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I was absolutely not going to admit that. “Thank you, but I’m handling things myself.”
“Angelo told me you’d say that. I’m his housekeeper’s grandson, by the way. I’m not… connected with anything the family does.”
I was being rude. Angelo’s high-handedness wasn’t this guy’s fault. Angelo was the one who’d decided he could control this part of my life as well as my evenings. Even if under other circumstances I’d consider hiring Nick, if I had the money to do so, I refused to let Angelo think he had any say in my business. The bakery was mine, and I was the only one who would be making decisions about it. I knew what the bakery had looked like when it was at its best. No one else would truly understand my vision.
“I used to come here a lot,” Nick said. “Best cannoli ever.”
Okay, so maybe he did know what the place used to look like, but still. “I appreciate you coming by. I’m sorry Angelo misled you into thinking I was going to hire someone when I intend to do the job myself.”
Nick peered through the window. “Do you have experience with remodeling?”
“Um… a little.” I’d done some projects back in California, like a disastrous attempt to clean out a clog in my sink and some painting I ended up hiring someone to cover up, but Nick didn’t need to know that.
He gave me a skeptical look. “I’ll give you a great rate, and I—”
“Thank you, but I’m not hiring anyone.”
He looked disappointed, and he seemed like a genuinely nice guy. It was hard to believe he was involved in anything the Marchesis did, but I couldn’t be sure. At the very least, I had no doubt if Angelo wanted information from him, he’d get it. Not like the bakery was some secret operation, but I didn’t like the idea of Angelo keeping tabs on me all day.
“At least keep my card,” Nick said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wrinkled business card. “That way if you change your mind, you can call me.”
“Thank you. If I hear of anybody else that needs some work done, I’ll pass it on.”
He grinned. “I appreciate it. You have a good day now.”
I was furious with Angelo for making Nick think he had a job when I’d told Angelo I didn’t want his recommendations. I almost called Nick back, but instead, I decided I’d tell Angelo to find him work elsewhere.
So it’s okay for Angelo to interfere in other peoples' business just not yours?
I blew out a long breath. This whole situation sucked, and now, because I was a stubborn ass, I was going to have to figure out how to fix up the bakery when I was total shit at DIY.
When Maria arrived, she had her dog, Barley, a pit bull mix, with her and asked if he could hang out with us since his usual sitter was sick. I was happy to have him. He slept most of the morning as we continued our massive cleanup project.
After lunch—burgers from a food truck that we shared with Barley—we took a break from reorganizing and baked. I worked up some dough to see if I could duplicate my grandmother’s recipe for baguettes stuffed with parmesan and prosciutto. Maria made me samples of some biscotti varieties she’d started serving once she took over responsibility for the menu.
I kneaded by hand rather than using the mixer, thinking that might help me clear my mind, but as I worked with only the sounds of Maria’s humming and the traffic outside to distract me, I kept thinking about what I’d said to Angelo that had made him abandon me in bed and destroy one of my father’s old coffee mugs.
I’d been deliberately cruel when he’d been oddly tender with me. My heart told me I should apologize, but he’d blackmailed me into agreeing to let him fuck me whenever he wanted. Yes, my father owed a debt, but that was no reason to… give me exactly what my body was begging for.
Fuck that. I didn’t owe him shit.
You hurt him.
Had I? How could I hurt someone so fucking cold they would do anything it took to keep their criminal empire going? He’d threatened me, and he’d wrapped his hand around my throat like he was going to… make me come harder than I ever have.
How did he read me like that? How did he know things I didn’t even know about myself? And why did I like it?
Maria critiqued my bread severely, but ultimately, she’d agreed it was almost as good as my grandmother’s. Her pistachio biscotti were fantastic, and the chocolate cherry ones were to die for. I added them to my official menu. After we’d finished baking, we tackled the small closet my father had turned into an office.
