Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
“She was married,” I correct. “But that was all said and done with when she walked in on her husband with his mistress.”
The narrowing of my eyes and the heat of my scorn when I stare at Tasha at the end of my reply tells my mother everything she needs to know.
“You cheated on my son?”
Tasha’s reply comes out at a million miles an hour. “He had already filed for an annulment—”
“You cheated on my son!” This one is more a confirmation than a question. “Get out of my house. Now!”
A broom isn’t as painful to the head as a rolling pin, but it is the perfect instrument to remove rodents from your home. It and a handful of expletives in Russian deposit Tasha and her conniving ass onto the porch of my mother’s condo in under thirty seconds.
“Nero, baby, please—”
Her reply is gobbled up by the brutal slam of my mother’s front door.
While sucking in big breaths, my mother keeps her back facing me for several long minutes.
Fifteen years ago, I would have bolted from her expression alone when she eventually spins around. This time, I keep my feet rooted. I’m not going to lie. It is a fucking hard feat. My mother is a ballbuster. She had to be to remain on the Popovs payroll for so long. Not even some of its founders have lasted as long as she has.
“Speak. Now.”
It dawns on me that some of the confidence flourishing in Miranda pollenated with me as well when I say, “I will… after you’re done spilling the secrets I see in your eyes.”
22
MIRANDA
“Wait, wait, wait.” A server freezes partway out of the catering tent before pivoting to face me. I wipe up the juice of a medium-cooked angus steak from the edge of a gold-rimmed plate before twisting to face my crew. “Please ensure all the plates go out spotlessly clean. They should only be smeared while being licked clean. Presentation is as important as taste.”
Justine and Nikolai’s wedding reception is going off without a hitch. The vows were as beautiful as the blushing bride, and the guests enjoyed the menu selection so much some have asked for a second helping of the main meal.
It is the event of all events, and I’m incredibly proud to have pulled it off after such a tumultuous week.
“How are the desserts coming?”
“Almost ready to serve,” answers Shiloh, the dessert station her specialty.
She loves baking as much as I do, but she gives bland desserts a touch of sophistication with a Shiloh-inspired twist.
“Once the final plates are collected, serve the bride and groom first before moving on to their bridal party.”
The lead waiter nods before peeking into the reception venue.
Millions of twinkling lights light up the naturally beautiful Vegas sky, and although it should be chilly considering we’re only two weeks out from Christmas, there are so many sparks firing between the guests that I was worried the food would be overcooked by the time my staff served it.
I feel a sense of accomplishment when the desserts start being served. It signals my hectic night will soon come to an end, and it brings me that much closer to seeing Nero again.
I’ve been so run off my feet that I haven’t seen Nero since he donned the tuxedo Nikolai demanded all his groomsmen wear.
That was a painfully long seven hours ago.
Days ago, I would have overanalyzed his lengthy absence as a bad thing.
Now I see it more as delayed gratification.
That’s how much confidence his attention has awarded me. I’m learning my worth and refusing to settle for second best.
My newfound faith in myself is why I’ve made the decision for Nikolai and Justine’s wedding to be the last event I cater. I love working for myself and seeing my financial goals thrive from a strong work ethic and dedication, but catering isn’t my first love.
I haven’t made plans on what I should do next. I’m going to take a few weeks’ leave, then put my thinking cap on.
Fingers crossed a majority of that thinking time will be done while naked in bed and sexually exhausted. That’s where all my best ideas have come from of late.
“Where are the gold flakes for the Bloomsbury cupcakes?” Shiloh asks, her tone high with panic, dragging me from my naughty thoughts.
She’s been sweating all afternoon, striving to ensure she delivers the perfect dessert platter for Justine and Nikolai’s guests. Anyone would swear she has already accepted my offer for her to take over the ownership of my catering company.
I take a moment to deliberate before the light finally switches on.
“I left them in the catering van.”
My head was a mess this afternoon when I was packing the goods from Clark’s to have them delivered to the Popov mansion. Nikolai’s crew was on hand to assist, but when news broke that I had used some of his stolen cocaine to bake away my depression, the mood sobered.