Chapter 9 - The Sweetest Harvest
Two years later, the morning rush at Honey & Rye Bakery was busier than ever.
The bell above the door chimed, and a line of regulars spilled out onto the sidewalk, inhaling the scent of freshly baked brioche. Behind the counter, I slid a tray of hot cinnamon rolls out of the oven, wiping a smudge of flour from my forehead.
At the corner table near the window, a sixteen-year-old Lily was busy frosting lemon tarts with surprising precision, chatting with a regular customer about high school chemistry.
And standing right beside me behind the counter, wearing an expensive silk apron over a tailored black shirt, was Roman Duca. He was clumsily attempting to pour a cup of black coffee into a paper cup while dodging a flour scoop I had intentionally left in his path.
“You’re holding the pitcher wrong,” I murmured, leaning against his shoulder as I passed him.
“I am the head of this pastry syndicate,” Roman retorted smoothly, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me close against his chest. “I will pour coffee however I please.”
“Try it again and I’m reaching for the flour bag,” I warned, though I was laughing.
May you like
Roman pressed a soft, flour-scented kiss to my temple, his dark eyes shining with quiet, unshakeable happiness. “Try it, Mrs. Duca. I keep a spare suit in the back just in case.”
Outside, the Chicago snow began to fall in soft, gentle flakes, blanketing the West Loop in white. But inside Honey & Rye, the air was warm, the coffee was hot, and the life we had built together was sweeter than anything I had ever imagined.
