Hugo gasps out a sharp breath when the shake of his head is quickly followed by me sliding Isabelle’s file into the drawer at the bottom of my desk. “Boss, there are things in that folder you need to see.”
He rakes his fingers through his dark hair when I ask, “Why, Hugo? In case she magically arrives for our datemonthslate? Or for when she stops thinking of me as a criminal mastermind? What possible use could I have for anything in that file?”
“There’s stuff in there that explains why she’s cautious.”
I crack my chair back into place before regathering my pen into my hand. “Isabelle made it abundantly clear why she’s cautious the last time I saw her.”
“Isaac—”
“Be sure to close the door on your way out.”
Since my focus is on the documents in front of me, I can’t see Hugo’s face, but I can feel the anger radiating out of him. It’s as black as the marks my furiously high body temperature is scorching my heart with. I wanted this information weeks ago, but not only is it being delivered way too late, it’salso being issued by the wrong person.
“You can’t fight fate, Isaac,” Hugo mutters under his breath before he storms out of my office, slamming the door for good measure.
I try to keep my focus on anything but our exchange, but within seconds of Hugo’s abrupt departure, I peg my pen in the direction he just walked before yanking open the drawer I stuffed Isabelle’s file into. I’m not succumbing to the pressure burning me alive. I’m on the hunt for the bottle of whiskey I hid when Nick unexpectedly arrived at my office last week. I wouldn’t mind sharing my top-shelf whiskey with him if he took the time to enjoy it. He’s the opposite of almost every man I know. He has beer taste even with his budget being capable of buying him the most expensive bottle of champagne.
After popping the cork on a bottle of Macallan Oscuro Single Malt Whiskey, I pour myself a generous nip into a glass. If my skyrocketing blood pressure isn’t enough of an indication of how unnerved I am, the brutal shake of my hands is a sure-fire sign. They’re rattling so much, droplets of whiskey topple on the paperwork I’d give anything to forget exists for just a day. I eat, breathe, and sleep for my empire, but it’s been more than draining the past two months.
I add a healthy spray of whiskey to the droplets on my desk when Cormack enters my office. I’m not shocked at his inability to knock, we passed that stage in our friendship a long time ago, it’s the fact his usually faultless locks are stuck to his temples with a sticky substance, and his backside is covered with flour.
“Is that egg?” I ask after gesturing for him to take a seat in the chair across from me.
Cormack gives me a warning look, one that reveals I won’t be smirking like a cat in front of a bowl of cream if I don’t keep my snickering hidden before he crosses the room and slouches into the chair opposite me. “What are you drinking?”
Aware he neither cares about the price tag or taste, I poor him a generous helping of the Macallan before pushing a crystal glass to his side of my desk. He downs it without absorbing its rich flavor or coloring, delves his tongue out to make sure he doesn’t miss a drop on his lips, then requests another.
We do another two rounds before Cormack confesses the reason for his late-night visit. “I need to take advantage of your early morning awakenings.”
He doesn’t give me the chance to recant that I’m no longer waking with the sun because he knows as well as I do that any denial would be a lie. Isabelle no longer runs by my office, and Hugo is no longer on her watch, but my sleeping schedule has yet to shift back to its regular timeslot. Just because I haven’t seen Isabelle doesn’t mean she isn’t on my mind. The reminder has me swallowing down my fourth nip of whiskey as if it won’t make my head woozy.
“I have a delivery arriving. A delivery Ican’taccept.”
I slant my head and arch a brow, confused by his riddle. Cormack is usually as straightforward as me.
When I see something in his eyes I’ve never seen, I slouch back into my office chair and scrub a hand over the stubble on my chin. A woman has caught his eye, and he’s shit-scared about the prospect.
“What time?”
I should throw him into the deep end without a life jacket. He’d do the same to me. I just can’t. If he didn’t invest in me my very first fight, I would have never amassed the capital needed to start my empire. For that alone, he will forever be in my favor.
“Seven.”
“Seven?Fuck.” I’m not a fan of swearing, but if you felt how fired up my veins are from the whiskey we’ve shared, you can fathom my slip-up.
Cormack nods. “She doesn’t trust couriers, so she has to deliver them before opening.” The whiskey warming my gut could have me mistaken, but I’m reasonably sure there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips. It fuels my reply. “I’ll meet you at Destiny Records tomorrow at seven.”
Destiny Records is Cormack’s baby. He has the funds to make my brother’s band an overnight global sensation, but since he’d rather see them achieve success instead of having it handed to them, he’s taking them through the standard process of recording an album—month-long stints in the studio included. It’s been good for Nick. Hard work wasn’t his forte before he joined Rise Up. “I thought you could collect the cupcakes on my behalf.”
After standing to my feet, I shake my head. It took a lot of pushing for him to scrub his hands clean of the controversy his father coated them in. Thattaught him there’s only one way to do things—the right way. This baker has sparked enough interest out of him for him to get me involved. That means something.
“I’ll meet you there at seven.” I snag my jacket off the coat rack in the corner of the room before slipping my hands into the openings. “Don’t stand me up, Cormack. Tardiness is one of my pet peeves.”
Stealing his chance to reply, I hotfoot it out of my office. Regretfully, my brisk speed doesn’t save me from hearing his mumble, “Until it comes to Isabelle.”
“Circle the block. This shouldn’t take long.” After locking his eyes with mine in the rearview mirror of my Mercedes town car, Roger lifts his chin. He looks as hopeful as me. Tiredness is seen all over his face. He isn’t accustomed to driving me home at eleven, then returning the following morning at four. The only good that has come from my ability to fully forget Isabelle is that traffic is lighter before the sun wakes, meaning we made the trip from my nightclub in Ravenshoe to Hopeton in under thirty minutes.
My pace into the alleyway that sides Destiny Records slows when I spot a woman with reddish-brown hair balancing a set of bakery boxes with her hands. Since she’s peering at her reflection in the tint of her car windows, I can’t see her face, but what I can see has me confronted with a sense of familiarity.
