You’re nothing. Just some two-bit cake maker with a cable show no one cares about. Who the fuck cares what you think?” A flash of movement in the open door behind us catches my eye, but before I can even register it fully—hands grasp the sleeve of Bradley’s shirt, shoving him away as Ian’s broad body slams into his, his normally happy face teeming with unchecked anger as he practically spits at his father: “I do.”
