Tony
The cold outside was a different kind of beast than the heat of the kitchen. It bit at my face as I stepped out of the truck and hauled the heavy door of the Mount Tabor Savings & Trust open. I had the inventory list shoved in my pocket—a long, daunting scroll of butter, flour, and packaging—and the Segretto check tucked securely into my wallet. It felt like carrying a bar of gold through a den of thieves.
The bank was quiet, smelling of floor wax and stale air. I was heading straight for the teller line when I saw a flash of polished leather and a charcoal overcoat that cost more than my truck.
Jason Thorne was standing by the manager's office, checking his watch. He looked up, and for a second, his eyes did a slow crawl over my grease-stained work jacket and heavy boots. A smirk
