Page 22 of Once Upon a Lie

9:37.

9:48.

Still no Valentina Cordone, and Rita has officially started herding people to the exit like she’s evacuating a cruise ship. “All right, everyone, let’s start cleaning up. Quiet hours begin in twelve minutes!”

“It’s 9:48,” Denny points out.

“Exactly,” she replies. “We should’ve already been out of here to give Shane a thirty-minute cleanup time.”

By 10:00 p.m. sharp, the condo is silent and empty save a couple of pieces of wilted fruit and veggies—no carrots, of course.

No knock. No smile. No Valentina Cordone.

Rita Fortune: ​​Wonderful gathering, Mr. Maddox. Please remember that future events must be pre-approved and conclude by 9:30 p.m. for cleanup. Also, please be sure to check your mailbox in the morning.​​

On a sigh, I close the app, grab a beer, and step out onto my balcony. The night air is warm against my skin, and Nashville hums below, neon lights and noise and life.

Clearly, if Valentina Cordone won’t come to me, I’ll have to go to her.

Monday, I make my way into her world.

6

Valentina

Monday, September 27

9:00 a.m.

The scent of espresso, toasted bagels, and mild panic fills the air as college kids spill in and out of our shop, taking their favorite caffeine and bagel to go before heading off to their first classes of the day.

The nine-to-five crowd tested our limits during the eight o’clock hour, practically breaking our espresso machine with their sheer quantity of orders, and the chaos hasn’t let up since. Sunnie’s juggling oat milk orders like she’s auditioning for Cirque du Soleil, Cher’s yelling over the steamer about whether we’re out of the seasoning I use for our Everything-You-Love bagels again, and I’m trying to keep us all afloat with a smile and a prayer.

“Larry, your order’s up!” I call out, setting two lattes and a to-go bag on the counter for one of my favorite regulars. “And Biscuit’s pup cup is in the bag with your bagels!”

“God bless you, Valentina!” he shouts back, grabbing the drinks and hurrying out the door for what I know is his usual bagel breakfast in the park with his wife, Stella.

My phone buzzes in the pocket of my jeans—the damn thing’s been buzzing all morning—but Mondays are always, but always, bagels-before-family-drama kind of days. My dad. My mom. Nico. They all get chatty at the beginning of the week.

Boundaries like this took a lot of practice over the years because my mother and my father are very much bulldozers.

These days, though, my mother is especially frazzled because the Cordone Freight gala is only a little over a month away. It’s an annual event that happens in early November, but every year, you’d think it’s a surprise by the way my mom handles the stress. The table decor. The flowers. The balloon arch and red carpet. I’m always suggesting she pick a theme and stick to it, but for Francesca Cordone, there’s an implicit and histrionic need to reinvent the wheel.

Needless to say, whatever she or my brother or my matchmaker dad needs can wait.

“Here ya go!” Cher slides two cups and a bag my way, and I glance at the name on the receipt.

“Order for Daniel!” I shout, sliding two iced coffees and a bag across the counter.

Daniel snatches the bag, mutters his thanks, and the next customer steps up. I barely look up from the register until a low, steady voice vibrates somewhere south of my usual cold, dead heart. Way south, in fact. Schmagina territory. Which is rude, frankly, because I didn’t authorize it.

“Morning.”

Tall, dark, and handsome, with broad shoulders and deep-brown eyes that track straight through to my soul, the sight matches the sound entirely.

He looks older than me, but not by too much. Or if he is, life’s been very, very kind to him.

A few days of scruff frames a full mouth and strong jaw, but instead of looking lazy, it reads as intentional.