Chapter 2 - The Rules of Engagement
The bell above the shop door chimed at exactly 2:01 PM on Wednesday.
Lily pushed the door open, wearing an old black hoodie with the sleeves rolled up, her dark hair still tied in that careless knot. She looked around the empty bakery, her eyes locking onto me as I stood behind the counter tying a spare canvas apron around my waist.
“My uncle said I could help,” she announced, her tone defensive, as if she expected me to hand her a broom and tell her to leave.
“Your uncle said you wanted to learn how to bake,” I corrected her, tossing a second, smaller apron onto the counter. “Put that on. If you get flour on those jeans, your uncle’s tailor is going to have to write a very apologetic letter.”
A reluctant, ghost-like smile touched Lily’s lips. She pulled the apron over her head, awkwardly tying the strings behind her back.
For the next two hours, we didn’t talk about her mother, we didn’t talk about her school, and we certainly didn't talk about Roman. We talked about yeast. We talked about why sourdough starter is basically a high-maintenance pet that requires flour and water instead of kibble. We kneaded dough until our arms ached, and for the first time all afternoon, I watched Lily lose herself in the physical rhythm of pushing, folding, and turning the sticky mass against the wooden prep table.
“You’re doing it too fast,” I said, stepping closer to guide her hands. “Feel the gluten strands developing. If you rush it, the bread collapses in the oven.”
Lily slowed down, her dark eyes focused intently on her hands. “My mom used to bake on Sundays,” she murmured so quietly I almost missed it over the hum of the overhead vent. “Before she got sick. The whole house would smell like vanilla and cinnamon.”
My hands paused on the dough. I didn't offer pity. Pity is cheap, and teenagers can smell it from a mile away.
“My dad taught me how to make brioche,” I said evenly, keeping my eyes on the counter. “He dropped a whole bowl of batter on my head when I was six because he tried to spin the whisk like a baton. My mother took a picture. It’s still taped to the inside of the office door.”
Lily looked up at me, surprise flickering in her gaze. “Your dad wasn't... scared of making a mess?”
“My dad was a baker. Mess is our love language.”
The front door chimed again.
We both looked up. Roman stood in the doorway. He had shed his suit jacket, wearing only a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, looking like a man who had wandered into the wrong neighborhood by mistake—until you saw the way the air in the room shifted around him.
He looked at Lily—at the flour dusted across her cheek, at the small, genuine smile lingering on her lips, and at the mound of dough sitting between us on the wooden table.
For a fraction of a second, Roman Duca looked completely, breathtakingly human.
“You have flour on your face, Lily,” he said, his voice unusually soft.
Lily wiped her cheek with the back of her flour-dusted hand, only managing to smear it further. “It’s occupational hazard, Uncle Roman. You should try it. Does wonders for the pores.”
Roman’s gaze shifted from his niece to me. The amber depths of his eyes held something warm and complicated—something dangerous for my peace of mind.
“I’ll pass on the facial,” Roman said, stepping further into the bakery. “Though I hear the management here has a very aggressive technique for dealing with unwanted visitors.”
“The management reserves the right to upgrade from flour to raw eggs if the visitor doesn't state his business within ten seconds,” I replied, wiping my hands on a towel.
Roman stopped three feet from the counter. “My business is picking up my niece. And... extending an invitation.”
I narrowed my eyes. “An invitation to what? Another family dinner where I get interrogated by your aunt Sophia about our non-existent relationship?”
“Sophia is hosting a Sunday brunch,” Roman said, his voice entirely deadpan. “She specifically requested that my girlfriend attend. And by requested, I mean she threatened to redecorate my penthouse with floral wallpaper if I show up alone.”
Lily snorted loudly from across the room, burying her face in her hands to hide her laughter.
“Tell her no,” I said flatly.
“I tried that. She threatened to call the priest.”
“You’re a grown man who runs half the shipping ports in the Midwest. Hang up on her.”
“You clearly haven't met my aunt Sophia,” Roman replied, a faint, wicked spark of amusement dancing in his eyes. “She survived three mafia bosses, two federal investigations, and a kitchen fire in 1984. She doesn't take no for an answer from anyone. Especially me.”
I stared at him, my hands gripping the edge of the counter. The sensible part of my brain—the part that woke up at three-thirty every morning to bake bread—was screaming at me to tell him to get out.
Instead, I looked at Lily. She was watching me with an expression of intense, hopeful suspense, as if her entire weekend hung in the balance.
“Sunday brunch,” I sighed, feeling like I had just signed a contract with the devil. “If she asks me what your favorite childhood memory is, I’m telling her you cried during The Lion King.”
May you like
Roman’s smile widened, slow and devastatingly genuine.
“Deal,” he said.
