Tastes Like Candy

Five

Five

Michelle

She'd told Candy the truth: she did like to be helpful. Idleness made her jumpy. So when he left her alone, she settled down with his spreadsheets. And two things became immediately apparent:

One, he knew how to keep tidy books. Not a surprise given the state of his room, bathroom, and the clubhouse in general. She was fairly certain she could perform surgery in this office.

And two: funds were tight.

She'd hoped maybe that there was a clerical error, poor math, or misplaced line items. But no, the bookkeeping was impeccable, there was simply more money going out than coming in.

One culprit was the massive loan made to the Tennessee Dogs a little over a year ago. That would have been the buying of Walsh and Emmie's farm. Then there had been several small catastrophes: water heaters going out, repair visits from plumbers, electricians; a new roof had been put on the clubhouse back in the fall.

She finally pushed the chair back, cracked her back, and realized it was four in the afternoon. Damn. She'd been poring over the spreadsheets for hours. Her stomach growled to reinforce the point.

The door opened without warning, and Candyman filled up the threshold with his considerable shoulders. His shirt was short-sleeved, and when he folded his arms across his chest, his biceps swelled, hard bulges of muscle.

Not that she cared.

"So what's the verdict?" he asked, expression friendly, save his eyes; those were assessing.

Michelle settled deep in the chair and said, "Well, you're flat broke, I'm afraid."

He nodded and stepped into the room. The door closed, and the space seemed to shrink. "Yeah, I knew that." He took the chair he'd had before.

"You've got a lovely set of books, though."

He grinned. A sudden, sharp grin that flipped her stomach over. "Well that's always good to hear."

Much to her horror, her stomach didn't stop at flipping; it remained jumpy. So she put on her most businesslike tone and said, "The trick, then, is to get more money coming in."

"Right. You wouldn't happen to be anything like your Uncle Walsh, would you?"

"I can't hold a candle to him." She was honest. "But I might be better than nothing."

He made a consenting face. "Yeah."

"Would you like me to draw up a list of proposals?"

"Can't hurt, right?"

"I think you need to diversify. I can make some suggestions. I helped Dad map out the plan for Baskerville Hall. And Walsh–"

"Put Dartmoor together. I'm well aware of what your family can do." Another smile, this one friendlier, but still bearing a predatory gleam. He was measuring and evaluating her every second they were together; that was his right, as the VP, and effective president for this chapter. But it reminded her of the looks she'd been getting before she left home: the newer members who didn't trust her presence.

The fluttering of attraction in her stomach soured. Before she could check the impulse, she said, "You didn't really request that I come out here, did you?" It felt bold and uncalled-for, but she wasn't herself anymore. Not since Tommy. Too tired, stressed, and full of doubt to hold onto any grace.

He studied her a beat, gaze steady. "I asked Walsh if he or Albie could consult with me. Told them I needed some financial advice. Then the thing in London happened, and Albie called and asked if you could come instead of him. Said you needed to get out of the city, and that you were damn good at this. Two birds with one stone, he said. And so I said yes."