Beyond Love

Friend or foe

A/N: It's an early update for Bakers! This week, I have for you guys an extra moment on 'Not Good for the Heart' on Inkitt, a book where I upload past/additional moments between Xander and Chip that I didn't get to write here on Wattpad due to storyline/narrative issues I didn't want to mess up. This time, it's about the newlyweds' deciding which side they are going to sleep on when they first share a bed. Hope you enjoy it!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

[Rachel]

Taking a seat, I looked around the room. There was a podium shifted to the side of the room all the way at the front, most likely prepared in the occasion of official presentations. The room was unusually cold and I'd meant to adjust the temperature of the air-conditioning, searching for a remote of sorts at the podium when I came across a folder placed beside the conference mic.

I was about to leave it alone and look elsewhere for the remote when I noticed the small gold letters embossed on the corner of the folder.

A. Dempsey

Knowing the owner wouldn't have made much of a difference to the importance of the folder on ordinary circumstances; merely leaving it alone or returning it to its owner would have closed the case but this... this belonged to that lying critic.

Immediately, I had it in my arms and was flipping it open—scanning the contents only after checking the door twice and listening for distant footsteps. I soon began to understand that the folder in my arms and the very document before my eyes had been the one sent by Dempsey: a profiling of Chip Honeycutt's bakery, complete with past records and taste analyses done up by the critic himself and further research on sales in the form of graphs categorized by each product type.

Heavens. Just how far was this man willing to go in order to ruin my reputation? None of this, I was having. For this to appear before my eyes and for me to have come across it, amongst all people, to be here at this very minute, very second... it must be a sign. Should it be His will, by presenting me with the chance or the opportunity to prevent the lies from escaping? Was this my duty to fulfill, my role to be?

Identifying the one receiving the punishment was difficult. Alfred Dempsey or Chip Honeycutt—both have sinned in different ways, but did He not already pay for our sins on the cross? Was He, perhaps, angered that they had not changed their ways? And should this all, indeed, be a test then have I, already, failed?

I set the folder down, re-arranging it so that it appeared untouched. The act of removing key analyses and graphs crossed my mind but stealing was not the answer. The most I could do was tamper with what there was but how to, without a way to print the—

Footsteps.

In a frenzy, I ducked under the podium and struggled to fit into the hollow space below the counter, remaining as quiet as possible when I heard the handle of the door click. Followed by slow, careful steps that gained, increasing in proximity. Shuffling of feet, turning of chairs; crinkling of the wrapping paper I'd used on the box of chocolates and a light, shallow breathing. Tucking the folds of my dress between my legs, I held my breath.

The footsteps roamed across the conference room before stopping directly behind me—where the font of the podium stood and where my view was completely blocked. There was a shuffling of papers as the intruder, he or she, paused and a moment of silence, a faint sound of something long and flat being placed on the counter of the podium just above where I was hiding. Within another minute's wait, the footsteps had faded and the door opened once more before creaking and clicking shut.