Chapter 3
Morning commuters had thinned. The late breakfast crowd hadn’t arrived yet.
Sunlight stretched across the old wooden floorboards.
Honey & Rye had been my grandmother’s idea before it was mine.
Not the bakery itself.
The name.
When I was nine, Grandma Ruth used to make rye bread every Sunday and drizzle honey on the heel while it was still warm.
“Sweet things need something sturdy underneath,” she always said.
Years later, when I signed a lease on a narrow brick storefront in Lincoln Square and found myself needing a name, Honey & Rye appeared before anything else.
The bakery wasn’t glamorous.
The tables didn’t match.
One section of exposed brick stubbornly shed red dust no matter how often I sealed it.
My espresso machine made a worrying noise every Thursday.
But the place was mine.
Which was exactly why Roman’s first attempt to take control of the room had irritated me so much.
Now he sat in that same room with his niece and waited for her to take the first bite of a pastry.
Lily chewed.
I leaned against the empty chair.
“Well?”
She swallowed.
“It’s weird.”
Roman looked at me.
I held up a hand.
“She’s sixteen. Weird isn’t necessarily bad.”
Lily took another bite.
Then another.
“Okay,” she said. “It’s good weird.”
“I’ll accept that.”
Roman drank his coffee.
I noticed he had stopped adding sugar.
The first morning he’d put two packets in.
Yesterday, one.
Today, none.
Apparently Mafia bosses could be trained.
I was about to return to the counter when Lily said, “Do you make everything?”
“Most things.”
“By yourself?”
“No. I have three bakers, two part-time pastry assistants, one full-time decorator and a college student named Milo who claims he works here but mostly steals scones.”
From behind the counter, Milo called, “Slander.”
“You ate four yesterday.”
“Quality assurance.”
Lily smiled again.
This one lasted longer.
Roman looked down at his coffee.
That was when I knew.
He wasn’t bringing her here because he liked the coffee.
He brought her because she smiled here.
I sat across from them.
“Okay.”
Roman’s gaze lifted.
“Okay what?”
“Why are you here?”
“I told you.”
“No.”
I nodded toward Lily.
“Why is she here?”
Lily’s expression shuttered.
I immediately regretted how directly I’d asked.
Roman’s voice remained calm.
“Clare.”
“It’s fine,” Lily said.
He looked at her.
She shrugged.
“I know everyone talks about me anyway.”
Nobody spoke.
Lily pulled a piece from the edge of her morning bun.
“My mom moved to Arizona.”
I waited.
“She’s Roman’s sister.”
Roman’s face had gone unreadable again.
Lily continued.
“She got married.”
“Lily,” Roman said quietly.
“What? It happened.”
There wasn’t bitterness in her voice exactly.
Something flatter.
Which somehow felt sadder.
“My stepdad got a job there,” she continued. “Mom went with him.”
“And you stayed?”
“For now.”
Roman looked toward me.
“She wanted to finish the school year.”
Lily laughed once.
“That’s the press release.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
“What’s the real version?” I asked carefully.
She stared at her pastry.
“My mom and I weren’t doing great.”
That was all she offered.
I didn’t push.
Roman apparently understood the same thing.
“My sister believed some distance might help,” he said.
“And Lily’s staying with you?”
“Yes.”
I tried to picture Roman living with a teenager.
My imagination failed almost immediately.
Lily apparently read my face.
“He has no food.”
“I have food,” Roman said.
“You have olives.”
“I have other things.”
“Name three.”
Roman paused.
“Eggs.”
“Expired.”
“Coffee.”
“That’s not food.”
“Pasta.”
“You don’t know how to make it.”
Roman stared at her.
“I know how to boil water.”
“You called Sophia.”
“I asked a question.”
“You asked how much water.”
I pressed my lips together.
Roman noticed.
“You may laugh.”
I did.
Lily laughed too.
This time Roman smiled.
Not the small almost-smile I’d seen before.
A real one.
It changed his face completely.
That was inconvenient.
I had been enjoying disliking him.
“So,” I said, “you’re bringing Lily to a bakery every morning because your kitchen is a public health emergency.”
“No.”
Lily looked at him.
Roman looked at her.
Then he sighed.
“Partially.”
“That’s what I thought.”
I stood.
“Wait.”
Lily’s voice stopped me.
“Do you ever teach people how to bake?”
I looked at her.
“Sometimes.”
“Like classes?”
“Holiday workshops. Bread basics. Decorating nights.”
Her fingers picked at the napkin.
“Could you teach me?”
Roman answered instantly.
“Yes.”
Lily glared at him.
“I asked Clare.”
“Sorry.”
The apology came quickly.
Again, I noticed how different he was with her.
I pulled out the chair again.
“What do you want to learn?”
“I don’t know.”
“Cookies?”
“Too easy.”
I respected that.
“Bread?”
She considered it.
“Maybe.”
“Croissants?”
“That seems hard.”
“It is.”
She looked at the pastry case.
“Those.”
She pointed.
“Morning buns?”
“Yeah.”
I smiled.
“You picked laminated dough for your first lesson.”
“Is that bad?”
“It means you enjoy suffering.”
“Perfect.”
Roman leaned back.
“She has Wednesdays off school early.”
Lily gave him another look.
“What?”
“You do.”
“You’re doing it again.”
He fell silent.
I looked between them.
“What’s he doing?”
“Managing.”
Roman’s expression hardened slightly.
“I’m helping.”
“You answer everything for me.”
“I do not.”
“You just answered what day I’m free.”
“Because I know what day you’re free.”
“That doesn’t mean Clare asked you.”
A quiet tension appeared.
Not dangerous.
Not even angry.
Just familiar.
The kind of argument people have when they love each other but haven’t figured out where care ends and control begins.
Roman looked at his niece for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
“You’re right.”
Lily blinked.
Apparently that wasn’t the response she expected.
Roman turned toward me.
“Sorry.”
I stared at him.
He frowned.
“What?”
“I’ve never heard you apologize before.”
“I apologized yesterday.”
“You said, ‘That misunderstanding was unfortunate.’”
“It was.”
“That’s not an apology.”
Lily nodded solemnly.
“She’s right.”
Roman muttered something in Italian.
I looked at Lily.
“Wednesday at four.”
Her eyes brightened.
“Really?”
“Really.”
Roman reached for his wallet again.
I shook my head.
“This isn’t a private lesson.”
His hand stopped.
“What is it?”
“She can help with prep. I teach her. She earns pastry knowledge and possibly one free bun if she doesn’t destroy anything.”
“I can pay.”
“I know.”
“So why—”
“Because she asked me, not you.”
Lily looked at him.
Roman slowly put his wallet away.
“Wednesday at four,” he said.
I pointed at him.
“She already knows.”
Something almost playful crossed his face.
I hated that too.
They stayed twenty more minutes.
Lily finished the entire pastry.
Roman finished his coffee.
Neither mentioned fake relationships.
When they left, Milo appeared beside me.
“You like him.”
I turned.
“Go wash something.”
“He likes you.”
“Clean the mixer.”
“He definitely likes you.”
“Milo.”
He smiled.
“Quality assurance.”
“Out.”
The Wednesday baking lesson should have lasted an hour.
It lasted three.
Lily arrived wearing jeans, sneakers and the same oversized sweatshirt.
Roman arrived wearing another expensive charcoal suit.
I handed him an apron.
He looked at it.
“No.”
“You’re staying?”
“Yes.”
“Then apron.”
“I’m not baking.”
“You’re in my kitchen.”
“I can wait in front.”
Lily looked at him.
“You said you wouldn’t hover.”
“I am not hovering.”
“You drove me here with two cars.”
“That’s transportation.”
“Normal people call that a parade.”
Roman glanced toward the front window.
Two men in dark coats sat at a table pretending not to be security.
I sighed.
“Fine. They can stay out there. You’re either baking or leaving.”
Roman looked genuinely offended.
“Those are the options?”
“In my bakery? Yes.”
Lily folded her arms.
He looked from her to me.
Then took the apron.
It said KISS THE BAKER.
Milo had chosen it.
I made a mental note to give him a raise.
For the next hour, Roman Duca learned laminated dough.
Badly.
He pressed too hard.
Rolled unevenly.
Measured flour like someone negotiating a merger.
Lily was better.
Not because she had some natural baking talent.
She didn’t.
Her first rectangle looked like the state of Florida.
But she listened.
And when something went wrong, she tried again without being embarrassed.
That mattered.
At five fifteen, she had butter on her cheek.
At five twenty, Roman had flour on one sleeve.
At five thirty, Lily was laughing so hard because Roman had somehow folded dough in the wrong direction that she had to lean against the prep table.
I stood beside the sink and watched him watch her.
That same relief.
Only stronger.
Roman caught me looking.
For a second, neither of us spoke.
Then he quietly said, “Thank you.”
It was the first uncomplicated thing he had ever said to me.
“You’re welcome.”
Lily looked between us.
“This is weird.”
“What?” I asked.
“You two being nice.”
Roman’s mouth twitched.
“I can stop.”
“I’m sure Clare can fix that.”
“Easily.”
Lily shook her head and returned to the dough.
After she went to wash her hands, Roman moved closer.
“She hasn’t done that in weeks.”
“What?”
“Laughed.”
I lowered my voice.
“She seems okay.”
“She’s very good at seeming okay.”
I knew that sentence.
Not because of Lily.
Because of myself.
Owning a business meant becoming fluent in seeming okay.
Broken refrigerator?
Okay.
Employee quits before Saturday?
Okay.
Supplier doubles prices?
Okay.
Bank account terrifying?
Absolutely okay.
There was a loneliness in competence.
Roman glanced toward the sink.
“My sister thinks Lily is angry.”
“Is she?”
“Yes.”
“At her?”
“At everyone.”
“That sounds sixteen.”
He smiled faintly.
“It does.”
Then his expression changed.
“But there’s more.”
I waited.
“She found out her mother had been planning the move for months and hadn’t told her.”
I winced.
“That would hurt.”
“My sister thought she was protecting her.”
“From what?”
“The decision.”
“That makes no sense.”
May you like
“I know.”
Roman looked tired.
