Chapter 1 - The Man Covered in Flour
Before I had known Roman Dawson for an hour, I threw a bag of flour at him hard enough to explode across his charcoal suit.
Nobody inside Honey & Rye Bakery moved.
Not the woman holding a cappuccino halfway to her mouth.
Not the construction worker who had been arguing with his friend about whether cinnamon rolls counted as breakfast.
Not even the toddler standing by the pastry case with one palm flattened against the glass.
A white cloud drifted through the warm morning sunlight.
Roman Dawson stood in the middle of it.
Flour coated his expensive lapels, his tie, his shoulders, and the polished leather of shoes that probably cost more than my industrial mixer.
I pointed at him.
“Maybe now you’ll finally understand what no means.”
The silence lasted another two seconds.
Then somebody near the window whispered, “Oh my God.”
My name is Clare Bennett.
I was thirty-one years old, five-foot-six, permanently exhausted, and the owner of Honey & Rye, a small bakery in Chicago that had consumed nearly every dollar, hour, and decent night of sleep I’d had for the previous four years.
I woke at 3:30 every morning.
By eight, I had usually baked enough bread to feed a small army, burned at least one finger, threatened my espresso machine, and forgotten whether I’d eaten breakfast.
Which probably explained why fear had failed to activate when Roman Dawson walked through my front door.
Everybody in Chicago knew the name.
Roman wasn’t a celebrity.
He wasn’t a politician.
He wasn’t the kind of wealthy man who appeared on magazine covers smiling beside skyscrapers he owned.
People said his family had controlled half the private security contracts, construction unions, clubs, and shipping operations along the river for decades.
People also said there were things nobody discussed about how the Dawsons had held that influence.
I didn’t know which stories were true.
I didn’t particularly care.
He was standing between me and a tray of almond croissants.
That made him a problem.
Roman slowly looked down at himself.
Then back at me.
He didn’t shout.
That somehow made the moment worse.
He simply said, “You’re terrible at negotiating.”
“No,” I snapped. “You’re just not used to people rejecting you.”
Behind him, a woman in her late fifties wearing an emerald-green coat made a suspicious choking sound.
I turned toward her.
“This is your fault.”
Sophia Dawson looked delighted.
Ten minutes earlier, Sophia had entered Honey & Rye with Roman and two silent men wearing dark suits.
I had assumed they were businesspeople.
Then Sophia received a phone call.
Apparently, some family acquaintance had asked whether Roman would be attending dinner that Sunday.
Sophia, who I later learned possessed the subtlety of a marching band, had replied, “No, darling. He’s spending time with his girlfriend.”
Then she had pointed directly at me.
I had been standing behind the counter holding a tray of scones.
I nearly dropped them.
“I am not his girlfriend.”
Sophia smiled.
“Of course.”
“That wasn’t sarcasm. I really am not.”
Roman had been studying a row of croissants.
He looked entirely unbothered.
That should have warned me.
Sophia lowered her phone.
“You two look wonderful together.”
“We don’t look together at all.”
Roman glanced at me.
His dark hair was swept away from his forehead, his jaw shadowed with stubble. He was tall enough that I had to tilt my head slightly to glare properly.
“What started the disagreement?” Sophia asked.
“He tried to buy everything in my display case,” I said.
“I offered to pay for everyone’s orders,” Roman replied.
“They wanted breakfast, not a hostile takeover of my croissants.”
One of the men behind him coughed into his fist.
Roman turned his head.
The coughing stopped instantly.
I folded my arms.
Sophia’s eyes sparkled.
“So this is how you flirt.”
“We are not flirting.”
Roman said nothing.
That irritated me more.
Then Sophia made it worse.
“How long have you two been seeing each other?”
I opened my mouth.
Roman spoke first.
“Three months.”
I stared at him.
He calmly adjusted his cuff.
My patience died.
“Stop calling me your girlfriend.”
“My aunt believes it now.”
“I don’t care.”
“She’ll stop arranging introductions for me.”
“Wonderful. Find another fake girlfriend.”
“I would prefer you.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
For the first time since walking inside, Roman hesitated.
“Because Sophia already believes it.”
“Wrong answer.”
Sophia laughed openly.
I pointed toward the door.
“You can leave.”
Roman didn’t.
Instead, he reached inside his suit jacket and removed a black business card.
He placed it on the counter.
“I have a proposal.”
“No.”
“You haven’t heard it.”
“I’ve heard enough proposals from men who begin by lying about dating me.”
His mouth almost curved.
Almost.
“Pretend for three weeks,” he said. “Family dinners. Two public events. Possibly one charity auction.”
“No.”
“I’ll compensate you for your time.”
“My time has a price. My dignity doesn’t.”
Then Roman named an amount.
That was when I reached for the flour.
Now, standing inside the drifting white cloud, he brushed a line of powder from his sleeve.
I waited for anger.
It didn’t come.
Sophia looked like Christmas had arrived early.
Roman finally looked at me again.
“I assume that’s your final answer.”
“Yes.”
He nodded once.
“Understood.”
And then he left.
That should have been the end of it.
It wasn’t.
The next morning at exactly 8:15, a black sedan stopped outside Honey & Rye.
I saw Roman through the front window.
“No,” I called before he reached the counter.
He paused.
“I only want coffee.”
“No proposals?”
“No.”
“No fake dating?”
“No.”
“No buying out the pastry case?”
He looked toward the croissants.
“Tempting.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Coffee only.”
He ordered black coffee.
Paid the exact price.
Added a normal tip.
And left.
The next morning, he returned.
8:15.
Same suit, darker tie.
Same black coffee.
The morning after that, he appeared again.
I leaned against the counter.
“You know there are approximately seventeen thousand places in Chicago that sell coffee.”
“Your coffee is good.”
“It’s average.”
“Your honesty is refreshing.”
“My irritation is free.”
“I noticed.”
He left.
On the fourth morning, I told myself I didn’t care whether he came back.
At 8:17, I checked the window.
At 8:20, I was annoyed at myself for checking.
At 8:22, the black sedan arrived.
But this time, Roman wasn’t alone.
A teenage girl climbed out after him.
She looked about sixteen.
Her dark brown hair was twisted into a messy knot, and she wore an oversized gray sweatshirt that swallowed her narrow shoulders.
Her posture caught my attention first.
She didn’t slouch exactly.
She folded inward.
As if she’d learned to take up less space.
Roman opened the bakery door for her.
The man changed the moment she walked inside.
His shoulders lowered slightly.
The hard stillness in his face softened.
When he spoke, the cold authority disappeared from his voice.
“Clare.”
I had already picked up another bag of flour.
Roman looked at it.
I slowly set it down.
“This is my niece, Lily.”
The girl studied me.
“So you’re the famous girlfriend.”
“I am absolutely not.”
For one brief second, Lily smiled.
It was small.
Barely there.
But Roman saw it.
And I saw him see it.
Something changed in his face.
Not power.
Not amusement.
Not calculation.
Relief.
A strange, almost painful relief.
Suddenly I understood something.
Chicago’s most feared man hadn’t kept returning because he needed a fake girlfriend.
Whatever had brought him back to my bakery was standing beside him in an oversized gray sweatshirt.
Lily walked toward the pastry case.
The guarded emptiness in her eyes changed as she looked through the glass.
For one second, she seemed younger than sixteen.
“What’s that?”
She pointed at a pastry shaped like a spiral, glazed with honey and filled with cinnamon.
“My honey-cardamom morning bun.”
“Is it good?”
“It has caused grown adults to argue over the last one.”
She looked at Roman.
He reached for his wallet.
I pointed at him.
“Don’t even think about buying the entire tray.”
Lily laughed.
A real laugh this time.
Roman froze.
Only for a fraction of a second.
But I saw it again.
That same relief.
He bought one bun.
Lily sat at a corner table.
Roman stayed near the counter.
“She hasn’t laughed much lately,” he said quietly.
I looked at him.
The bakery noise seemed to recede.
“What happened?”
His expression closed.
“That isn’t my story to tell.”
For once, I didn’t push.
Lily ate half the bun.
Then wrapped the other half in a napkin.
“You don’t like it?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“I do.”
“Then why are you saving it?”
Her eyes dropped.
“For later.”
Something in her tone made me stop asking questions.
Roman checked his watch.
“We should go.”
Lily’s smile disappeared instantly.
The change was so fast it unsettled me.
She stood.
Roman opened the door.
Before she walked out, Lily looked back at the bakery.
Then at me.
“Do you work here every day?”
“I own the place. Unfortunately, yes.”
“Can I come back?”
I glanced at Roman.
His face gave nothing away.
“Anytime.”
Lily nodded.
Then they left.
For the next hour, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
At noon, Sophia appeared.
Alone.
I groaned.
“No.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re a Dawson. I’m learning to be proactive.”
She ordered tea.
Then sat at the counter.
“Lily liked you.”
“She liked the morning bun.”
“She liked you.”
I wiped down the espresso machine.
“What happened to her?”
Sophia’s smile faded.
“My sister was Lily’s grandmother. Roman’s older brother, Daniel, was Lily’s father.”
Was.
I stopped moving.
Sophia continued softly.
“Daniel died four years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Lily’s mother died last winter.”
I turned fully toward her.
“She lost both parents?”
Sophia nodded.
“Roman became her legal guardian.”
Suddenly the gray sweatshirt made more sense.
So did the silence.
“So why does she look terrified whenever it’s time to leave?”
Sophia’s eyes sharpened.
“That is a very good question.”
Before I could ask what she meant, the bakery door opened.
One of Roman’s security men stepped inside.
He walked directly toward Sophia.
His face was controlled, but something in his posture had changed.
“Mrs. Dawson.”
Sophia stood immediately.
“What is it?”
He lowered his voice.
“Lily disappeared from the car.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“She asked to wait inside while Mr. Dawson took a call. When we returned, she was gone.”
Sophia grabbed her purse.
I came around the counter.
“When?”
“Twelve minutes ago.”
“Where?”
“Two blocks from here.”
I was already taking off my apron.
One of my employees called after me.
“Clare, where are you going?”
“I’ll be back.”
I ran outside.
The afternoon air was cold enough to sting my lungs.
Roman’s sedan was parked across the street.
Roman himself stood beside it talking rapidly to another man.
I had never seen his composure crack before.
It had cracked now.
He turned when he saw me.
“Clare.”
“Where would she go?”
His jaw tightened.
“I don’t know.”
“She asked if she could come back here.”
His eyes snapped toward the bakery.
We both moved at once.
I pushed through the front door.
Nothing.
Then I heard a faint sound from the back hallway.
I walked past the kitchen.
Opened the pantry.
Lily sat on the floor between sacks of flour.
Her knees were pulled to her chest.
She wasn’t crying.
That somehow made it worse.
I crouched slowly.
“Hey.”
She looked at me.
“Please don’t tell him I’m here.”
Roman appeared behind me.
Lily’s face went pale.
He stopped immediately.
He didn’t approach.
“Lily.”
She shook her head.
“I’m not going back.”
Roman’s voice was careful.
“Back where?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“To the house.”
The silence felt heavy.
Roman took one small step forward.
“Why?”
Lily looked at him.
Then at me.
And whispered something that made every muscle in Roman’s face go still.
“Because somebody in your house knows what really happened to my mom.”
Roman stared at her.
I did too.
Lily reached into the pocket of her gray sweatshirt.
She pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“I found this under my bedroom door.”
Roman took it.
Opened it.
His expression changed.
I couldn’t see the message.
But I saw his hand tighten around the page.
“What does it say?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
Lily did.
Her voice trembled.
“It says my mother didn’t die in an accident.”
And then she looked directly at her uncle.
May you like
“It says someone in our family made sure she never came home.”
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