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Lucy pressed a hand to the marble counter and breathed. The cold helped. “I’ll have samples ready. Pastry, not cake. We’re not doing cake tastings until I know the venue and the guest count.”
“Perfect. And Lucy?”
“What?”
“He’s not what you think he is.”
“He’s exactly what I think he is.”
“That’s what I said about Gabriel.”
Lucy hung up and stood very still in her kitchen, surrounded by the smell of warm bread and cinnamon and the last wisps of espresso steam. The morning rush had passed. Marco was restocking the display case, arranging croissants so the curve of each one faced the same way. Through the window, Mrs. Hadley had gone back inside her shop.
She picked up the rolling pin and started on the next batch of dough.
Marco glanced over his shoulder from the display case. “You’re humming.”
“I don’t hum.”
“You’re humming. You never hum.” He straightened a row of muffins. “Last time you hummed was that bartender in 2023. The one with the motorcycle.”
“That was a scooter, and we went on two dates.”
“Two dates and a month of humming. You’re an efficient romantic.” He turned back to the muffins. “This one makes you bake angry brioche and reorganize refrigerators. That’s worse. That’s the behavior of a woman at war. Whatever it is, I hope it’s worth the insomnia.”
Lucy said nothing. She’d weathered worse than Knox Knightly. She’d survived her family losing everything, a business started with twelve hundred dollars and a dream written on the back of old menus, a Brooklyn health inspector, a burst pipe in her second year, and a Yelp reviewer who’d called her croissants “suspiciously French.”
One man in an expensive suit was nothing.
Her phone buzzed. A text from a number she didn’t recognize.
Unknown: I’ll need an itemized cost breakdown for the dessert program. Per-unit pricing preferred. Please have it ready for Thursday.
Lucy stared at the screen. The text was so stiffly formal it could only have come from one person.
Lucy: Who is this?
Dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.
Knox: Knox Knightly. Gabriel gave me your number.
Lucy froze. Took a couple of breaths before responding.
Lucy: Per-unit pricing. For pastry? Do you want me to calculate the cost of each individual croissant?
Knox: That would be efficient.
Lucy: Do you want me to itemize the flour too? Break it down by the gram?
Knox: If it’s not too much trouble.
Knox Knightly delivered everything with the same flat accuracy. You couldn’t tell the difference between sincerity and sarcasm until it was too late. His texts were even worse.
Lucy: Thursday at ten. Bring your own calculator.
She locked the phone and shoved it in her apron pocket. Her pulse was still in her throat, and she blamed the espresso.
Marco was watching her from across the kitchen.
