Chapter 9
His father had spent the last decade of his life shifting the Duca businesses away from questionable relationships inherited from older relatives.
Roman had continued that work.
Some cousins resented it.
Others welcomed it.
Sophia supported him because, in her words, “I prefer family dinners without people whispering about federal indictments.”
I laughed so hard I nearly spilled water.
Roman didn’t.
“She actually said that.”
“I love her.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
The relationship that followed wasn’t simple.
No real one is.
Roman overplanned.
I resisted help even when I needed it.
The first time my industrial mixer broke at four in the morning, he offered to have a new one delivered before breakfast.
I refused.
Then spent six hours regretting it.
At lunch, he returned.
“May I ask a question?”
“No.”
“You don’t know the question.”
“I know your questions.”
“Why is accepting help from me different from accepting help from a repair company?”
“Because repair companies invoice me.”
“I can invoice you.”
“Do not.”
He smiled.
Eventually we compromised.
He gave me the number of a commercial equipment company.
I called them myself.
They repaired the mixer.
Roman paid nothing.
I accepted the useful information.
He accepted that useful information was sometimes enough.
Progress.
I attended family dinners.
Never as a fake girlfriend.
Sophia took obnoxious satisfaction in that distinction.
“I told you,” she said one Sunday.
“You lied first.”
“I anticipated reality.”
“That is not how lying works.”
“History is written by survivors.”
“You introduced me as his girlfriend after knowing me twenty minutes.”
“And now?”
I glared.
She smiled and ate tiramisu.
Lily went to Arizona for two weeks.
She called Roman three times.
Called me twice.
Sent photographs of desert sunsets.
Daniel turned out to be kind, slightly awkward and obsessed with hiking.
When she returned, she decided she wanted to remain in Chicago for the school year but spend school breaks with her mother.
Elena cried.
Then accepted it.
More importantly, she and Lily started counseling together online.
Not because anyone was broken.
Because they were learning how to tell each other difficult things before decisions became secrets.
Roman learned something too.
He stopped asking Lily where she was every thirty minutes.
He made it forty-five.
Then an hour.
She mocked him relentlessly.
The following spring, Honey & Rye nearly expanded.
Nearly.
A storefront two doors down became available.
Roman immediately saw possibilities.
“So you can add seating.”
“I know.”
“And a teaching kitchen.”
“I know.”
“And office space.”
“I know.”
“And—”
“Roman.”
He stopped.
“This is my decision.”
“I know.”
“You’re making your face.”
“What face?”
“The acquisition face.”
“I don’t have an acquisition face.”
“You absolutely do.”
Lily, sitting nearby with homework, looked up.
“He does.”
Roman glared at her.
She smiled.
I took three weeks.
Reviewed finances.
Talked with my accountant.
Negotiated the lease.
Then signed it.
Myself.
Roman attended the small celebration afterward.
He did not offer to pay.
That was his gift.
Lily designed the photography wall for the new classroom.
Sophia insisted the first workshop should be called HOW TO THROW FLOUR CORRECTLY.
I refused.
Milo printed a sign anyway.
A year after Roman first walked into my bakery, we stood in the expanded Honey & Rye after closing.
Lily was seventeen.
She had applied to a summer photography program.
On her own.
Elena had helped with the application but had not written the essay for her.
Roman had read it only after Lily asked.
Progress everywhere.
She was arranging photographs on the classroom wall.
One showed Roman covered in flour.
I froze.
“When was that taken?”
Lily smiled.
“First baking lesson.”
“You took a picture?”
“Obviously.”
Roman walked in behind me.
He looked at the photograph.
“No.”
“Yes,” Lily said.
“No.”
“It stays.”
“Absolutely not.”
“It represents growth.”
“It represents sabotage.”
I laughed.
Roman turned toward me.
“This is your bakery.”
“Correct.”
“Tell her to remove it.”
I considered the photo.
Roman in the ridiculous KISS THE BAKER apron.
Flour on his sleeves.
His expression offended.
Lily blurred slightly in the foreground, laughing.
“It’s perfect.”
He looked betrayed.
“You’re both impossible.”
Lily stepped down from the stool.
“I’m going to meet Maya.”
Roman checked the time.
“Home by—”
He stopped.
Lily waited.
Roman exhaled.
“Text if your plans change.”
She smiled.
“I will.”
At the door, she looked back.
“Clare?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t let him buy the bakery.”
“I won’t.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Roman said.
Lily left.
The bell chimed behind her.
Roman looked around the expanded space.
“You did all right.”
“High praise.”
“You did exceptionally well.”
“Better.”
He leaned against the counter.
A year earlier, that posture would have made me wary.
Now it was familiar.
“What?” I asked.
“I have a question.”
“If it’s about buying the building—”
“It isn’t.”
“If it’s about opening another location—”
“No.”
“If Sophia sent you—”
“She did not.”
That narrowed things.
Roman reached into his coat.
I immediately pointed at him.
“No.”
He froze.
“You don’t even know what I’m doing.”
“You have a box.”
“Yes.”
“Roman.”
“It isn’t what you think.”
“It is absolutely what I think.”
He looked offended.
“Can I finish?”
I folded my arms.
He placed the box on the counter.
Not a ring.
A key.
I stared at it.
“What is that?”
“My house.”
I looked at him.
“I already have access to your house.”
“You have to call first.”
“Normal people call first.”
“Lily has a key.”
“Lily lives there half the time.”
“She says you should have one.”
I laughed.
“This is your niece’s idea?”
“No.”
He looked suddenly uncertain.
“It is mine.”
I picked up the key.
No dramatic proposal.
No pressure.
Just access.
Trust.
A place in his life that I could use or not use.
“When did you become subtle?”
“You’ve lowered my confidence.”
“Excellent.”
I slipped the key into my pocket.
Roman smiled.
Six months later, he proposed.
Not in a crowded restaurant.
Not at a Duca family dinner.
Not with Sophia hiding behind a curtain.
He asked at Honey & Rye at five in the morning while I was shaping dough.
He waited until I put down the flour.
Smart man.
“I know better than to make assumptions now,” he said.
“That took long enough.”
“So I’m asking.”
He did.
And because he had learned to ask—
and because I had learned that accepting someone into my life was not the same as surrendering control—
I said yes.
Sophia claimed credit.
Naturally.
Lily denied her claim.
Naturally.
At the engagement dinner, someone asked how Roman and I met.
Before I could answer, Lily said, “She assaulted him with baking supplies.”
“I did not assault him.”
Roman looked at his jacket as if still seeing phantom flour.
“It was aggressive.”
“You deserved it.”
“I probably did.”
Sophia raised her glass.
“To flour.”
Everyone laughed.
Later that evening, Lily found me alone on the balcony.
She was eighteen now.
College applications spread across the dining table inside.
Arizona.
Chicago.
May you like
New York.
California.
