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"People like her? They think she's doing a good job?"
He frowns again. "Now, that's not fair. She's only been doing this a year."
"It doesn't matter. What do people think about her?"
"They mostly think she's okay but not as good as her mom."
I nod, etching this into my notes. "What do people think about her desserts? Are they good?"
"They're fine, I guess." He sees the look in my eyes before bowing his head. Looking guilty for even thinking it, he finally says, "I bought some donuts from her once. They were pretty good. The icing was a mess, though."
I nod again and add this as well to my notes.
Bash shakes his head. "So that's the angle you're going with? That she's not fit to run the place?"
"It's the best angle I have so far."
"What makes WestRock interested in a place like that, anyway? It's just a local bakery."
My eyes stray to the files again, to that name. Denise Elizabeth Lawson. In many ways, I see Bash's point. She seems perfectly nice, just trying to follow in her mother's shoes and struggling to do it. For a moment, that familiar feeling of guilt washes over me.
There's something about this woman that I find so intriguing, something I can't quite put my finger on. The more I read her file, the more I want to know about her.
And the worse I feel about potentially hurting her.
Still, this is the world of business as it is.
To climb that ladder, you have to be willing to get your hands dirty and to do whatever it takes to earn your place among the highest rungs. That's what I've done all these years. I've worked my way from the bottom, from the dirt itself. And now, here I am, at the cusp of something great.
Denise didn't build this bakery from the ground up. She inherited it. I keep telling myself that taking it from her will reset her back to her old life. In the end, there will be no actual harm done.
My hands grip the paper. I'm not hurting her by doing this.
I'm not.
Taking a breath, I look back at my brother, putting Denise and her plights out of my mind. There's no point getting invested in a woman I only intend to know for an hour or two.
There's no point in treating her as anything more than an asset.
"My client cares about the bakery," I answer. "I've been hired to acquire it. That's what I do."
Bash looks at me in silence for the longest time. Right into my eyes as if trying to read my soul. And for that moment, he looks sad. Like something important has been irreplaceably lost.
But before I can say anything, he's already set down his ball and stood up from his chair.
"If that's everything you wanted to know," he says shortly, "I'll go tell Tuck I'm taking the evening off."
He leaves the room, and I think about that look on his face in his absence.
However, I don't get very long to think about it.
From the central part of the bar, there is suddenly the crash of breaking glass and a series of gasps and squeals. I hop up from my chair and dash out to see the crowd looking at the man behind the bar.
Bash is guiding him out through the swinging door, and as they get closer, I see the man—Tucker, presumably— is gripping a washcloth to his hand. White but dotted with growing red spots. Bash looks up at me, looking harried.
"Hey, uh, B-Brett?" he stutters.
"Don't worry," I say, my fingers skittering across my phone. "I'm texting my driver. He'll be here in a few minutes and get you to the hospital faster than your old truck."
