Angelo (The Marchesi Family 2)

“Cleaner work environment. Better pay. Raising the prices. Those would be a good start.”

“I meant changes to everything, what we sell, how we—”

“We sell what people want to buy, or we used to before your father and his thieving friends wrecked the place. Don’t go messing with the menu. Let me handle that.”

“Did you… Is this how you talked to my father?” I was afraid to even ask about his “thieving friends.”

She shook her head. “I never bothered asking his opinion on anything. I did what I knew would keep the bakery afloat because I wanted to keep my job. He was drunk or high most of the time, and he never listened even if he was sober.”

“I think we need to come to a better understanding of what’s going to happen here.”

“I know how to run this bakery and make it profitable. If you listen to what I say, we can be a lot more successful than we were. The sheer fact that we were able to keep going when your father did next to nothing to keep the place running is a miracle in itself. The faster we can go back to that, the better. We don’t want our customers to find what they need elsewhere.”

She was right about the last point, and it didn’t surprise me that my dad had been as sorry a boss as he’d been a father and husband. Still, I couldn’t help but bristle at the way she seemed to think she would be running this place instead of me. I wanted to keep some things the way they’d always been, but I had ideas for changes too. If we didn’t continually innovate, how would we bring in new customers? We couldn’t solely rely on the customers we already had—assuming they came back. To grow the business, we had to bring new people in, and to encourage that, we needed new products.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Maria said.

“You haven’t given me much opportunity to speak. Maybe I’m still stunned.”

She smiled. “I have strong opinions about this bakery. I’ve worked here for over a decade, and it broke my heart when we had to officially close. Though nothing was as bad as losing your grandparents.” She crossed herself and reflexively, I did too, despite the many years it had been since I’d set foot in a church. “I want to see it open again. But I won’t be a part of it if you want to throw away all the traditions and turn this into some modernized place that sells”—she wrinkled her nose—“avocado toast or some nonsense like that.”

I happened to like avocado toast, but that wasn’t something I planned to sell at the bakery. “I have no intention of getting rid of all the traditional items.” I loved my grandmother’s specialties, and I couldn’t imagine the place without them. “However, I do want to add to our menu, and we’re going to have to redo the interior.”

“It could use some freshening up, but people like this place because it’s old. You can advertise it as vintage if that makes you feel better?”

I couldn’t afford a total redo. I couldn’t really afford any of what needed to be done, but I could find a way to polish up what was here, and over time, I could find some new things that still fit the mid-century feel the rest of the bakery had. “I like the feel of the place. It just needs some love and care.”

“It does, but keep the turquoise. Your grandmother loved it.”

She had. When she and my grandfather took over from my great-grandfather, my grandmother had insisted that the 1950s turquoise cabinets, tile, and fixtures stay exactly like they were. It was her favorite color. I didn’t think I could bear to change it. “I agree. Turquoise will remain our signature color.”

Maria gave me another assessing look and sniffed. “When should I be here tomorrow to help with the cleanup?”

Shit. I guess we were really doing this. “Eight.”

“Don’t be late,” she said before walking out. I stared at the door for a long time after it closed behind her. I wanted to dislike her and her overbearing attitude, but I didn’t. And she was right. I needed her.

I spent the next few hours cleaning. I’d just opened a box which turned out to be filled with food coloring. I was contemplating where to put the contents when another knock came, this time at the back entrance. I assumed Maria must have remembered something else she wanted to lecture me about. I sighed as I climbed over and around stacks of boxes to get out of the storeroom.

When I opened the door, I regretted not having been more cautious. It wasn’t Maria. It was a tall, tattooed man with close-cut hair and the most gorgeous arms I’d ever seen. He wore a black tank top—despite the chilly weather—and some very form-fitting jeans. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t figure out where I knew him from.