Chapter 3 - Three Rules for a Fake Girlfriend
I stared at the note for nearly a minute.
Then I called Roman.
He answered before the first ring finished.
“What happened?”
Not hello.
Not Clare.
What happened.
That told me everything about the way he lived.
“I found something.”
Silence.
“What?”
“Not over the phone.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
He arrived in seven.
No guards inside.
No dramatic entrance.
He simply walked behind the counter after I locked the front door and took the folded paper from my hand.
His expression didn’t change.
That was more frightening than if it had.
“Is this Lily’s handwriting?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Who is V?”
Roman looked at the note again.
“There are several possibilities.”
“Name one.”
“No.”
My temper flared.
“You dragged me into this.”
“I did not intend—”
“She left a warning in my bakery.”
His eyes lifted.
“Which is exactly why I don’t want you involved further.”
I laughed without humor.
“Interesting strategy. First you pay me to become involved. Now you’re ordering me not to be.”
“I offered you money to attend family events.”
“For Lily.”
“Yes.”
“Because she knows something.”
“I didn’t know that then.”
“But you suspected something happened three months ago.”
“Yes.”
I folded my arms.
“And now?”
Roman stared through the front window.
“Now I suspect my sister’s death wasn’t the end of whatever frightened her.”
I stopped breathing for a moment.
“Elena was frightened?”
Roman looked at me.
“In the final weeks of her life, yes.”
“Why?”
“She wouldn’t tell me.”
“Maybe she thought you were the reason.”
The words were harsh.
Roman absorbed them without reacting.
“I considered that.”
His answer took some of the anger from me.
I pointed toward the note.
“Who is V?”
“Vincent Caruso.”
The name meant nothing to me.
Roman continued.
“My father’s oldest friend. He has worked with my family for thirty years.”
“Does Lily know him?”
“Yes.”
“Was he at Elena’s funeral?”
“Yes.”
“Was he there when she died?”
Roman’s face hardened.
“Officially, no.”
Officially.
I hated that word.
“What happened to Elena?”
“Car accident.”
“And unofficially?”
“I don’t know.”
He walked toward the window table and rested one hand on the chair Lily’s mother used to sit in.
“My sister drove carefully. Obsessively. She had Lily in the car often. She complained if I went five miles over the limit.”
“But accidents happen.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t believe it.”
“I didn’t want not to believe it.”
There was grief hidden under the awkward grammar.
I understood.
Believing someone caused the accident meant accepting that danger might still exist.
Especially for Lily.
Roman slipped the note into his pocket.
“I want you to close for a few days.”
“No.”
“Clare.”
“No.”
“You don’t understand—”
“That sentence is why people throw flour at you.”
His jaw flexed.
“This is not a joke.”
“I know.”
“I can arrange another location.”
“This bakery employs twelve people. I can’t close because a teenager wrote one letter on a piece of paper.”
“I will cover everyone’s wages.”
“No.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You are extraordinarily difficult.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t praise.”
“I accepted it anyway.”
He exhaled.
“Then I’ll put someone outside.”
“You already have.”
His gaze shifted.
I pointed to the black SUV across the street.
Roman didn’t look embarrassed.
“You noticed.”
“I have windows.”
“They’re there for Lily.”
“She isn’t here.”
“They’re there for you.”
My stomach tightened.
“That is exactly the sort of information you should mention before assigning strangers to follow me.”
“They aren’t following you.”
“Really?”
“They are watching the bakery.”
“That is not better.”
His phone buzzed.
He checked it.
Something in his face changed.
“What?”
“Lily wants to come tonight.”
“To the bakery?”
“To dinner. With you.”
I blinked.
“Why?”
“She asked Sophia.”
Of course she had.
Roman slid his phone away.
“You don’t have to.”
I looked at him suspiciously.
“That sounded almost human.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
I should have refused.
Instead I remembered Lily’s smile.
And the note.
“Three rules.”
Roman’s brows lifted.
“Excuse me?”
“If I’m helping, there are rules.”
He leaned against the counter.
“I’m listening.”
“Rule one: no money.”
His expression suggested this was absurd.
I continued.
“Rule two: you tell me the truth if it affects Lily or me.”
“That could be complicated.”
“Then simplify your life.”
His mouth almost smiled.
“Rule three: you do not make decisions for me.”
“I make decisions for everyone.”
“Then enjoy doing this alone.”
A long pause.
Roman held out his hand.
“Agreed.”
I looked at it.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m compromising.”
“With yourself?”
“With reality.”
I shook his hand.
His palm was warm, calloused in a way I hadn’t expected.
The contact lasted perhaps two seconds.
It felt longer.
I pulled away first.
Dinner at the Duca residence began at seven.
Calling it a residence was ridiculous.
It was an enormous limestone mansion north of the city with iron gates, manicured gardens, and enough security cameras to make the White House feel careless.
Sophia met me at the entrance.
She looked delighted.
“My favorite baker.”
“I’m your only baker.”
“Still favorite.”
Then she noticed my black dress.
Her smile widened.
“Oh, Roman is going to—”
“We’re not dating.”
“Of course.”
“Sophia.”
“Privacy. I understand.”
She absolutely did not.
Lily appeared halfway down the staircase.
She was wearing jeans and a dark sweater.
When she saw me, her shoulders relaxed.
That alone made the evening worthwhile.
Roman entered from another room.
Black suit.
No tie.
He stopped when he saw me.
For several seconds he said nothing.
Sophia looked between us.
Then murmured, “Three months indeed.”
I ignored her.
Roman walked over.
“You came.”
“I said I would.”
“I wasn’t certain.”
“You have trust issues.”
“So do you.”
“Mine are charming.”
“Debatable.”
Lily joined us.
“Are you two always like this?”
“Yes,” we answered simultaneously.
Lily smiled.
Dinner included Sophia, Roman, Lily and three relatives whose names I immediately struggled to remember.
One of them I did remember.
Vincent Caruso.
Late fifties.
Silver hair.
Tailored navy suit.
Perfect manners.
He stood when I entered.
“Clare Bennett.”
I froze.
We had never met.
He smiled.
“Roman talks.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
Vincent laughed.
“You’re right. Sophia talks.”
Better explanation.
Yet something about him made my skin tighten.
He kissed Sophia’s cheek, greeted Lily gently, and treated Roman with the comfortable familiarity of family.
But Lily didn’t look at him.
Not once.
Dinner continued.
Conversation moved around me.
Business.
Charity.
A cousin’s wedding.
Sophia’s complaints about Roman working too much.
Then Vincent spoke to Lily.
“How is school?”
Lily’s fork stopped.
Roman noticed.
“So,” I said loudly, “Roman tells me he hates cinnamon.”
Lily looked at me.
“He does.”
Roman gave me a look.
I smiled sweetly.
“I thought we were sharing embarrassing secrets.”
For the next ten minutes, Lily told Sophia about Roman once burning frozen pizza.
Everyone laughed.
Everyone except Vincent.
He watched Lily.
And Lily knew.
When dessert arrived, she excused herself.
Five minutes later I found her in the hall.
She pressed something into my hand.
A folded napkin.
Then she whispered, “Don’t let him see.”
“Who?”
Her eyes flicked toward the dining room.
Vincent’s voice drifted through the doorway.
Lily walked away quickly.
I opened the napkin.
Inside, written in pen, were seven words.
Mom was scared of him before she died.
My stomach dropped.
May you like
Then another line appeared beneath it.
Uncle Roman doesn’t know everything.
