Chapter 1 - The Flour Explosion
The air inside Honey & Rye Bakery always smelled the same at 5:00 AM: warm yeast, melted butter, caramelized sugar, and the distinct, grounding aroma of roasted chicory coffee. It was a haven carved out of the chaotic, concrete grid of Chicago’s West Loop—a place where life moved at the slow, deliberate pace of dough rising in proofing drawers.
At least, it had been, until a man in a bespoke charcoal suit stepped across the threshold, ruining the humidity balance and shattering the quiet sanctity of my kitchen.
My name is Clare Bennett. I am thirty-one years old, five-foot-six, slim, and permanently exhausted. My standard operating day begins at three-thirty in the morning, meaning by the time the sun clears the skyscrapers, I have already kneaded eighty pounds of brioche dough and burned my left forearm twice on the convection oven racks. I am far too tired, far too sore, and far too busy to be intimidated by a man whose shoes cost more than my commercial oven.
His name was Roman Duca. According to the hushed whispers of the neighborhood old-timers and the local police blotter, he was also the most feared Mafia boss in the city.
Not that I cared. Right then, he was standing in front of my display case, trying to buy every single pain au chocolat, croissant, and fruit tart I had prepped for the morning rush so he wouldn’t have to wait behind an elderly woman buying a single scone.
“I offered to pay for everyone’s orders,” Roman said, his voice a smooth, rich baritone that seemed entirely out of place among flour sacks and cooling racks.
“They wanted breakfast, not a hostile takeover of my display case,” I snapped, slamming a fresh tray of scones onto the wooden counter hard enough to rattle the porcelain. “You don’t cut the line in a neighborhood bakery, Mr. Duca. Wealth doesn’t buy you past the morning queue.”
One of his two hulking guards, a man built like a meat locker with a flat nose, coughed into his fist.
Roman looked at him. The man instantly froze, his eyes glued to the floor.
Then came Aunt Sophia.
She had slipped in through the side alley entrance, carrying a vintage leather handbag and a look of triumphant matchmaking that belonged in a nineteenth-century Russian novel. Ten minutes earlier, she had been cornering Mrs. Gable near the napkin dispenser, loudly declaring that Roman couldn't possibly attend the upcoming family Sunday dinner because he was too busy spending the morning with his girlfriend.
She had pointed directly at me.
“This is your fault,” I hissed at Sophia, marching out from behind the counter with a five-pound bag of unbleached all-purpose flour clutched in my fist like a weapon.
Sophia looked utterly delighted, her eyes sparkling behind her cat-eye glasses. “Oh, look at how the fire sparkles in her eyes, Roman! She has spirit. Just like your grandmother.”
“I was arguing with him,” I told the room at large, “because he tried to buy out my entire morning inventory like an entitled toddler throwing a corporate tantrum.”
Instead of defending himself, Roman had simply looked at his aunt, turned back to me, and calmly said, “Three months.”
“Stop calling me your girlfriend,” I had warned him.
“My aunt believes it now.”
“I don’t care.”
“She’ll stop arranging disastrous blind dates with the daughters of rival shipping magnates.”
“Wonderful. Find another fake girlfriend.”
“I would prefer you.”
I had stared at him, incredulous. “Why?”
He had hesitated for a fraction of a second, his dark eyes flickering with something unreadable. “Because Sophia already believes it.”
“Wrong answer.”
I had pointed straight at the front door. Roman should have left. Any normal man, faced with an exhausted baker covered in cocoa powder and holding a heavy bag of flour, would have retreated to his armored sedan and cursed me out over a Bluetooth earpiece.
Instead, he had slowly reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a heavy, matte-black business card embossed with silver lettering, and placed it on my counter.
“I have a proposal,” he said.
“No.”
“You haven’t heard it.”
“I’ve heard enough proposals from men who begin by lying about dating me in front of elderly bakers.”
He almost looked amused, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “If you kept up the appearance for three weeks during family functions, I would compensate you. Generously.”
Everything inside me went cold. The exhaustion, the stress of rising rents, the endless cycle of debt repayment for my ovens—it all pressed down on my chest. But dignity was the one thing I had refused to trade when I opened Honey & Rye.
“You want to pay me to pretend I’m your girlfriend?”
“For your time.”
“My time has a price. My dignity doesn’t.”
And that was when I threw the bag of flour.
It hit his chest with a heavy thud, split down the seam, and erupted in a magnificent, blinding white cloud that coated his charcoal suit, his pristine lapels, his Italian leather shoes, and his carefully styled dark hair in a thick layer of baking powder.
Nobody in the bakery moved. The two guards stared in absolute horror, their hands twitching toward their suit jackets. Sophia clapped her hands together in silent, ecstatic approval.
Roman slowly blinked. He reached up, brushed a pinch of flour off his eyelashes, and looked down at his ruined suit.
May you like
“You’re terrible at negotiating,” he murmured.
“No,” I snapped, pointing a flour-coated finger right at his chest. “You’re just not used to people telling you no. Maybe now you’ll finally understand what it means.”
