Chapter 2 - THE MOST DANGEROUS MAN IN MY BAKERY
Roman Blackwell looked at me for three long seconds.
Then he said, “Depends on the coffee.”
I blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“If it's terrible, I may have to reconsider my approach.”
I stared at him.
Then, against every instinct I possessed, I laughed.
It wasn't a graceful laugh. I'd slept badly for four nights, cried through an entire carton of ice cream, and discovered that canceling a wedding was somehow more expensive than planning one.
I was operating on very little dignity.
Roman glanced at the pastry case again.
“Black coffee. And one of those.”
He pointed toward a cinnamon roll.
“Those are six dollars.”
“I noticed.”
“They're made fresh.”
“I was hoping.”
“And if you're here because Nolan sent you—”
“I'm not.”
His answer came immediately.
I stopped reaching for the cup.
Roman studied me.
“Do you always interrogate customers before serving them?”
“Only the ones whose pictures appear in articles with words like organized crime and federal investigation.”
Something shifted in his expression.
Not anger.
Interest.
“Then you've been reading about me.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Any favorite article?”
“The one where your attorney refused to answer seventeen consecutive questions.”
His mouth curved.
“That was a long afternoon.”
I should have been terrified.
Part of me was.
But the ridiculousness of the conversation made the fear difficult to sustain.
I poured his coffee.
He paid with a fifty-dollar bill.
I handed him the change.
He looked at it.
“Keep it.”
“No.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Why?”
“Because this is a bakery, not a charity.”
“It's a tip.”
“Then tip like a normal person.”
I placed four dollars on the counter.
He watched me.
Then took the remaining change without arguing.
For some reason, that unsettled me more than if he'd become angry.
Roman sat by the window.
He ate half the cinnamon roll, drank his coffee, and appeared to read the financial section of the newspaper.
I returned to preparing the afternoon dough.
But every few minutes, I caught him looking toward the door.
Finally, I set down the mixing bowl.
“Mr. Blackwell.”
He looked up.
“Roman.”
“Mr. Blackwell, are you expecting someone?”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who?”
“Unfortunately, your former fiancé.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“What?”
Roman folded the newspaper.
“Nolan Pierce has a meeting two blocks away. He believes you'll still be willing to discuss the engagement if he appears unexpectedly.”
I stared.
“How would you know that?”
“Because the meeting is with one of my companies.”
I gripped the edge of the counter.
“Then why are you here?”
Roman glanced toward the empty chairs.
“I wanted coffee.”
“Try again.”
He considered me.
Then said, “Nolan asked my office whether we could purchase the retail block containing your bakery.”
Everything inside me went cold.
“What?”
“He called it a straightforward redevelopment opportunity.”
I stared through the window at the buildings across the street.
Bennett & Lane had occupied this corner for twenty-three years.
My mother started it with her best friend, June Lane, when I was six.
The ovens were older than some of my employees.
The front door stuck in humid weather.
The blue paint on the trim needed replacing every spring.
It wasn't glamorous.
But it was ours.
“Why would Nolan want to buy this block?”
Roman's expression grew unreadable.
“That's what I'd like to know.”
At 10:43, Nolan arrived.
He wore the navy overcoat I'd given him for Christmas.
He stopped when he saw Roman.
Then looked at me.
“Harper.”
I crossed my arms.
“Nolan.”
His gaze moved toward the coffee cup.
“What is he doing here?”
I leaned against the counter.
“Buying pastry. Apparently it's a shocking concept.”
Roman took another sip of coffee.
Nolan didn't smile.
“Can we speak privately?”
“No.”
“Harper, please.”
“Whatever you want to say, say it here.”
He lowered his voice.
“You're embarrassing yourself.”
Something sharp moved through my chest.
I had heard those words before.
At parties.
At family dinners.
Whenever I disagreed with him in public.
Roman set down his cup.
But he didn't intervene.
He simply watched.
And I was grateful for that.
Because I didn't need another man speaking for me.
“Nolan,” I said, “you told twenty-seven people you proposed because my cousin rejected you.”
His face reddened.
“I was trying to be honest.”
“You were trying to make your cruelty sound noble.”
He glanced toward Roman.
“This isn't your business.”
Roman looked up.
“You're standing in a business I was asked to help acquire. That makes part of this my business.”
Nolan went pale.
I noticed.
Roman continued, “But your relationship with Miss Bennett is entirely hers to address.”
For the first time, Nolan had nothing ready to say.
Then he looked at me.
“I came to apologize.”
“Good.”
His expression softened hopefully.
I continued.
“You may apologize.”
He swallowed.
“I'm sorry about the dinner.”
I waited.
“About the timing,” he added.
My heart sank.
Not about deceiving me.
Not about proposing while wanting another woman.
The timing.
I nodded.
“Apology heard.”
Nolan stared.
“That's it?”
“Yes.”
“We need to discuss the wedding.”
“There isn't one.”
His face tightened.
“We've already paid deposits.”
“Then we'll divide the cancellation costs according to the contracts.”
He stepped closer.
“Harper, don't be ridiculous. You're throwing away two years.”
I looked directly at him.
“No. I'm refusing to throw away another fifty.”
Behind him, Roman's expression changed.
Just slightly.
But I saw it.
Nolan left five minutes later.
He didn't buy anything.
He did manage to knock over the chalkboard advertising blueberry scones.
I waited until his car disappeared before turning toward Roman.
“Did you know he was coming?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn't think to warn me earlier?”
“I wasn't certain until this morning.”
I studied him.
“Why do you care?”
Roman stood.
He was taller than I remembered.
Close enough that I caught the faint scent of cedar and winter air.
For a moment, his eyes moved toward the flour on my sleeve.
Then back to my face.
“Because Pierce asked my company to buy this building at considerably less than its assessed value.”
I went still.
“And?”
“I declined.”
Relief came so quickly I almost felt dizzy.
Then Roman added, “But I'm not the only buyer he's approached.”
He took a business card from his coat.
Placed it on the counter.
“Have your attorney examine your lease.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
His expression darkened.
“Because the man who embarrassed you at dinner may be trying to take considerably more than your engagement ring.”
He walked toward the door.
Then paused.
“The cinnamon roll was excellent.”
I looked up.
“Thank you.”
“And Harper?”
“Yes?”
He held my gaze.
“Don't sign anything Nolan Pierce brings you.”
Then he was gone.
I stared at the card.
May you like
On the back, written in dark blue ink, was a single sentence.
ASK JUNE ABOUT THE ORIGINAL DEED.
