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He knew one thing for certain. None of the movies he’d ever watched had a scene like this.
Chapter 17
LUCY
Her phone was the first thing she touched. The smile came next, and she didn’t try to hide it.
Her usual morning was an alarm and a to-do list and the steady momentum of a woman with places to be and a morning rush to feed. Friday morning, her face had arranged itself into a grin before she opened her eyes.
Thursday night was why.
She touched the pillow beside her and found it cold. He’d left sometime before dawn. She’d felt the mattress shift, heard the soft click of the door. Her apartment was quiet above the darkened bakery. He’d left a note on the kitchen counter, scrawled on a bodega receipt in his small, square handwriting.
Had to handle something. Back tonight. K.
Her phone lit up on the nightstand, where she’d silenced it before bed. Three texts waited, five fifteen to five twenty in the morning.
Knox: Early train. Empty car. First time I’ve left somewhere before I was ready.
Knox: Don’t apologize for last night. I’m not.
Knox: Thursdays are now my favorite day of the week.
Lucy read it again. Then she folded the receipt and tucked it into her pocket, next to the business card.
She floated through her morning routine. Shower, coffee, the walk downstairs to the bakery, the familiar creak of the back door, the ovens ticking to life, the smell of butter and flour and the quiet of a kitchen that belonged to her.
Marco came through the back door at five thirty, got two steps in, and stopped.
“You’re humming.”
“I don’t hum.”
“You’re humming and your face is doing something I’ve never seen before. It’s like you swallowed a firefly.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means you look lit up. It’s unsettling.” He hung his jacket on the hook. “Was it the firefighter? Did he come back?”
“The firefighter was a warm-up.”
“The firefighter was a phase. This is different.” Marco tied his apron. “You’re not just humming. You’re happy. Real happy. The kind of happy that makes other people want to throw things.”
Lucy pulled a tray of croissants from the proofer. “I’m making breakfast.”
“It’s five thirty in the morning.”
“I’m making breakfast for my people. Text the gang—breakfast, eight o’clock. Whoever shows up, shows up.”
Marco’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t ask why. He pulled out his phone and typed slowly, deliberately, enjoying every second of this.
“What about the suit?” he asked. “Should I text him?”
“No.” Lucy’s hand paused on the butter. “He’s busy today. He has meetings.”
“Meetings.”
“He’s a CFO. He has meetings.”
