“What do you mean you’re out of doughnuts?” the man was blustering at her. “I’ve had a doughnut in here every day for fifteen years.”
Mitch glanced at her display cases. On the shelf that usually overflowed with honey-glazed and chocolate and sugar doughnuts, were lacy little pastries and several large, round chocolate cakes. Not a single slice was missing from the cakes. Hand lettered signs, an awful imitation of calligraphy, announced the cakes were Chocolate Mocha Torte and Carmel Fudge Delight.
“We’re branching off from doughnuts,” she told the man with determined pluck. “Wouldn’t you like to try some chocolate mocha torte?”
“No,” the man snapped at her. “I wouldn’t. Just give me a coffee.”
“Irish Cream Cappuccino or French Vanilla?” she asked.
Leave, Mitch ordered himself. He’d seen enough and there was nothing he could do. Not that he was sure his father would see things quite the same way. Damn. From the very beginning Jordan had forced him to be a better person than Mitch believed he really was.
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