Chapter 10 - The Salt and the Sugar
At 2:30 in the morning, the Pfister Hotel was quiet.
The grand ballroom was dark, the parquet floor mopped clean by the night crew, the chandeliers dimmed to a faint golden ember. Outside, the rain had stopped, replaced by a crisp, cold northern wind that carried the scent of Lake Michigan across the empty asphalt of Wisconsin Avenue.
The rear loading dock was deserted save for Roz’s battered white delivery van, its rusty fender gleaming under the orange halogen security lights.
Roz leaned against the back bumper of the van, still wearing her chef’s slacks and a heavy gray wool sweater. Her apron was packed in the laundry crate inside. Her feet throbbed with a dull, persistent ache that went all the way up her spine, but for the first time in ten years, her chest felt light. The heavy, suffocating weight she had carried since high school—the constant, grinding fear of taking up too much space, of being too loud, of being too visible—had evaporated into the damp Milwaukee air.
The heavy steel fire door of the hotel clicked open.
Luca Benedetti walked onto the loading dock.
He had removed his tuxedo jacket, carrying it hooked over one shoulder by a single finger. His white shirt was open at the collar, the cuffs rolled back over his thick, scarred forearms. He walked with a loose, unhurried stride that belonged entirely to the night.
He stopped two feet from her, leaning his shoulder against the brick wall of the dock.
"My grandmother is asleep in the Lincoln," Luca said. "She ate three tartlets when I wasn't looking. Her monitor is going to scream at her in forty minutes, and she is going to blame the weather."
Roz laughed softly, looking down at her sneakers. "She earned those tartlets. She was the best blocker on the field tonight."
Luca watched her in the amber light. "You shouldn't have had to do that, Rose."
"She called me a fat cow, Luca. It wasn't the first time someone’s said it to me, but it was definitely the last time I’m going to stand there and listen to it." She looked up, meeting his dark eyes directly. "I’m not sorry about the pie. I’m sorry about your grandfather’s crest, but I’m not sorry about the dress."
"My grandfather," Luca said, his voice dropping into that deep, quiet gravel that made Roz’s stomach do a slow, delicious flip, "would have bought you the bananas."
Roz smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "Yeah?"
"Salvatore hated phonies," Luca said, stepping closer. "He used to say that a person who won't eat butter is a person who can't be trusted with a secret. He would have loved you."
The air between them changed. The hum of the city seemed to drop away, leaving only the sound of their breath in the cold night.
Luca reached into his pocket and pulled out a check. He held it out to her.
Roz looked at the number. It was the remaining balance on the catering contract, plus an additional five thousand dollars.
"What is the extra for?" she asked, not taking it.
"Hazard pay," Luca said. "And the nine-inch display pie that didn't make it to the auction."
Roz pushed his hand back gently, her fingers brushing against his warm palm. "Take off the extra five thousand, Luca. I don't take hush money, and I don't take charity."
Luca looked down at the check, then looked up into her steady brown eyes. "It isn't charity, Rose. It’s an investment."
"In what?"
"In Kinnickinnic Avenue," Luca murmured, closing the final inch between them until his chest was inches from hers. "In a bakery where people speak the truth. In a woman who doesn't look at me like I’m an account balance or a court summons."
He reached up, his large, rough hand cupping the side of her face. His skin was warm against the chill of the morning air, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone with a reverent slowness that made Roz’s breath hitch.
"I’ve spent two years living in an empty house, Rose," Luca whispered, his eyes dark with something raw and unhidden. "Tonight was the first time I felt like the lights were on."
Roz leaned into his touch, her hand coming up to rest against his forearm. The wool of his shirt was soft beneath her calloused fingers.
"The lights are always on at Crust and Crumble at five in the morning," she whispered back.
Luca’s mouth curved into that rare, devastating smile—the one that had started with an apology tart five weeks ago.
May you like
"Then I’ll bring the minestrone," Luca said.
"Bring the soup," Roz agreed softly, looking up into his eyes as the first gray light of dawn began to creep over Lake Michigan. "And don't you dare be late."
