Sweet Resistance

Silence descended upon Honey & Rye so absolute you could hear the yeast working in the proofing boxes in the back kitchen.

Victor Vance stared at me, his mouth slightly open, completely unaccustomed to being threatened by a woman wearing a faded apron and flour smudged across her cheek. He looked up at Roman, expecting the mob boss to rein in his unhinged baker.

Instead, Roman was standing completely still, watching me with a look of profound, terrifying adoration that clearly signaled he would help me turn on the dough mixer if I asked.

Victor let out a dry, nervous laugh, stepping backward. “You’ve got a real firecracker here, Roman. Careful she doesn't blow off your head while you’re sleeping.”

“Get out,” Roman said quietly.

Victor didn't wait for a second invitation. He turned on his heel, pushed open the door, and vanished into the morning fog, the bell chiming merrily behind him.

The moment the door latched shut, Lily exhaled a long, shaky breath, her knees buckling slightly against the counter. I rounded the barrier in an instant, pulling her into a tight, fierce hug.

“Hey,” I murmured into her messy dark hair. “You’re okay. He’s gone.”

“He’s dangerous,” Lily whispered, clutching my apron. “Uncle Roman, Victor means business. He’s been moving in on our warehouses on the south side—”

“Lily,” Roman interrupted, his voice steady and calm as he knelt down beside us, placing a warm, heavy hand on her shoulder. “Look at me.”

She raised her head, meeting his dark eyes.

“I handle the business,” Roman said firmly. “Your only job right now is to pass your algebra midterm and master the lemon brioche glaze. Do you understand?”

Lily swallowed hard, nodding slowly. “Yeah. Okay.”

Later that afternoon, after Lily had been safely picked up by one of Roman’s trusted drivers and taken back to the Barrington estate, Roman didn't leave. He stayed behind in the empty bakery long after the 'Closed' sign had been flipped.

I was scrubbing down the stainless-steel prep tables when he walked up behind me, handing me a clean, damp towel.

“You shouldn't have threatened Victor like that,” Roman said, though his tone lacked any real reprimand. “He’s a desperate man. Desperate men do unpredictable things.”

“And you shouldn't let men like Victor think they can walk into my shop and threaten my livelihood,” I retorted, wiping my hands and turning to face him. “This bakery is my life, Roman. I built it from the ground up, single-handedly, without a syndicate backing me or a trust fund to fall back on.”

“I know,” he said softly, stepping closer. The space between us suddenly felt charged, heavy with all the unsaid words that had accumulated over the past two weeks. “Which is why I shouldn't have brought my world to your doorstep.”

“You didn't bring it. It followed you.” I looked up into his face, taking in the tired lines around his eyes—the physical toll of managing a brutal underworld while trying to hold a grieving family together. “Why did you really come to the bakery that first day, Roman? Before Sophia opened her big mouth?”

He was silent for a long moment, his gaze dropping to the flour dusting my apron before rising back to my eyes.

“Lily hadn't spoken more than three words a day in four months,” he confessed quietly. “A therapist told me she used to love baking with her mother before the crash. She saw a flyer for your pastry class pinned to a community board downtown. I came in here to buy out your entire morning inventory so I could convince you to open the shop privately for an hour just for her—no cameras, no crowds, no questions.”

My breath caught in my throat. All my cynical assumptions about arrogant billionaires trying to cut lines evaporated in an instant.

“You were trying to bribe me,” I whispered, though the anger was entirely gone from my voice.

“Desperately,” Roman admitted, a faint, self-deprecating smile touching his lips. “And then you threw a bag of flour at me. It was the first time in six months I saw a spark of life in this city that didn't involve blood or money. And God help me, Clare... it was the most refreshing thing that had ever happened to me.”

I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

“You’re an impossible man, Roman Duca.”

“So I’ve been told.” He reached out, his warm, calloused fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from my forehead, his touch lingering against my skin. “Will you let me make it up to you? Tonight. Real dinner. Outside the bakery.”

I looked up at him, realizing that the fake relationship we had joked about was no longer a joke at all.