Page 2 of Shark’s Edge

“You’re a glacier with that man, Abbigail Gibson,” I growled at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Glacier. Cold. Glacier. Calm.”

No more letting Sebastian Shark under your skin.

No more letting Sebastian Shark into your damn dreams.

After quickly showering and dressing for the day, I threw my long hair into a high ponytail and headed out the door for the large commercial-grade kitchen I rented in Inglewood. Fifteen minutes later, I parked my F-150 next to the van we used for deliveries—but stopped short when a distinct smell hit my senses. Savory. Earthy. Cheesy.

I hurried toward the door adorned with the words Abstract Catering, noticing the prep area lights were already on. Inside, a petite woman was folding serving containers and humming along to the radio.

“Morning.” My greeting was lifeless but accomplished the job.

“Morning, sister friend!” Rio called out in return.

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t you mean slacker?”

The whiskey of her irises flashed to gold. “Abs, you’re a lot of things—but a slacker isn’t one of them.”

“Says the woman who probably sent me a wake-up text from here.”

She smirked. “I couldn’t sleep. Big deal.”

Again?

I kept my question to myself for two reasons. One, it wouldn’t get me anywhere. Rio had her demons, and she made it clear the one time she told me about them that it would also be the last. Two, we had an insane morning ahead of us. On top of our regular lunch-order routine, we had to prep for a private party tonight in Brentwood.

“You’re crazy,” I said.

“But you love me.”

“Yeah, well . . . nobody turns veggie loaves into an art form like you. They’re my biggest seller on the lunch runs.”

“I don’t think art has anything to do with it,” Rio said. “More like all those health nuts in the skyscrapers would kill their own mother for something that tasted anything like meat.”

“Which is why I love what you do with those.” I nodded toward the row of loaves she’d just pulled from the oven. Their smell was savory to the point of mouthwatering.

“Yeah, well . . . ” She moved to transfer the cakes to the individual serving containers, working to preserve as much of their heat as possible. “I know my meat, even when it’s the fake stuff.”

I spilled a wry giggle. “Not sure you want me touching that one.”

She scooped up a bottle of Abstract Catering’s secret sauce and swirled the amber goo over the boxed loaves. If there was anything customers loved more than Rio’s veggie loaves, it was that damn sauce. Never would I reveal that the special recipe was a simple mixture of ketchup, mustard, and—gasp—garlic mayonnaise.

“So . . . ” The woman’s suggestive tone put me on high alert. “It’s Wednesday, which means your route includes Viktor Blake’s office, yes?”

Clang, clang, clang. And there went the alarms.

“You know it does. But that means nothing more than my delivering his yummy veggie loaf promptly at eleven thirty, and that’s it.”

And it really was. Rio knew this drill already. I’d never be more than the lunch delivery girl to any of the high-powered executives on my downtown route, and that was by my design.

“Abbi—”

“Rio.”

“We need to talk about this.”

“We’ve already talked about this, which means you know how the conversation is going to end.”

“Jesus Christ on cornbread.” She capped her retort with a frustrated tilt of her head. “Unfortunately, I do. Also unfortunately, it won’t be with you and that beautiful hunk getting horizontal.”