Guilty as Cinnamon Read Online Free Page A

liked it better when you two didn’t like each other,” I said.
    â€œWe never didn’t like each other,” Kristen protested. “We just had to find common ground.”
    â€œLike you and Mr. Reporter,” Sandra said. “Until Mr. Cop showed up.”
    â€œLet’s Google him.” Kristen whipped out her phone.
    â€œDon’t you have work to do?” Not a customer in sight. Lynette had left for lunch, and Zak was unpacking the day’s UPS delivery.
    â€œB-R-A-D . . .” She spoke the letters out loud as she punched.
    But Ben Bradley is too common a name for a good search, though we did find a few recent bylines.
    â€œCheck him out on Facebook,” Kristen said.
    â€œEnough of the proxy stalking. I can’t date him. He’s too young. Besides, my luck, he’s married with three kids and a metal allergy that makes his hand swell up when he wears a wedding ring.”
    â€œMr. Right’s sister married a man ten years younger, and it’s a match made in heaven.” Sandra always calls her husband Mr. Right, in contrast to his predecessor, Mr. Oh-So-Wrong.
    Business picked up a bit that afternoon. Kristen and Reed helped customers while Sandra focused on the new wedding registry we hoped to unveil shortly. Zak took the day’s shipments to the mailing station. Lynette straightened shelves and sulked. I huddled in the nook with my laptop, working up Tamara’s price list. Lively, intriguing choices. Consulting with chefs is great—I’m able to see what gets their juices flowing, and steal ideas for combinations to recommend. But helping new cooks is just as sweet. I love when a customer comes inasking for more of our special Herbes de Provence, after insisting she wouldn’t know how to use them, or graduates from measuring out each half teaspoon to developing her own sense of how much of this, how much of that.
    And it’s all a lot more fun than mediating interoffice squabbles between legal assistants or counseling a stressed-out lawyer on how to work with a pregnant staffer whose bladder sends her to the bathroom three times an hour and whose fluctuating hormones plunge her into tears every afternoon at three fifteen.
    The antique railroad clock over our front door had just struck four thirty when the door flew open so abruptly I half expected the glass to shatter.
    â€œAlex. What a surprise!” If he needs a special spice or runs out between deliveries, he usually calls or sends someone down. He hadn’t set foot in the shop in months.
    His burning eyes said this was not a social visit.
    He delivered his words like a crime boss in a Mafia movie. “I get that you don’t want to be lovers. But I thought we were still friends. I am a loyal customer, and I counted on your loyalty in return.”
    Understanding crept in. “Alex, I sell to half your competitors, at least. Vendor exclusivity has never been part of the deal.”
    â€œI don’t give a rat’s back end about exclusivity. You knew an employee I took in and trained—an employee I trusted—means to cut my throat, and you didn’t bother to say a word.”
    That was rich
. The man who stood me up and lied about it protesting an insult to his honor.
    â€œWhen to tell you was Tamara’s choice,” I said, ignoring the muscle spasm in my jaw. “She had her reasons for waiting, and I’d be out of business tomorrow if I ran around spilling my customers’ secrets.”
    He leaned forward a fraction of an inch. I resisted the urge to lean back. “You knew,” he repeated, as if I hadn’t heard him the first time. “And you didn’t say a word.”
    A stab of pain shot past my ear and into my skull, but I managed to keep from wincing. “When you were young and ambitious, did you tell your employers everything you were up to? Or wait until the time was right? You know Tamara. She had no intention of