Page 9 of Once Upon a Lie

“Don’t be ridiculous, Cher.” Sunnie frowns. “Do you even know how many disappointed customers we’ll have then? They’ll riot!”

“Okay, you two.” I shake my head through a laugh. “How about we focus on talking people into using a different kind of milk today and, you know, handling the morning rush that’s still rushing?”

“You got it, boss. I’ll suggest the almond for the lactose opposed,” Sunnie says, spinning on her heels to head back out through the kitchen door. Cher follows her without question.

Sunnie and Cher are my only two employees, and since they’re both five years younger than me—twenty-three to my twenty-eight—they move through life like they’re in a montage set to Taylor Swift.

And I love them for it, even if I’ve never quite learned how to move through the world that lightly.

There are a lot of dating stories, breakup stories, dancing, and singing while serving our customers, and they love creating recommendation shelves for our books. Their latest masterpiece being something called “blind date with a book,” where each novel is wrapped up in fancy paper and has its tropes handwritten on a note tucked beneath a pretty bow.

Frankly, my gals make The Hole Story louder, brighter, and better. I don’t know what I’d do without them.

By the time I head out to the front with a new tray of Everything-You-Love bagels, Sunnie and Cher have managed to get through the rest of the current rush, which has turned things quiet.

Sunnie stands by the register, adding pink polka dots to the white polish on her fingernails, and Cher focuses on her phone, shuffling her playlist through the speakers in the shop. She keeps starting a new song, then skipping to the next one, clearly on the search for something that matches her mood.

I head to the back and grab another tray of bagels—strawberry shortcake this time—and as I’m adding them to the glass counter by the register, the bell over the door chimes, ushering with it a gust of cool air and the smell of familiar and expensive cologne.

My spine straightens on instinct, before my heart remembers it’s just my father.

Just like always, dear ol’ Dad, Tommy Cordone, sucks up all the oxygen in the room. Black suit, shiny gold cuff links, and shoes polished to mafia-level intimidation, Tommy Cordone is the kind of man who makes people sit up straighter without realizing why.

“Sweetheart,” he says, his voice warmth and gravel at the same time and full of its usual be-on-your-best-fucking-behavior energy. Between the thick New York accent and the always-sage eyes, it’s like having Tony Soprano show up at your bagel shop and silently wondering if he’s here to collect.

Over twenty years ago, he would’ve been. But not now. Tommy Cordone no longer lives that life. None of us do.

Instead, his shipping empire, Cordone Freight, is one of the largest commercial shipping networks in the country and moves products from California to Maine and back again all day, every day. Famous corporate brands like Hoyt Cereal, CircleSpot, Hillman Furniture, and Books and Beyond all use my family’s trucks to get their products to store shelves and into customers’ houses.

He still means business, but instead of the Family, it’s the Family Dollar.

My dad motions for me to lean over the counter so he can press a kiss to my cheek. His brown eyes are soft but assessing as he looks at me. “You look tired. You working too hard again?”

“It’s a bagel shop, not a coal mine, Daddy,” I say with a roll of my eyes, fighting the urge to justify myself the way I had to when I was small. “I’m fine.”

He gives me a look that says don’t get smart, but there’s also the kind of affection in it that makes me feel like I’m still seven years old and he’s deciding if I can be trusted with a goldfish.

As the bell above the door chimes again, Damon Murphy, my father’s oldest friend and the CFO of Cordone Freight, and his son Leonidas, who works under my dad as head of operations, arrive.

If my dad is sharp edges and old-school intimidation, Damon is the white-haired soft and jolly Santa Claus, and Leo is the muscle that backs them both up. If my dad had his way, Leo would also be my future husband.

Six-three with broad shoulders, Leonidas Murphy is a big guy with Irish roots. He has these dark-green eyes that make you want to avoid eye contact more than face them head-on and tattoos that crawl up his neck and snake out from under his white dress shirt. The man looks like he was birthed from a protein shake, and his suit is a little too tight across his chest and biceps, which I’m 100 percent sure is intentional. He’s not even a little bit my type; my dad doesn’t care.

“Morning, Valentina,” Leonidas greets. “You look beautiful. But then again, you always do.”

I blink. “Wow. That was fast. We skipped ‘how are you’ and went straight to flattery. Very efficient, Leo.”

He chuckles, and his eyes dance with amusement. “You know I’m a man who likes to get to the point.”

Behind me, Sunnie and Cher are watching, I can feel it. I don’t even have to look to know they’re pretending to clean the espresso machine while mentally live-tweeting this whole encounter.

“Valentina, I didn’t think this place could smell better than it already does, but . . .” Leo nods at me, all charm and danger. “Guess I was wrong.”

Oh, for the love of clichés.

I arch a brow. “Do you practice that line in the mirror before or after your protein shake?”

“Before. Gotta start the day strong.” He smirks. “So . . . you still single?”