Joke’s on You by Lani Lynn Vale Page 0,42

“But I guess that means that Ken forgot to lock it on his way out.”

Booth grunted something and made his way through the shop, systematically taking everything in from the peak of the ceiling to the molding on the floor.

Once he’d made a thorough walk through, he came to a stop directly next to me.

“This place doesn’t have rats,” he said. “This place also doesn’t even have a fuckin’ crumb. So I highly doubt that it would’ve been Ken who made the complaint.”

I did, too.

“One of them is probably just fuckin’ pissed that you’re changing their hours around. They had a pretty cushy job here. They got to come in at eight, leave at noon, and got paid almost full-time for it.”

That was true.

They did.

But of my three employees, all of them were older. Ken was in his early sixties. During the early afternoon hours, he worked for me making dough. When he wasn’t working for me, he taught a CrossFit class at his local gym.

Mirena, the woman that sometimes opened for me if I needed her to, was in her early fifties with two college-aged kids. The only reason she was working here at all was because she needed something to do with her time now.

The last employee, who had worked for me the least amount of time, and was my prime suspect, was in her forties. Her name was Moshe, and she was my new donut decorator.

She made her own hours and came in only when I couldn’t keep up with the orders. She was actually more than happy about the extra orders we’d now be taking, but she wasn’t excited about the hours. Something in which she said she would have to think about before she committed to it.

But even her, I couldn’t see doing it.

“I just don’t see that,” I admitted. “None of them were upset about the change. The only one that really said she even might have a problem was Moshe, and that’s only because she’s a runner, and she has her long runs on Saturday mornings. I really don’t see her as having such a problem that she would call the health department on me.”

“Speaking of health department,” Booth murmured, his eyes going to the plate glass windows that held my sparkly pink bakery letters. “He’s here.”

We both watched as the man got out of his truck, clipboard in hand.

He was taking in the sign on the plate glass windows, grinning slightly.

I was sure it was all the glitter.

Most men lifted their lips up at it upon first sight.

I’d gone with the most obnoxious shade of pink I could find, then asked them to add glitter to it.

Honestly, I loved it.

But it wasn’t a man’s favorite thing in the world upon seeing it, either.

The moment he walked through my door, my voice froze in my throat.

Luckily, Booth was there.

He walked over to the man and introduced himself.

“Hi, I’m Dillan Davidsdottir’s man, Booth,” he said, holding out his hand to the health inspector.

The health inspector took his hand. “I’m Green. First name, not my last. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Well, Green.” Booth stepped back. “Go ahead and do your thing. We’ll be out here.”

Green nodded his head and went on his way, making me worry my lip as I watched him go.

“It’ll be okay,” Booth promised.

I wasn’t sure how.

I just had the worst feeling in the world.

And it was becoming bigger and bigger the longer that Green was gone.

Booth caught me up in his arms and pulled me in tight, and I forced myself to calm down.

“Have I ever told you how much I love your hair?”

His whispered words against my hair had me smiling.

“No,” I said. “It’s just hair, Booth.”

He chuckled then.

“It is.” He paused. “But then you have to think about the fact that I’ve always wanted to wrap it around my fist. In my head, I do it three times. Then I yank your head back and fuck you, using your ponytail as a guide to help me fuck you harder.”

I licked my lips at his words.

Jesus, the man was potent.

He’d only whispered a few words against my hair, and I was roaring and ready to go.

I shivered.

“Have you ever had any other fantasies?” I asked curiously.

My eyes were on the board across the room.

I had a chalkboard low so that all the little children—and sometimes big children—could write whatever they wanted while their parents paid.

I loved looking at all the drawings. But right then, all I could see was the