Chapter 19
19
Quinn
T he call comes at seven a.m., and by eight, I’m standing in front of the bakery, my eyes out on stalks.
The faded shop sign is gone, replaced with a shiny one in laser-cut acrylic, the name picked out in glittery letters. The new windows are spotless, and when I try the door, it opens smoothly instead of sticking slightly like it used to.
Inside, the counter is a vision in white with sparkles. Behind it is a girl I don’t know, wearing a shirt bearing the bakery’s updated logo. She turns and smiles at me.
“You’re Quinn, right?” She gives an awkward wave. “I’m Katrina. Viktor hired me. There’s a work shirt for you back here. I haven’t started baking yet, but I know how to use the new ovens.”
“Oh, okay, hi,” I reply. “Is Viktor here?”
As if on cue, the man emerges from the back room and leans over the counter to shake my hand. “Hello, Quinn. Sorry for the early call. Welcome back. I trust the refurb is to your satisfaction?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it. Mom would adore this place.”
Why did I say that? Now my eyes are filling with tears.
Viktor wisely ignores my emotional oversharing. “This is your new employee,” he says, gesturing at Katrina. “She had a different position in Rokaz but volunteered to work here with you.”
I nod. “Great. So I guess we can open at lunchtime after we’ve oriented ourselves and done some baking.” I pause, and then the question rushes out of my mouth. “Roman Kazanov is the boss of Rokaz, isn’t he?”
Viktor examines his cuticles. “Sure. He’s the boss of a lot of things. Wealthy, connected. He’s a big player in this city and a friend. Why?”
Because I think Mr. Moneybags Big Shot let himself into my apartment and read my secret thoughts, that’s why. And last night, I dreamed of him on top of me, his hips pumping as he drove into me over and over again?—
“Doesn’t matter.” I glance around. “So, shall we get started?”
“Absolutely.” Viktor makes for the door. “Oh, and Miss Sullivan?”
“Yes?”
“Make those fancy cinnamon buns you do so well. I’m sure your customers will have missed them.”
The door closes behind him, and Katrina clutches my arm. “God, he’s so intense,” she trills. “I’m so happy to be here. I can bake pretty well. My mom used to make all sorts with me until I left Poland. Does your mom bake?”
“She did.” I sniff and hold back a sob. “I don’t have her anymore. She passed away years ago, as did my father.”
“That’s terrible,” Katrina says, resting a hand on my arm. “What happened?”
I shake off the grief. “The mob,” I reply. “My father got in too deep with the wrong people. Mom was there too, and they don’t like to leave loose ends. But let’s not talk about that.”
“I’m so sorry.” Katrina’s complexion pales. “Okay!” she says brightly. “Let’s fire up the ovens and fill these trays with yumminess!”
We take the sandwich board out at noon, announcing that the shop will reopen at one p.m. To my surprise, there’s a long queue outside by twelve-fifty, and more people join by the minute, drawn by the heavenly scent of fresh cakes and spiced frosting.
“This is gonna be great!” Katrina says as she stocks the counter with more cinnamon buns. “I hope we have enough coffee. Thanks for walking me through the recipes. I think I’ll be fine to do the bulk of the drudge work without your help.”
I have to admit it—she got up to speed damn quick. As my mom used to say, ninety percent of learning capacity comes from enthusiasm for the subject, and Katrina has that in spades.
I find myself relaxing and enjoying the company. The world feels friendlier and safer, but that’s not surprising. For the first time, I have financial security. And that’s how it’ll stay because my benefactor has made it so.
Roman . How he must have laughed when he read the sexual fantasy of a chubby virgin with an over-active imagination.
I can’t decide what’s worse: the possibility I’m just insane and he was nowhere near my apartment, or the alternative—that he did indeed steal into my private space and violate it.
The thought chills me to the bone, yet I can’t deny the visceral thrill it gives me. For a man like Roman to be interested in me… it’s crazy. It makes no sense, but what good is sense anyway?
I’ve always tried to do the right thing, and I still almost ended up on the streets. If the universe wants to send me a mysterious, sexy man to rewrite my script, who am I to resist?
Katrina taps my shoulder. “Wake up, sweetie! It’s showtime.”
The next hour is a blur of orders: latte here, flat white there, madeleines, fruited panettone, and, of course, my signature cinnamon buns. The swell of waiting patrons makes it hard for the served customers to get out the door, and I wonder whether we need a separate exit route to alleviate the problem.
I’m wiping down the counter as another customer approaches. “What can I get you?” I ask without looking up.
“Good afternoon, Quinn.”
I lift my head so fast I almost pull a tendon in my neck. Roman stands before me, looking like a million dollars, and my knees weaken. I clutch the counter’s edge to steady myself, and his lips curl with amusement.
He’s here. He can walk right in and say my name like he owns me.
“H-hello,” I stammer. “Thank you for what you’ve done. I promise to be discreet.”
“If your idea of discretion is leaving your fantasies lying around where anyone could pick them up and read them, I have to say I don’t trust your judgment.”
Roman holds me with his eyes and lowers his voice. “You want a piece of me, don’t you, rusalka ? You want my cock stretching your hot little pussy.”
My mouth is hanging open, my blood rushing in my ears.
He read what I wrote about him. About us . A wave of warmth radiates through my core.
“I—you can’t just go into my apartment whenever you?—”
“Americano and a cinnamon bun.” Roman’s voice cuts through my embarrassment like a blade. “With that delicious frosting. Now .”
I give him my back as I pour the coffee. I don’t think he meant to say those dirty things to me. The words tumbled out of his mouth as though his innermost desires took over for a second and spoke the truth.
The instant the drink and boxed cake are in front of him, he tosses a hundred on the counter but doesn’t wait for change. Instead, he takes his order and leaves, weaving deftly between the bodies that crowd the small shop.
Katrina sticks her head out from the workroom. “Hey. I thought I’d put some more dough together for— woah !” Her eyes widen. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I roll my shoulders. “I’m fine. I just need a break. Can you hold the fort for five?”