Page 41 of Tempting Mr. Knightly

LUCY

Marco made emergency croissants, which was how Lucy knew the situation had reached critical.

Regular croissants required overnight proofing, laminated dough, three days of temperature management. Emergency croissants were Marco’s invention, a shortcut recipe he’d developed during Lucy’s second year when a burst pipe flooded the kitchen, and they’d lost an entire morning’s inventory. The result was imperfect. The layers were thicker, the butter distribution uneven, the crumb more tender than crisp. Marco called them “crisis pastry.” Lucy thought they were the best thing he’d made, but she’d never told him that because he’d become insufferable about it.

He was pulling the second tray from the oven when she came into the kitchen at nine on Saturday morning. The bakery was closed for the day. She’d shut it to sort through the developer’s offer with clear eyes and a quiet building. But the building was not quiet, because Marco had arrived at seven with his key and his coffee and three bags of groceries, and he hadn’t asked permission because Marco didn’t ask permission when someone he cared about was in trouble. He showed up. He baked. He waited.

“Sit,” he said, setting a croissant on a plate with a coffee he’d already made her. Cortado, one fifty, the temperature Knox had memorized, which Marco had noticed, which Lucy wasn’t going to think about right now.

“I don’t need to sit.”

“You’ve been standing for three days. Sit.”

She sat. The croissant was warm, buttery, imperfect, and exactly right. She ate it with her hands while Marco leaned against the counter and said nothing, which was his most effective tool, because silence from Marco felt like being held without being touched.

“I can’t afford the building,” she said.

“I know.”

“I’ve run the numbers eleven times. I ran them at four this morning on the floor of my apartment because the desk felt too organized for the level of panic I was experiencing.”

“The floor is an underrated workspace.”

“Marco.”

“I’m here.”

The doorbell chimed. Lucy tensed. Marco raised a hand. “I texted people.”

“You texted people?” Heat climbed her neck. “They were just here. Now they’ll think I can’t survive one afternoon by myself.”

“You wouldn’t. So I did.” He wiped his hands on his apron. “That’s what happens when you refuse to ask for help. Other people ask for you.”

Devney arrived first, carrying a bottle of wine that Lucy considered too early and Devney considered medicinal. “It’s Saturday. Wine has no schedule on Saturday.” She set it on the counter and pulled Lucy into a hug that lasted seconds longer than Lucy could hold steady. When Devney pulled back, Lucy blinked against the sting in her eyes, and neither of them acknowledged it.

Gabriel came next, an hour later, by which time Marco had pulled three trays of croissants from the cooler and Lucy had ground enough beans for twelve cups of coffee no one had asked for. He brought Thai food from the place on Seventh Avenue that Lucy had mentioned once, in passing, weeks ago. He remembered. He always remembered. Of the three men, Gabriel was the most attentive listener, and his kindness never announced itself. It showed up carrying food.

“Tessa sends apologies,” Gabriel said, unloading containers. “She’s finalizing the rehearsal schedule, but she wanted me to tell you that she found another space. Corner lot, two blocks north. Bigger kitchen.”

“I don’t want to think about other spaces.”

“Then don’t think about it. Eat pad thai.”

Ronan arrived at ten thirty carrying his laptop and a bag from a hardware store that contained, as far as Lucy could tell, a power drill.

“Why do you have a drill?” she asked.

“Your display shelf is crooked. It has been crooked since March. I’ve been calculating the angle of deviation every time I visit.”

“It’s a quarter inch.”

“A quarter inch is measurable. Measurable is fixable.” He laid the drill on the counter. “I’ll fix it after we eat.”

“We’re eating Thai food at ten thirty in the morning.”

“I’ve already had my morning nutrition bar. This is supplemental. Devney says supplemental meals don’t count against the daily structure.” He paused. “She also says the drill is my love language. I’m still processing that.”

Knox arrived just before eleven, alone and empty-handed. He paused inside the door, his gaze finding Lucy before anyone else. She didn’t ask why he’d come, and he didn’t offer an explanation. Marco handed him a coffee, and Knox took the empty chair at the end of the farmhouse table.