Chapter 1 - The Five-Pound Answer
I slammed both palms onto my bakery counter and shouted, “Stop calling me your girlfriend!”
Roman Duca arrived beside the register and placed a black business card beside a five-pound bag of flour.
A phone number was handwritten on the back.
Under it were two words: NO PRICE.
Roman wasn't trying to buy me anymore.
Twenty minutes earlier, my biggest problem had been a batch of almond croissants browning too quickly.
Now Providence's most feared man was standing in Bennett's Bakery while his aunt Sophia practically planned our anniversary.
“We’ve been together three months,” Roman said.
“We have not been together three minutes.”
“Approximately three months.”
I stared at him.
“How do you approximately have a girlfriend?”
“The beginning of relationships can be difficult to define.”
“Oh, I can define the ending.”
Sophia laughed.
Roman did not.
He was forty, tall enough to make my pastry case look miniature, and dressed entirely in black. Tattoos climbed above his open collar and disappeared beneath his shirt. More ink covered the hand resting casually beside his espresso.
He looked like a man who had never been asked twice.
Unfortunately for him, I had spent eleven years running a bakery.
I had survived broken ovens, rent increases, burst pipes, impossible customers, a supplier who once delivered four hundred pounds of rye flour instead of bread flour, and a bride who cried because a raspberry was allegedly “too raspberry-colored.”
Roman Duca was going to need a number and wait his turn.
Sophia kissed his cheek.
“Sunday. Six o'clock. Bring Clare.”
“There will be no Clare,” I said.
Sophia ignored me and swept toward the door.
Roman watched her leave.
I pointed after her.
“Fix that.”
“No.”
The bakery became silent.
Even Danny, my assistant baker, stopped piping buttercream.
I leaned toward Roman.
“You're standing in my business telling people I'm your girlfriend after I specifically told you I'm not.”
“My aunt will stop arranging introductions for me.”
“Wonderful. Tell her you joined a monastery.”
“She wouldn't believe me.”
“She believes this?”
His eyes moved over me.
Not my body.
My face.
“Yes.”
Something about that answer made me pause.
Then he ruined it.
“I can compensate you.”
I became very still.
Roman must have recognized the change because his expression tightened.
“Clare—”
“My time has a price. My dignity doesn't.”
“That wasn't what I meant.”
“You just offered to rent me.”
“No.”
“You put a dollar sign on pretending to want me.”
“I put a dollar sign on an inconvenience.”
“To you.”
He named the amount.
It was enough to replace my failing convection oven.
Enough to clear six months of supplier debt.
Enough to make me hate that I knew exactly what it could fix.
I reached beneath the counter.
Roman's eyes narrowed.
“Clare.”
I lifted the flour.
“Don't.”
That was almost funny.
“Was that an order?”
“A request.”
“Too late.”
I threw it.
The bag hit his chest.
It burst spectacularly.
Flour exploded across a suit that probably cost more than my delivery van.
Roman disappeared inside a white cloud.
Someone gasped.
Danny whispered, “Oh, my God.”
One of Roman's security men moved toward the door.
Roman lifted one hand.
The guard stopped.
Flour settled across Roman's shoulders, hair, shirt, tattoos and polished shoes.
I folded my arms.
“Negotiation's over.”
He wiped flour from one eyebrow.
“You are terrible at negotiating.”
“No. You're terrible at hearing no.”
For several seconds, he simply looked at me.
Then something almost impossible happened.
The corner of Roman Duca's mouth moved.
Not quite a smile.
But dangerously close.
He walked out.
I exhaled only after the black SUV disappeared.
Danny approached slowly.
“Should we relocate?”
“No.”
“Different state?”
“No.”
“Canada?”
“Danny.”
“I'm brainstorming.”
I picked up the torn flour bag.
“He'll never come back.”
At 8:15 the following morning, the bell above my door rang.
Roman walked in.
“No.”
“I haven't spoken.”
“I'm saving us time.”
He ordered espresso.
He came back Tuesday.
Wednesday.
Thursday.
Never mentioned the arrangement.
Never offered money again.
He simply drank coffee at the corner table and left.
On Friday, he wasn't alone.
A teenage girl stood behind him wearing an oversized black hoodie.
She had long dark hair and the same dark eyes, but hers seemed exhausted rather than intimidating.
“Clare,” Roman said, “this is Lily.”
The girl studied me.
“So you're the famous girlfriend.”
“I am absolutely not.”
Her mouth twitched.
I pointed toward Roman.
“Your uncle is a liar.”
“I know.”
Roman looked offended.
For some reason, Lily smiled.
It lasted barely a second.
Roman saw it.
His entire expression changed.
That tiny smile mattered to him.
A lot.
Lily stayed while I worked.
She watched me arrange pastries.
“You bake all this?”
“Some. Danny does the cupcakes because apparently mine lack emotional depth.”
“They're dry,” Danny called.
“See? Hostile workplace.”
Another tiny smile.
I handed Lily an apron.
“You want a job?”
Roman immediately said, “She doesn't need—”
I looked at him.
He stopped.
Lily noticed.
“You just shut him up.”
“It's one of my gifts.”
“What do I do?”
“Labels.”
She spent forty minutes writing names on boxes.
At first her handwriting was tiny.
Then customers started talking to her.
An older man complimented her lettering.
A mother asked which cookie she recommended.
Lily recommended the chocolate sea-salt cookie.
By ten, she was helping Danny.
Then he made a terrible joke about pumpkin spice.
Lily laughed.
Not smiled.
Laughed.
Roman froze beside the coffee station.
His fingers tightened around the cup.
When Lily went into the kitchen, he approached me.
“She hasn't done that in months.”
“What?”
“Laughed.”
The words came quietly.
“My sister died last winter.”
I looked toward the kitchen.
“Lily's mother?”
Roman nodded.
“Car accident.”
His voice became strangely mechanical.
“I tried counselors. Private tutors. A different school. Trips. Horses. Whatever she asked for.”
“What did she ask for?”
Silence.
I watched his face.
“You don't know.”
“I gave her options.”
“That wasn't my question.”
His jaw tightened.
Nobody probably talked to him like that.
I couldn't imagine caring.
“Did you ever sit beside her and say, ‘I miss her too’?”
His eyes shifted.
There it was.
Roman could apparently terrify half the state, but grief terrified him.
“You're bad at this,” I said.
“Yes.”
No anger.
No defense.
Just yes.
I hated how much that changed something.
Lily returned Saturday.
Then Monday.
By Wednesday, she had her own apron.
By Friday, she knew three regular customers by name.
Roman always brought her.
He stayed out of my way.
Mostly.
On Saturday afternoon, I slid a sheet of paper across his table.
He read it.
RULE ONE: Three weeks.
RULE TWO: No money.
RULE THREE: No controlling my bakery.
RULE FOUR: No surprise visits to my apartment.
RULE FIVE: No gifts.
RULE SIX: Your security stays outside unless there's an actual threat.
RULE SEVEN: No kissing me because somebody expects it.
Roman looked up.
“How are we supposed to convince anyone?”
“Try having a personality.”
Lily snorted.
Roman ignored her.
“You forgot clothing.”
“What?”
“You said I couldn't choose what you wear.”
I grabbed a pen and added it.
RULE EIGHT: Roman never chooses my clothes.
He studied the page.
“Anything else?”
“Yes. You don't order my employees around.”
RULE NINE.
He nodded.
I expected an argument.
Instead, he folded the paper carefully.
“Three weeks.”
“Then your aunt leaves you alone.”
“And Lily can continue working here?”
That caught me off guard.
I looked at Lily.
She pretended not to listen.
“She doesn't need you dating me to work here.”
Something softened behind Roman's eyes.
“Good.”
He stood.
“Sunday. Six.”
I groaned.
“Fine.”
He walked toward the door.
Then my bakery phone rang.
Danny answered.
His expression changed.
He covered the receiver.
“Clare?”
“What?”
“Someone's asking about Roman.”
Roman stopped.
“Who?”
Danny listened.
Then his face drained of color.
“They said they're calling about his girlfriend.”
I reached for the phone.
The caller whispered one sentence.
Then the line went dead.
I slowly looked at Roman.
May you like
Because whoever had called knew about an arrangement we'd made less than five minutes ago.
And they had said they would see me Sunday night.
