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When the customer has left with their croissant, the doorbell ringing as they leave, I walk up to him. “Excuse me. Are you the owner?” In my peripheral vision I see a woman poke her head around the corner. The man looks both confused and scared and doesn’t respond. The woman comes out from the back room.
“What do you want?!”
I feel myself flinch backward. Not because she’s yelling at me, but because she’s stunning. She looks to be in her mid-twenties, with shoulder-length glossy brown hair, just a bit of a wave in it. She has sharp eyebrows and even sharper gray eyes. Even though she’s scowling at me, I can see the dimples in her cheeks and the fullness of her soft red lips. She’s wearing a gray V-neck tee under her apron, and I can see just a hint of cleavage. I almost forget why I’m here.
“Uh, are you the owner?”
“What do youwant?” Right now, what I want is her. I wonder how she’d react if I said that. But that’s not why I’m here.
“I want to talk to the owner. To make an offer on this property.”
She storms around the counter toward me, then heads to the door instead, ripping it open. The little bell rattles as she holds the door, gesturing for me to leave. This didn’t go so well.
She stares daggers at me as I nod and walk past her out the door. I catch a whiff of sugar and citrus as I pass her and exit the bakery.
I guess I’ll have to come back. Again.
3
CAROLINE
I slamthe door behind him as he leaves. He may have been dressed nicely and put together well, but my mafia radar kicked in again.
It’s too bad, too. He was hot. And he looked at me in a way I missed while I was with my ex. Now I’m single, but I don’t want anything to do with the mob. He’s probably involved in whatever’s going on with my uncle. Why else would he have shown up so soon wanting to make an “offer” on the property?
I knew I’d have to deal with these guys sooner or later, and I doubt this is the last I’ll see of him. I’ll have to figure out a real way to handle this. So far, I’ve been too wrapped up in moving, seeing Aunt Lisa and keeping the business running to think about the bigger picture.
* * *
The rest of the employees have left and I’m closing up for the day. It’s only 3pm, but the bakery does most of its business in the early morning. I turn off the “Open” sign and lock the door. I count the register and calculate the receipts for the day. It was decent. Not as busy as the bakeries I’m used to working at, but better than I expected.
Despite the obvious unease of the situation, my uncle’s employees have welcomed me. They’re pretty quiet and focused on their work. They don’t ask about my uncle. Like they know it shouldn’t be talked about. I don’t bring it up either.
From what they do say, they seem to know all about me, though. It sounds like my uncle has talked about me a lot. Thinking about him like this brings up everything I’ve been trying to hold back. It’s been five days since he went missing. I thought we’d know something by now. I’ve been fighting down my emotions, using all my energy to stay strong for Aunt Lisa.
I hear a knock on the door and look up from the register. It’s the red-haired man I saw this morning. Damn it. I was just forgetting about the guy who came into the shop, but maybe he was just the light touch.
The man at the door isn’t as big, but he’s still obviously fit and strong. He looks several years younger too. His red hair is cut short with a tight fade.
“We’re closed.” I know that won’t make him leave, but I’m not going to just welcome him in.
He keeps banging on the door. I close the register and pick up the phone. I walk around the counter and point to the phone in my hand. “Leave. Or I’ll call the cops.”
The word “cops” triggers him. He stops pounding on the door with his fist and kicks the glass instead. With his first kick, the glass of the door splinters. The second kick breaks the glass out of the door and he’s able to step through.
I fumble with the phone. As I try to dial, he strides across the floor, his steps crunching on shattered glass. He knocks the phone out of my hand before I can hit “send.” My hand stings and throbs from the impact.
I brace myself for him to hit me again. Instead, he keeps walking toward me, backing me into the counter. He presses himself against me. I can smell the smoke on his breath and I’m afraid to think what he’s going to do.
“You running this place now?” He has a light accent. It’s sharp and breathy, sounding slightly Irish.
I nod silently, afraid to admit what I’ve gotten myself into.
“You owe us. Past debts and current dues.”
“I don’t understand.” I don’t know what else to say. But I do know what he means. The mob still wants a monthly cut of the business. I can’t believe all these years later, this is still going on.
“You pay up each month. And you pay us for the past four months. Or else.” He suddenly wraps his hand around my throat. His fingers slowly constrict as I gasp for air. My mind goes blank.
