Page 23 of The Romance Adventure

“Right, but my job is just to file papers and read things. That’s it. Mr. Edmonton said it’s legal to do this. He would know.”

“Legal to pretend to be you?”

She wrings her hands. “Legal for me to read the documents. How about chocolate? All the chocolate you ever want?”

“You’re bribing me with chocolate?”

“And money. Books. Anything. This coffee company is incredibly hard to get a call with and it’s my ticket to Beans & Books’ success.”

I let out a sigh. “I haven’t had chocolate in months.”

“So, it’s a deal?” My sister bounces on her toes.

I thrust out my hands. “But if I get arrested, you have to pretend to be me and serve the time in the slammer.”

We shake on it. Then she hurries to the bookstore for her call. Does Bean really wear high heels to work? I find that hard to believe here in Coco Key. I shuffle to the office in a building on the edge of Mr. Edmonton’s property and on the main street that passes through town.

A faint cigar smell puffs from Mr. Edmonton’s office as I open the door. The formidable, mahogany desk sits in the center toward the back. A large window faces the street and I see Mr. Muffin with the two other guys. His shoulders are broad, his arms substantial, and although he doesn’t smile, his lips are the perfect amount of full.

There goes that hiccup again.

Letting out a long breath, I tell myself that I can do this. I’ll just read these documents, follow the instructions, and then I’m going to eat all of Bean’s chocolate.

Every. Last. Piece.

The man in the aviator sunglasses stands across the street with his hands on his hips. The athletic guy, who isn’t Mr. Muffin, shrugs. Then the man himself crosses the street with a purposeful stride.

He’s coming this way.

That means they’re coming here.

Are they the Almeidas?

I have to take cover.

The door creaks open.

Halfway under the desk, it’s too late. A deep voice calls, “Hello.”

Clearing my throat, I squeak, “In here.”

I can’t straighten because the high heel catches in the carpet, locking my foot at an awkward angle.

The three men enter the room—at least, I can see their feet.

“I thought the woman called from in here,” a rich, deep voice says.

“Affirmative.” A large face with a beard peers over the back of the desk. “What’s going on, miss?”

“Oh, hi. I dropped a paperclip.”

“There are plenty more up here in this container,” the guy with the aviators says.

“Oh, right. Yes. Silly me. It was my lucky paperclip.” Kicking off the high heel, I extricate myself from under the desk.

The three men from across the street stare at me in various states of confusion and concern. Well, except for Mr. Muffin. His eyes are narrowed with suspicion.

“How can I help you?”