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… this warm greeting is damn near enough to make me cry.

While I’m gawking at him and trying to figure out how to put my thoughts into words, a man in a gray suit comes up on Kane’s other side and murmurs in his ear.

Kane’s jaw tightens. He answers in two blunt words.

In response, the man in gray tips his head toward a set of doors on the far side of the room.

Kane looks down at me. “I have to go talk to someone.”

“That’s fine!” I say. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Five minutes.”

“Seriously, it’s fine. I’m not going to wander off and get lost.”

“You couldn’t get lost in here if you tried.” He puts his hand at the small of my back and leans in so his mouth is near my ear. “If anyone bothers you, just tell them you’re with me.”

“That feels like overkill.”

“‘Overkill’ is exactly what I’ll do if you’re bothered.”

Then he’s gone, cutting through the crowd with the man in gray hurrying to keep up.

I stand there holding the plate I didn’t order, in the shawl I didn’t ask for, wondering what the hell kind of world I’ve stumbled into.

It lasts about ten seconds.

“You’re her!” a voice says in delight.

Two women have appeared in front of me. One is short and round-faced with a silver clip in her hair. The other is taller and elegant, with a chignon in her hair and glistening white teeth.

I smile at both. “That depends who you’re looking for.”

“The baker,” says the short one. “You have the shop in Sunset Park, right? My cousin’s daughter got her wedding cake from you in September. Lemon.”

“With the raspberry?”

“That’s the one!” She grabs my forearm. “I stole my husband’s piece. He still hasn’t forgiven me.”

The taller one is already talking over her. “I need to ask you something. My cheesecake cracks. Every time. Right down the middle, like an earthquake went through it. Why?”

I hear myself go straight into work mode, which is a relief, because work mode is the only mode I have that never fails me. “Are you baking it in a water bath?”

She stares at me. “A what?”

“Okay. So that’s the answer.” I set the plate down on the corner of a table. “Wrap the bottom of your pan in foil, sit it in a roasting pan, pour hot water halfway up the side. Then when the timer goes off, shut the oven off and leave the door cracked and let it come down slow. It cracks because you’re yanking it out of a hot oven into a cold kitchen.”

She gets her phone out and makes me say it again, slower, so she can take notes.

Then the short one wants to know about pierogi dough, and we get into a long chat about the ups and downs of my chosen profession.

I’m happily nerding out on proofing techniques when I feel a man’s hand touch my elbow.

“Excuse me, ladies,” croons a voice that’s just like Kane’s if you took off a couple decades of rasp and wear. “Can I steal our guest of honor here?”

My two new friends make promises about getting together for coffee, then scurry away.

I turn to face a carbon copy of Kane Makov.