Mick clapped Finn on the back. “Thanks for understanding.”
“No worries. I won’t let her go to waste,” Finn said with a wide grin.
“I’m sure you won’t.”
“Good to see you. Try a longer visit next time. Or I’ll come and see you soon, anyway, to talk about working with you. And Mick, let me know how it goes, will you?”
“Yeah, I will.”
He passed back through the club, his brain in a tangle—images of Allie, of the woman called Princess, and a slow, simmering anger. It was himself he was pissed at, though.
Maybe Finn had the right idea, he thought as he got back into the rental car and started the engine. Maybe he needed to go home and go to the fight club.
Punching someone in the face—in a consensual environment, of course—would feel fucking great, he had to admit. Didn’t matter if they hit him back. Hell, that was part of it all, anyway—the chance of being hit. Even the pain, Dom or not.
He needed to find the next flight out of Atlanta. Had to get back to his city.
And fuck it, he had to see Allie.
CHAPTER Ten
ALLIE BROUGHT UP her PowerPoint presentation on her laptop, and the first image popped up on the projection screen she’d set up on one of the tables at Dolcetti.
She breathed in the familiar dry warmth of her family’s bakery and glanced around. The tall jars of biscotti still lined the top of the counters, as they always had. The glass case was filled with fresh walnut shortbread cookies and macaroons, the luscious panettone with the almond and hazelnut icing that was her great-grandmother’s recipe, the colorful torta di frutta. She inhaled the scent of fruit and sugar. The scent of memories.
How many times had Mick strolled in to visit her when she worked in the bakery after school, all swagger even in their high school days? He’d stolen kisses when her mother and her aunts weren’t looking . . .
Her aunts Felisa and Renata, her mother’s younger sisters—identical twins Allie had had a hard time telling apart as a child—were already seated with their cups of coffee. She was just waiting for her mother to finish some work she was doing in the back.
It was Friday evening and the bakery was closed. She knew they were all tired after working all day, but the only day the bakery shut their doors was Sunday, when her mother and aunts spent much of the day in church. And she was ready—she didn’t want to wait any longer.
Where was her mother?
“Are you going to show us a movie?” one of her aunts asked.
“No, Zia Felisa. It’s more like a slide show.”
Her aunt folded her arms. “Hmm.”
When Mick had texted that he was back in town and wanted to see her, she’d put him off, telling him she was presenting her business expansion plan tonight. He’d wished her luck and told her not to be nervous. Which was, of course, totally impossible. This had been her dream for years. It was why she’d learned to be a pastry chef. And it was the one bridge she’d been unable to cross in her life. Well, other than Mick. But they were working on it.
At least, she thought they were. But he was so damn confusing. In one minute and out the next. She never knew where his head would be on any given day. His behavior the night before he’d left town had only muddied the waters that was their relationship even more. If one could even call it a relationship.
Frankly, she didn’t know what the hell they were doing, and she was about out of patience with it. She’d agreed to table any heavy conversation until Mick got back from his trip. Well, he was certainly going to get an earful tonight. Right after she gave her family the earful they’d had coming since she’d first gone to culinary school.
“Mama,” she called, out of patience. “Please come and sit down.”
“I was just cleaning up,” her mother said, drying her hands on her apron as she came out from behind the counter and threw her arms around her. She sank into her mother’s warm embrace—her mother who smelled of sugar after all her years running the bakery. Allie inhaled, smiled.
Her mother pulled back, still holding her shoulders. “You’re too thin, Allesandra,” she said.
Her mother was still a beautiful woman, her hair still the same dark brown as Allie’s, with only a few strands of silver.
“I know, Mama. You told me the same thing when you saw me last week. And I’m sure you’ll feed me up tonight, like you always do. Three months back in New Orleans and I’ll be plump as a Halloween pumpkin.”
“A few curves on a woman are not a bad thing,” her mother said, squeezing her hand.
“Don’t be silly,” Zia Renata put in. “We’re fourth-generation bakers—sugar runs in our blood.”
“That’s right,” her mother agreed. “I can still fit into my wedding dress. Don’t I look just as I did the day I married my Bertrand?”
Allie stiffened. She hated that she did it automatically every time her father was mentioned. But it hurt to see how much her mother still loved him. All these years and it still hurt that he was gone. She’d been a daddy’s girl, and wasn’t ashamed to admit it. She hadn’t been anyone’s girl since he’d died.
Except for Mick, for that lovely time when they were teenagers, when everything had felt so perfect. She’d been utterly convinced they were indestructible. The naiveté of youth, maybe.
Her mother pulled one of the iced panettone from the jar on the counter and handed it to Allie with a smile.
“You always know how to get to me, Mama.” She took a bite, let the familiar flavors melt on her tongue. Forced her thoughts away from Mick.
“I hope so. Now, tell us what this is all about, Allesandra.”
“Have a seat and I will.”
She waited for her mother to get settled, taking a few deep breaths to calm herself, then hit the space bar on her keyboard to start the presentation. She saw the screen light up with the graphics she’d made featuring the front of Dolcetti.
“As you can see, this image of Dolcetti includes the storefront next door, because what I’m addressing here today is the expansion of the bakery. And I know, Mama, I’ve talked to you about it before, but please just hear me out. I’ve done a lot of market research, and I have new information for you on the viability of this plan. These are copies of my business plan, one for each of you,” she said, handing them the packets she’d prepared.
Her mother’s features were shutting down, but she remained quiet.
“I’ve already looked into it and the boutique next door ends their lease on August first. They haven’t been doing well, and the manager has admitted to me that she doesn’t think they’ll be able to continue. Not that I’m celebrating the demise of a small business, but the timing would be perfect for expansion. The business is booming, we’re in a great location, so things can only get better. Frankly, right now the only thing holding Dolcetti back from making more money is the limited size—and the limit in menu and services because we simply don’t have enough space.”
She took a breath and continued without looking too carefully at any of them—she didn’t want to see the closed expressions she assumed she’d find there. “This next slide shows a possible floor plan. As you can see from this color-coded chart, taking over the space next door means an increase in usable space by forty-five percent, which would mean more ovens and prep space, a new walk-in refrigerator, more seating in front and another office especially for meeting with catering clients.”
“Honey, we don’t have the time or the staff to do more catering,” Zia Felisa protested.
Allie smiled. “Which is exactly why you need me. I’ve been doing just that—running pastry catering for some of the best restaurants in San Francisco for years. I know how to do this. I know how to make this aspect of a business successful. And because of my background in European pastry, I can re-create our entire menu to appeal to a more modern clientele.”