Chapter 1 - The Man Who Couldn’t Sleep
“Sorry,” Naomi said. “Did I wake you?”
Luca remained in the doorway, watching her work the dough.
“No.”
“Then why are you standing there like you’ve discovered an intruder?”
“Most intruders don’t bring their own yeast.”
She glanced at the flour on her sleeve.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Neither could I.”
For a moment, neither moved. The enormous kitchen looked different at two in the morning. Without staff, visitors, and carefully arranged meals, it seemed less like part of a wealthy man’s house and more like a room waiting to become useful.
Naomi pointed toward the sink.
“Wash your hands.”
Luca looked surprised.
“Why?”
“Because you’re going to help.”
“I don’t bake.”
“You’re about to.”
He obeyed.
She divided the dough and placed half in front of him. His first attempt at kneading was so aggressively wrong that she caught his wrist before he could flatten it completely.
“It’s bread,” she said. “Not a hostile acquisition.”
One corner of his mouth lifted.
“How can you tell?”
“Bread responds better to patience.”
He tried again, following her movements. Push, fold, turn. Gradually, his shoulders lowered.
Naomi watched without making it obvious. This was the first time she had seen him do something without expecting to be competent immediately.
“You could have asked the chef to make this,” he said.
“I wanted to make it.”
“There’s a difference?”
“A considerable one.”
He considered that while she worked softened butter into the dough.
She told him about Evelyn’s bakery, the old oven that heated unevenly, and the customers who insisted the crooked pastries tasted better. Luca listened closely enough to ask questions that required real answers.
He wanted to know why bread needed two rises.
Why butter had to be added slowly.
Why Naomi always pressed her thumb against the dough before deciding it was ready.
“Because recipes can tell you the time,” she said, “but they can’t tell you what the dough feels like.”
Luca looked down at his hands.
“My mother used to cook.”
“Does she still?”
“She died when I was nine.”
Naomi stopped.
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded once, as though acknowledging a delivery.
“What did she make?”
The question seemed to surprise him more than the apology.
“Soup. With tiny meatballs. My sister used to steal them from the pot.”
“You have a sister?”
“Had.”
The kitchen became quiet.
Naomi looked at him.
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“I know.”
He stepped away from the counter, and she let the subject rest.
That was something Colin had never allowed. Every silence had been a debt. Every private feeling required an explanation he could approve.
With Luca, she was beginning to discover that a conversation could stop without becoming a punishment.
While the dough rested, she made tea.
He sat across from her at the island, sleeves pushed back, a faint streak of flour near his jaw.
“What?” he asked.
She handed him a damp towel.
“You look less intimidating with pastry ingredients on your face.”
“I’ll inform my competitors.”
They drank quietly.
Then Naomi asked the question that had followed her since moving in.
“The men who come here at night. Should I be frightened of them?”
Luca set down his cup.
“Some are business associates. Some are people I inherited responsibilities for.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“No,” he said. “It wasn’t.”
She waited.
“You shouldn’t have to feel frightened in this house.”
“Shouldn’t and won’t are different answers.”
He studied her for several seconds.
Then he nodded.
“No more business meetings here without notice. And nobody brings a weapon into the rooms you use.”
“Is that realistic?”
“It will be.”
She believed he meant it. Whether he could keep it was something time would have to prove.
Before dawn, the first loaf came out of the oven.
It was uneven, deeply golden, and split along one side.
Luca looked at it critically.
“That’s mine.”
“Yes.”
“It’s defective.”
“It’s bread, Luca. Not a quarterly report.”
She cut them each a thick slice.
He tasted his without butter.
For a moment, his expression changed so completely that Naomi looked away, giving him privacy he had not asked for.
“What?” she said gently.
“My mother used to give us the ends.”
“Those are the best pieces.”
“That’s what she said.”
At breakfast, Naomi found an envelope beside her plate.
Her stomach tightened before she opened it.
Inside was confirmation that the building purchase had closed. The deed named her alone. Her independent attorney had included a note explaining that Luca’s commitments remained valid even if their personal arrangement ended early.
Naomi read that sentence twice.
When Luca entered, she held up the papers.
“You didn’t make this conditional on staying married.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you needed to know you could leave.”
She stared at him.
He reached for the imperfect loaf they had made together.
May you like
“And because,” he added, “you make very good bread.”
For the first time since Colin emptied the bakery account, Naomi laughed without checking whether someone might use the sound against her.
