Page 135 of Sweet Surrender

“Yeah, right.” His gaze sharpens. “This whole fucking place is because of me. What I don’t get is what is he to you? This Jase prick? Your rebellion against me?”

My breath hitches. My body flushes hot, then cold. “No,” I whisper, my voice breaking under the weight of my own admission. “He’s my everything.”

Saying it out loud nearly destroys me. My heart hurts, eviscerated from watching Jase spiral and knowing there’s nothing I can do. Knowing that if he can’t let me even know about that part of his life without reacting like this, then there never will be anything more between us.

Paul watches me, something close to amusement in his expression. “What? Trouble in paradise?” He laughs. “Like I fucking care.”

“You shouldn’t be here. You don’t belong here. You need to go. Now isn’t the time.”

“I seem to think that now is the perfect time,” he corrects, crossing his arms over his chest. “I want my payout.”

“Dream the fuck on.”

His smirk widens. “Remember when I had you sign that lease paperwork with me? That we wanted it to be in your name?”

A cold chill slides down my spine. “What did you do?”

“I own fifty percent of this company.” His grin is menacing. “You agreed to it. I have your signature.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Paul lifts a brow. “Think what you will. You were the one who didn’t read the paperwork. You signed it. That’s on you.”

I struggle to think rationally while scolding myself for trusting blindly. Funny how life repeats itself. Flustered and overwhelmed, it’s like I finally hear what Paul is saying. “Wait. Legal paperwork, signed without a witness? You can’t prove it was me. There wasn’t a notary here. For all I know, you signed it for me.”

He chuckles. “Look at you. Marry a rock star and you grow some brains. When did that happen, huh?”

“The minute I fucking left you,” I snap.

His eyes glint with something dangerous. “I’m not going away, Hendrix. I put a majority of my savings into this place and I deserve repayment.”

“You took all of my money, Paul. That was my money too in that bank account you drained. Was that not enough for your selfish ass?” I laugh in disbelief.

“You wouldn’t have this bakery, these machines, a roof over your head, or any of that money in our account if it wasn’t because of me to begin with.”

“Save the gaslighting for someone else. Clearly I found a way to make it work.”

His chuckle is pure condescension. “Without strong credit, without any banks willing to loan you the funds . . . I call bullshit.”

I roll my shoulders and try to process this. Yes, Paul’s capital made this happen. Yes, he walked away and didn’t ask for the business instead of just money as he probably has every right to. My own personal bank account—my now rainy day savings stowed away in there from my agreement with Jase—is sitting much more comfortable than it ever has been. Wouldn’t it just be better to pay Paul back and know I own Cookie Cutter free and clear? To not worry that if say, my business explodes and I get to offer to sell franchise rights as I’ve always hoped to be able to, he can’t come back and take a cut?

I clench my jaw. “Fine. Fair is fair. I’ll pay you back the money you put in. Eighty grand.” I blow out a breath as tears well in my eyes. Then I lie. “I don’t know how I’ll come up with the money. You know how strapped I am for cash here, but I’ll find a way to give it to you, make payments. I don’t know.” My stomach twists at the thought.

“Yeah.” He scoffs. “You clearly didn’t read the agreement, did you?”

“What does that mean?”

“A smart businessman always hedges his bets.”

“Speak fucking plain English, Paul.”

He pulls a folded piece of paper from his jacket, lays it flat on the counter. “Read what you agreed to.”

My eyes scan the words, my stomach turning violently.

“Five hundred thousand dollars?” My voice rises in disbelief as my whole body violently rejects what I’m reading. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“No,” he says simply, “but there was an off chance this became a thing. It had a good premise, good bones . . . and yes, you and your talent. Someone who would work her fingers to the bone—”