Page 12 of How Sweet It Is (Willow Shade Island #3)

I wait for Amelia to answer me, even though I’m pretty sure she was going to say she had to leave. And if I put that together with the beefy guy sitting in his car outside of my bakery, that tells me someone is after Amelia. And she might not be able to talk about it, because she’s in danger.

“You know what? Never mind,” I say, leaning back. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll beat the odds and make my business work. You’ll see. Even if you don’t believe in me.”

Amelia puts a hand on my arm. “It’s not that I don’t believe in you. Everything you make smells amazing, and it was actually killing me not to eat the things you gave me.”

I examine her to see if she’s telling me the truth. I don’t see any signs that she’s lying. “Really?”

“Heavens, yes. I can still smell that biscuit muffin sitting in that drawer, and I literally have to hold myself back so I don’t eat it and then regret it later.”

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “Sorry. That does sound like torture.”

“It is. Don’t look so pleased.” She pokes me in the side.

I laugh and grab her finger so she doesn’t poke me again, but the contact with her skin sends a zing of attraction through me. I let go of her hand, not because I want to but because she’s made it clear she’s not wanting any kind of a relationship right now. But my heart doesn’t stop racing.

“Thanks for telling me something real,” I say as I stare into her brown eyes. “You hungry? I can order pizza. I know a place that makes gluten-free crusts, but they don’t deliver. Do you mind working on the books while I run and grab it?”

“Sure,” she says, and I can’t tell if she’s softened toward the idea of us eating together or if pizza over accounting is about as un-date-like as you can get.

“I’ll be right back.” I turn to leave but then remember all I have is my motorcycle. I slap my hand to my forehead. “Wait. I don’t have a car.”

Amelia digs out her keys and tosses them to me. “Drive mine.”

I hold up her keys. “You trust me with your car?”

Her eyes widen. “Do I have reason to not trust you with my car?”

I laugh as I toss her keys up and snatch them from the air. “Nope. I’m a great driver.”

“Then go get me that gluten-free pizza. I had no idea anyone on the island made one, and I haven’t had a good pizza in forever.”

I give her a two-finger salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

What I don’t tell her is the pizza place is on the mainland. I also don’t tell her I plan on stopping on the way and grabbing some gluten-free flour so I can make her my biscuit muffins.

I park Amelia’s car behind my bakery and grab my gluten-free treasures. I stash the flour on my shelving, behind a stack of Bundt pans, before entering the office with the pizza. Amelia looks up from her computer when I enter. “Thank goodness. I thought I was going to starve.”

“Here you are, m’lady.” I cringe at myself. I sound like such a dork. I place the pizza on the desk and open the lid.

She grabs a slice of pizza, the cheese stretching out. “I don’t even care that you called me m’lady. You brought me cheesy goodness.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what that was. I guess for a second, I was in eighteenth-century England.”

Amelia takes a bite and closes her eyes. “This is heaven.”

“I’m so glad it tastes good.” I grab a slice for myself and try it. I chew it, and it’s underwhelming if I’m being honest with myself. “It’s kind of flat and chewy. Are all gluten-free crusts like this?”

“Pretty much.”

“Hmm.” I analyze it, trying to figure out what it’s made of.

“Why?”

I plop down in the chair next to her. “It’s not the best. I’m a pan-crust lover myself. Thick, buttery goodness.”

Amelia moans. “Me too. But I haven’t been able to eat crust like that since I was a kid.”

Good to know. I make it my personal goal to make a better gluten-free pizza crust. I have the flour now. I can make more than biscuit muffins with it.

I lean toward her computer. “Have you put all my projected expenses and my income into your software?”

“Yep.”

“So you should know what I can afford to pay Kiera.”

“Yep.” She doesn’t look at me.

“What can I afford?”

She gives me a withering look. “About a dollar fifty.”

“Per hour?”

“No, total.”

I sink into my chair and let out a breath. “Well, that sucks.”

“But that’s only based off of two days of being open.

We’re going to do a lot more advertising, and you’re heading in the right direction, adding coffee and Italian sodas.

If you can increase the average ticket, you’ll be on your way to success.

” Amelia grins at me as she takes another slice of pizza.

“Yeah,” I say, not really feeling it. “So, if I continue selling like I have these last two days, am I just breaking even?”

She clicks on her computer. “Not if you want to pay an employee.”

I sigh, not loving that thought. I’ve worked my behind off. And for what? To lose money. That stinks. Maybe my brother was right to caution me about opening a business. Maybe I really don’t know what I’m doing.

Amelia shoves my leg. “You look depressed. Stop it. You’re the upbeat one.”

I lean back in the chair, unable to come up with a snarky response to her. It’s my birthday, and I just found out that my life’s dream might be in the toilet. “Maybe I should quit while I’m ahead.”

“Quit? You just started. You can’t quit now.”

I frown. “My dream has been to open a bakery and live off what I make and sell. But if I can’t break even, then there’s no reason to continue.”

Amelia whacks my leg with the back of her hand. “It’s way too early to know if this bakery will make it. Now, snap out of this funk. You can’t be like this on your birthday.”

I look down at my jeans, not wanting to admit to Amelia that I dropped out of college three times, and now I’m a failure at this as well.

She shoves my leg again. “Go sweep the floor and dance around for a while.”

“I don’t feel like dancing.”

“Well, I do.”

I jerk my gaze up to meet hers. Is she messing with me? “You do not.”

“I just ate something I’ve been craving for the last eight weeks. I could dance all night long.”

A grin creeps over my face. “Watch it, Spreadsheet. You’re dangerously close to getting my hopes up. I’m not in the mood to be toyed with.”

Amelia stands, slings her purse over her shoulder, and folds her arms. “I’m not toying. And I’m starting to think you’re all talk and no action.”

I stand and grab her hand. “Now you’ve done it. There’s no going back.”