Chapter 2 - The Girl Who Finally Smiled
Lily finished the entire honey brioche.
Roman pretended not to notice.
He failed spectacularly.
Every time Lily took another bite, his shoulders loosened.
I had seen parents react that way when toddlers finally ate vegetables. I had never expected it from a man whose reputation allegedly involved senators returning his calls before their own mothers.
“You’re staring,” Lily muttered.
Roman looked toward the espresso machine.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m observing the bakery.”
I leaned against the counter.
“You’ve seen it four mornings in a row.”
His gaze shifted to me.
“It changes.”
“It absolutely does not.”
Lily gave a quiet laugh.
Roman looked at her again.
This time he couldn’t hide the relief.
I began to understand why he kept returning.
After Lily finished, she studied the open kitchen behind me.
“What are they making?”
“Cinnamon knots.”
She hesitated.
“Can I see?”
Roman answered first.
“Of course.”
I pointed at him.
“You stay there.”
His brows lifted.
“This is my niece.”
“And that is my kitchen.”
Lily’s mouth twitched.
Roman sighed.
“I understand.”
I handed Lily an apron.
Ten minutes later she was standing beside me glazing warm cinnamon knots.
At first she barely spoke.
Then she asked why bread needed salt.
Then whether croissants really required three days.
Then why my mixer was named Martha.
“Because she’s temperamental and holds grudges.”
Lily looked at the industrial mixer.
“Martha seems trustworthy.”
“She tried to break my wrist last Christmas.”
Lily laughed.
This time the sound stopped Roman completely.
He was standing beyond the glass partition.
His coffee was halfway to his mouth.
For several seconds, he simply stared.
I turned away before Lily noticed.
When we finished, she placed one cinnamon knot on a plate.
Roman approached.
She pushed it toward him.
“You can have this one.”
Roman looked at the pastry as though she had handed him something priceless.
“Thank you.”
“You hate cinnamon.”
“I’ve changed.”
“No, you haven’t.”
He ate it anyway.
Lily rolled her eyes.
That was when I knew I was in trouble.
Not romantic trouble.
At least not yet.
The kind that happens when you see a crack in somebody’s armor and realize you’re no longer capable of pretending they’re just the villain.
Roman waited until Lily went to wash flour from her hands.
Then he stepped closer.
“How much?”
I stared at him.
“Don’t.”
“For the morning.”
“She helped me work.”
“She ate because of you.”
“She ate because she was hungry.”
“No.”
The single word was quiet.
Heavy.
I stopped wiping the counter.
Roman looked toward the sink where Lily stood beside one of my employees.
“She was hungry yesterday. And the day before.”
“What happened to her?”
His jaw tightened.
“Her mother died.”
I felt my chest contract.
“When?”
“Eight months ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
Roman nodded once.
“Elena was my younger sister.”
“And Lily’s father?”
“Gone before Lily was old enough to remember him.”
“So you’re raising her.”
“Yes.”
I glanced toward Lily.
“She stopped talking after her mother died?”
“Not immediately.”
Roman’s eyes darkened.
“For the first five months she managed. School. Friends. Therapy. Then three months ago something changed.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“You never asked?”
“Every day.”
“And?”
“She says nothing.”
There was frustration in his voice.
But beneath it was helplessness.
A powerful man confronted by a problem he couldn’t threaten, buy or command into submission.
“She speaks to you,” I said.
“Only when necessary.”
“She teased you twice.”
“That is apparently progress.”
I smiled despite myself.
Roman reached into his coat.
“If you take out money, I will throw sugar next.”
His hand stopped.
Slowly, he removed it empty.
“Noted.”
“What do you actually want from me?”
He studied me.
The question seemed harder for him than it should have been.
Finally he said, “Come to dinner.”
I laughed.
“No.”
“With Lily.”
“No.”
“She asked about you.”
I stopped.
“When?”
“In the car yesterday.”
“What did she ask?”
“What time you open.”
“That’s not asking about me.”
“She also asked whether you always yell at me.”
I smiled.
“And what did you say?”
“Yes.”
“Good answer.”
Roman leaned one hand against the counter.
“She likes you.”
“She barely knows me.”
“That may be why.”
The words landed differently than I expected.
I looked at him.
He continued.
“Everyone in her life knows who I am. Everyone watches what they say. Teachers. Doctors. Employees. Relatives. Even her friends’ parents.”
“And I threw flour at you.”
“Yes.”
“So she thinks I’m insane.”
“She thinks you’re honest.”
That silenced me.
Roman lowered his voice.
“I’m not asking you to fix anything.”
“Good, because I can’t.”
“I’m asking you to have dinner.”
“Why?”
“Because she might talk.”
There it was.
Not romance.
Not Sophia.
Not matchmaking.
A desperate uncle who had tried to disguise desperation as a business transaction because asking for help required a vulnerability he didn’t know how to show.
“You could have told me this on Tuesday.”
His mouth tightened.
“I didn’t know you.”
“You still don’t.”
“I knew Sophia trusted you.”
That caught me.
“What does Sophia have to do with this?”
Roman’s expression changed.
Too late.
I saw it.
“You didn’t randomly walk into Honey & Rye, did you?”
He said nothing.
“Roman.”
“Lily has been asking to come here for months.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“Elena used to bring her.”
I looked around my bakery.
I had owned Honey & Rye for four years.
Hundreds of customers moved through every day.
Faces blurred.
But then I remembered.
A dark-haired woman with a teenage girl.
Saturday mornings.
Hot chocolate.
Honey brioche.
I saw her clearly enough that it hurt.
“She sat by the front window.”
Roman nodded.
“Elena loved this place.”
The memory returned stronger.
The mother always carried a leather notebook.
The daughter always stole the candied orange from her pastry.
I turned toward Lily.
“Oh.”
Roman’s voice dropped.
“Three months ago Lily stopped coming anywhere she associated with her mother. Last week she asked Sophia whether you still owned the bakery.”
“And Sophia told you?”
“Yes.”
“You came to investigate me.”
“I came for coffee.”
“You tried to buy my entire pastry case.”
“I dislike waiting.”
“Roman.”
A pause.
“Yes. I wanted to meet you.”
“And Sophia’s girlfriend story?”
“Unexpected.”
“But useful.”
His silence answered.
I felt anger rising again.
“So the fake girlfriend arrangement was about Lily.”
“In part.”
“What’s the other part?”
Before he could answer, Lily returned.
Roman straightened.
Conversation over.
Lily removed the apron.
“Can we come tomorrow?”
Roman looked at me.
He let me answer.
“Yes.”
Lily nodded.
Then she surprised both of us.
“Clare?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you remember my mom?”
My breath caught.
I looked at Roman.
He seemed as startled as I was.
“Yes,” I said carefully. “I think I do.”
Lily swallowed.
“She liked the table by the window.”
“I remember.”
A shadow passed over her face.
“She said this place was safe.”
Roman’s eyes sharpened.
I felt something cold move through me.
Safe.
Not good.
Not pretty.
Not her favorite.
Safe.
Lily glanced toward her uncle.
Then she stopped speaking.
Roman noticed.
So did I.
He crouched slightly, bringing himself closer to her level.
“Lily?”
She shook her head.
Roman didn’t push.
Twenty minutes later they left.
At noon, while cleaning beneath the window table, I noticed something wedged between the wooden bench and wall.
A folded square of paper.
I almost threw it away.
Then I saw handwriting.
Three words.
HE WAS THERE.
May you like
And underneath them was a single letter.
V.
