“Oh, right. Of course.” I blink at him, my brain struggling to catch up. “I’m almost done. Just a few more details and then…” I gesture vaguely at the three-tiered cake beside me.
“I can wait.”
I should be nervous about being in here alone with a man I don’t know, but I’m not. Thing is, I’ve always been wary of men after witnessing firsthand how easily they could transform into monsters. And yet, I’ve let this stranger into the kitchen, and my nervous system isn’t threatening to shut down. Not even with those intense eyes on me. There’s something about him that doesn’t make me afraid—something that makes me feel…safe.
It doesn’t make sense. But I don’t have time to question it.
“Would you like some coffee while you wait?” I ask, moving toward the pot I brewed earlier. “There’s fresh cream in the fridge, and I have some…” I pause, glancing at the tray of sugar cookies I made yesterday—extras from the batches I baked for the wedding party. “Sugar cookies? Most of the familyis too nervous to eat anything this morning, so they’re going untouched.”
“Coffee would be great. Black.” He moves closer, I catch the warm and woody scent of his cologne with hints of musk that make my head swim. "And I never say no to cookies.”
I pour his coffee and plate a few cookies, hyperaware of his presence behind me. When I turn around, I nearly bump into him—he’s closer than I expected—and some of the powdered sugar from my apron transfers to his dark shirt.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry—” I reach out instinctively to brush it away, and my fingers press against the solid wall of his chest. Heat floods my cheeks as I realize what I’m doing and snatch my hand back.
But he catches it.
His grip is warm and firm, and the contact sends a jolt through my entire body. Those green eyes hold mine, and I forget how to breathe.
“You have sugar on your face, Matilde,” he murmurs, his voice low.
“What?”
“Powdered sugar.” He releases my hand and reaches up, his thumb brushing gently across my cheekbone. The touch is featherlight, but it sends sparks cascading down my spine. “There.”
I’m certain my face is the color of a tomato.
“The, um, the cookies,” I manage, shoving the plate toward him and stepping back before I combust. “Try one.”
He picks up a cookie, his eyes never leaving mine, and takes a bite. Something shifts in his expression—surprise, then pleasure.
“These are incredible.”
“They’re just sugar cookies,” I mumble, but warmth blooms in my chest at the compliment.
“They’re the best sugar cookies I’ve ever had.” He finishes the cookie in two more bites and reaches for another. “And you make wedding cakes, too?”
I nod, glancing at my work. Three tiers of vanilla bean sponge with Italian buttercream, decorated with hand-piped lace patterns and delicate sugar flowers that took me hours to craft. “Sofia asked me to. I’m…I want to open my own bakery one day.”
“If everything you make is this good, you’ll have lines out the door.”
The sincerity in his voice makes my stomach flutter. I open my mouth to respond—
The click of heels against marble echoes from the hallway, and I drop my head, fidgeting like a kid facing the principal. Aunt Bianca sweeps into the kitchen, her perfume overpowering every other scent in the room.
She’s one of the scariest people I’ve ever met. After she and my uncle took my twin sister and I into their home, I learned pretty early that she resented us and saw us as a burden on her household. I learned to avoid her, but that became impossible when Sofia asked me to bake her wedding cake.
Aunt Bianca has not forgiven me for that.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” she snaps as she enters the kitchen, those cat eyes sweeping from me to Lucaand back again. “You had just one job, Matilde. One job.” Her gaze lingers on Luca, and her expression shifts—Loss becomes calculation. “And who is this?”
“Luca Conti.” He doesn’t smile, doesn’t offer his hand. His voice is polite but cool. “I’m with wedding security. Here to escort the cake to the venue.”
“I see,” Aunt Bianca’s eyes narrow slightly before she turns back to me, her sneer firmly in place. “Well, don’t let me interrupt your…socializing. Though perhaps if you’d spent less time entertaining guests and more time working, the cake would be finished by now.”
My cheeks burn with humiliation. “It is finished. I was just—”
“Then box it up and let Mr. Conti do his job.” She smooths her already-perfect hair. “And clean yourself up before you come to the venue. You look like you’ve been rolling in flour.”
