Chapter 1 - The Counter Offer
Clare Bennett threw a bag of flour at Roman Duca before she had known him an hour. It burst against the chest of his charcoal suit with a soft, magnificent explosion, covering one of the most feared men in Chicago from his lapels to his polished shoes in white powder. Nobody moved. Not the two broad-shouldered men stationed by the bakery door. Not Roman’s aunt. Not the customer who had recognized Roman ten minutes earlier and abandoned twelve dollars in change rather than spend another second in the same room with him.
Clare planted both palms on the glass display case between them. “Now,” she said, breathing hard, “maybe you’ll finally understand what no sounds like.”
Roman looked down at himself. Then he lifted his eyes to her. Most people, Clare would later learn, found those eyes difficult to meet for very long. They were dark, steady, and unsettlingly patient—the eyes of a man accustomed to watching other people reconsider their decisions. Clare did not reconsider. She was thirty-one years old, five foot six, plus-size, exhausted from waking at three-thirty every morning to run Honey & Rye Bakery, and completely uninterested in being intimidated in a room that still smelled like her cinnamon rolls.
Roman brushed flour from one sleeve. “You’re very bad at negotiating.”
Clare nearly laughed. “No. I’m excellent at negotiating. You’re just not used to anyone rejecting the deal.”
His aunt Sophia made a choking sound that might have been laughter. Roman slowly turned toward her.
“This,” Clare said, pointing at Sophia, “is your fault.”
Sophia Duca looked delighted rather than guilty. “I was trying to end an argument.”
“You told people I was his girlfriend.”
“Technically,” Sophia said, “I said Roman couldn’t attend dinner because he was here with his girlfriend.”
Clare stared. “You pointed at me.”
“You were standing beside him.”
“I was arguing with him because he tried to buy every pastry left in my case so he wouldn’t have to wait in line.”
Roman finally spoke. “I offered to purchase the remaining inventory.”
“You tried to make eight customers leave.”
“I offered to pay for their orders.”
“They wanted breakfast, not a hostile corporate acquisition of my croissants.”
One of Roman’s security men coughed into his fist. Roman glanced toward him, and the man became expressionless. Clare almost smiled. Almost. Then Sophia had made everything worse by announcing that Clare was Roman’s girlfriend to a woman who had been pestering Roman about bringing someone to a family dinner. Roman, rather than correcting the ridiculous statement like a sane person, had looked straight at his aunt and said, “Three months.” Clare was still furious about that.
“Stop calling me your girlfriend,” she snapped.
Roman stood in front of her covered in flour, yet somehow still managing to look like the most powerful person in the building. “My aunt believes me now.”
“I don’t care.”
“She’ll stop arranging introductions.”
“I care even less.”
“That has value to me.”
“To you.”
“Yes.”
“So find another fake girlfriend.”
“I would prefer you.”
Clare narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
Roman hesitated for half a second. “Because Sophia already believes it.”
“Wrong answer.”
His gaze sharpened. Clare pointed toward the front door. “Out.”
Sophia kissed Roman’s cheek on her way past him. “Bring Clare Sunday.”
“There will be no Sunday,” Clare called after her.
Sophia waved without turning around. Roman remained. That was mistake number two. Mistake number three was reaching into his jacket and placing a business card on Clare’s counter as though the conversation had suddenly become a professional negotiation.
“I have a proposal.”
“No.”
“You haven’t heard it.”
“I’ve heard enough proposals from men who begin by lying about dating me.”
“That happens often?”
“No. Congratulations. You created an entirely new category of irritating.”
The security man near the door coughed again. Roman’s jaw tightened. “My aunt has attempted to arrange my personal life for years.”
“That sounds tragic. Maybe write a memoir.”
“If you continued the appearance for three weeks—”
“No.”
“I would compensate you.”
Clare became very still. Roman seemed to realize, one second too late, that he had chosen exactly the wrong strategy.
“You want to pay me,” she said quietly, “to pretend I’m your girlfriend?”
“For your time.”
“My time has a price. My dignity doesn’t.”
“I wasn’t suggesting—”
“You absolutely were.”
Then Roman named an amount. That was when Clare reached for the flour. Now, covered in the consequences of his decision, Roman looked at her for several seconds. Then he picked up his business card, slid it back into his jacket, and walked toward the door. At the threshold, he stopped. Clare lifted another bag of flour. Roman left. She assumed that was the end of Roman Duca.
At 8:15 the next morning, he came back.
“No,” Clare said before he reached the counter.
“I haven’t asked anything.”
“I’m saving us both time.”
He ordered a plain coffee, paid exactly what it cost, and left.
At 8:20 the following morning, he returned again.
“No.”
“Coffee.”
“No to anything after the coffee.”
On the third morning, Clare saw his black sedan stop outside and simply pointed at the door before he had entered. Then she noticed the girl beside him. She was perhaps sixteen, slender beneath an oversized gray sweatshirt, her dark hair pulled into a careless knot. She wore the expression of a teenager who had perfected the art of being present while emotionally somewhere else.
Roman opened the door for her. The change in him was almost imperceptible. His shoulders softened. His voice did too.
“Clare, this is my niece, Lily.”
Lily looked at Clare. “So you’re the famous girlfriend.”
“I am absolutely not.”
For the first time, Lily smiled. It lasted barely a second. But Roman saw it. More importantly, Clare saw Roman see it. Something in his face changed. That single expression explained why he had come back better than any amount of money could have.
Clare lowered the bag of flour.
Lily wandered toward the display case. “What’s that?”
“Cardamom bun,” Clare answered, stepping out from behind the counter with a warm damp cloth. She handed it to Roman without looking at him, then smiled at the girl. “Fresh out of the oven ten minutes ago.”
Lily didn't look at Roman. She looked at the tray, her guarded expression slipping for a fraction of a second. “Does it have raisins?”
“Never,” Clare said solemnly. “Raisins in a spiced bun are an offense against humanity.”
Lily’s lips twitched again. Roman took the damp cloth, his dark eyes fixed on Clare with a quiet, intense gravity that had nothing to do with fake relationships or mob politics.
“She hasn't eaten breakfast in four days,” Roman said softly, his voice low enough that only Clare could hear over the hum of the espresso machine.
May you like
Clare looked at the tall, imposing boss of the Duca organization, seeing past the tailored coat and the reputation. She saw a desperate man holding a damp cloth, utterly out of his depth with a heartbroken teenager.
“Go sit down, Roman,” Clare said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Both of you.”
