I walk toward the office, expecting him to follow, and he does. “I appoint you as the temporary manager until I find a permanent one. You’ll have double salary until then. Your first task is to find two more servers, take care of that quickly. I’ll send you an email with whatever you need to know about inventory, quality control, menu planning, cleaning equipment, and so on. You’ve been working here for two months right?”

“Yes.”

“So you know some things already. My phone number is only for emergencies. I’ll see you in a week. I expect a full briefing.”

He suddenly grabs my hand in his. “Mr. Mahoe. Boss, thank you so much for this opportunity. Baking is my life. I won’t let you down.” His beaming smile is not as annoying as I expected. The way he’s looking at me—I like to be adored by people even though they are only little ants to me. Inconsequential, insignificant. But if Izzy Pratt is as good as I believe, he could be of use.

“Let go,” I deadpan, more than ready to leave.

He suddenly drops my hand and starts backing away. “Sorry. I’ll see you in a week.” He scurries away.

When I get to the parking lot through the backdoor, a loud, irritating jingle hits my ears. It’s coming from an ice cream truck across the road. I see Russ and Linda leaving in their car; I can hear their heated fight even though the car windows are closed. How much I’d like to punish them, see their suffering, blood rolling down their cheeks. My cock turns hard at the prospect, and Sari’s face suddenly pops up in front of my eyes. I’m associating sadistic pleasure with him now. Fuck!

I enter my car and slam the door.

I feel the usual thirst for him burning the back of my throat. Is that birthmark under his right nipple still there? I couldn’t see it last night, that sexy bra was in the way. Fuuuuck, that flimsy lingerie he wears, if I pull on it, tear it right off, it will mark his smooth, diaphanous, perfectly pale skin so easily. The image makes my balls boil, dick leak, teeth grit.

Tonight, I need to work on someone at the club. Otherwise I know exactly how this is going to end with Sari. I fucking hate the restraints I’ve forced on myself. He’s mine! And I should do whatever I want with what’s mine.

Like he knows I’m thinking about him, I get a text.