Chapter 4 - An Unexpected Visitor
I walked out of the storage room, wiping my hands on a towel, expecting another local reporter or perhaps a health inspector looking to audit us over the pie incident.
Instead, standing near the front counter, flanked by two bodyguards in sharp suits, was an elderly woman with silver hair pulled into a severe chignon, wearing an impeccably tailored Chanel tweed suit that screamed old-money Chicago aristocracy.
It was Eleanor Morello. Adrian’s grandmother.
The entire bakery went dead silent. Even the chatter of the customers waiting in line dropped to a whisper as the matriarch of the Morello family stepped forward, her sharp, intelligent eyes scanning the rustic, flour-dusted interior of Rose & Rye.
I swallowed hard, stepping past Adrian. "Can I help you, Mrs. Morello? If you're here to buy a pastry, I'm afraid we sold out of everything twenty minutes ago."
Eleanor Morello paused, looking me up and down. For a terrifying second, I braced myself for the kind of elitist critique I had spent my entire life enduring from people of her class—comments about my size, my apron, my lack of pedigree.
Instead, a slow, knowing smile curved across her lined face.
"So," Eleanor said, her voice carrying a crisp, patrician authority that demanded absolute attention. "You are the young woman who planted a lemon meringue—no, wait, Madagascar vanilla bean cream pie directly into Vanessa Hale's face."
"It was a signature vanilla bean," I corrected automatically, lifting my chin. "And it was organic."
Eleanor let out a sharp, genuine bark of laughter that stunned the entire room.
"Wonderful," she declared, walking closer and extending a manicured hand. "Vanessa has needed that exact treatment since she was nineteen years old. My husband has been an insufferable nuisance for a month, babbling on about your sourdough and your backbone. Now I see why."
I hesitated, then slowly took her hand. Her grip was firm, surprisingly strong for a woman in her late seventies.
"Thank you, I think," I said cautiously.
Eleanor turned her gaze to Adrian, who had stepped out of the storage room behind me, standing close enough that his shoulder brushed mine. She raised an eyebrow, a look of profound maternal amusement passing over her features.
"Well, Adrian," Eleanor said smoothly. "It appears your grandfather’s little scheme worked better than intended. The bakery is booming, Vanessa has fled to Zurich, and you look like a man who has finally remembered how to smile."
Adrian cleared his throat, a faint flush of color rising on his neck. "Grandmother, behave."
"I am always behaved," Eleanor retorted smoothly before turning back to me. "My dear, I am hosting a small, private dinner at our estate this coming Saturday. No press, no corporate sharks, no socialites. Just family. And my husband insists that if you do not bring a fresh batch of your cherry Danishes, he will go on a hunger strike."
I looked at Frank, who had apparently slipped in through the side door while we were talking and was currently giving me the most pathetic, puppy-dog expression an eighty-year-old billionaire could possibly muster.
I sighed, a reluctant smile breaking through my defenses.
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"Fine," I said, throwing my hands up in mock defeat. "I'll bring the Danishes. But if your husband tries to steal extra sugar from the kitchen, I'm telling his cardiologist."
Eleanor’s smile turned warm, reaching her eyes. "It's a deal, Emily."
