Page 10

A week later

LIV

I’m mid-biscotti restock, recovering from family chaos and relishing the sweet noise of the café, when a certain five-foot-seven shadow falls over my happy place.

I look up, heart diving into my stomach.

Riccardo. My ex, strolling into my freshly opened life with all the silent drama of an uninvited food critic.

He drifts through the café, eyes on the shelves like they owe him money.

I hide behind the counter, peeking as he does a full circuit, looking but never speaking.

Then he leaves, and the café clatter rushes back in, washing away the creepy ghost of relationships past.

The smell of fresh-baked pretension hangs in the air. He's here to look, not buy; I can already tell by the way he slides through the tables, bypassing customers, coffee, me. I sink behind the counter, not sure if I want to throw biscotti or myself in his path.

He pauses near the display case, one hand adjusting the collar of his too-expensive jacket, the other tapping his chin.

He surveys my new venture like he's mentally appraising the shelf life.

One week, tops. His lips press into a line, and I remember all too well how he used to say more with silence than most people do with an entire argument.

Maybe he's here to congratulate me on the café opening. And maybe I've overdosed on royal icing. My mind races through scenarios, each less likely than the last, while Riccardo continues his pantomime of indifference.

I peek again, heart pounding like it’s trapped in a tiny kitchen with a big ego. He’s moved to the espresso machine, where he lingers just long enough to make me regret every decision from the age of twenty-one onward.

It's the café version of a drive-by. Slow, calculated, haunting. I crouch low, trying to figure out why I'm hiding, why he’s here, and how the tension is more unbearable than watching him sculpt marzipan.

Customers fill the tables, their chatter oblivious to the drama not unfolding in front of them. I glance at the door, half-expecting a film crew, a lawsuit, or at least a dramatic sigh. But Riccardo's gone full iceberg. He doesn’t even spare me a look.

My thoughts are as scrambled as yesterday's eggs. Did he come to see the cafe? To see me? Because he thinks seeing him will make me desperate to have him back? If so, he’s delusional. No matter why he’s here, I don’t trust him.

Riccardo completes his tour, stopping at the corner table with the knitted cozy I made myself, just for fun. He looks at it like it’s grown a face and insulted his great-grandmother's lasagna. That glance alone carries the full sting of Liv, what were you thinking?

Then he’s out the door, vanishing into the busy street with the same slick silence he used to end things. I unfurl from my crouch, aware of how ridiculous I must look. Of course, he doesn’t see that, either.

The clink of cups and hum of conversation fill the space he's left, as if they’ve been holding their breath along with me. I stand, feeling exposed and more than a little foolish. It’s over, I tell myself. He’s out of my life, and I’m better for it.

But my hands tremble as I rearrange the biscotti, and I can't help thinking about how easily one ghost can shake the foundations of my freshly baked future.

ELLIOTT

On Ponsonby Road, you have to play smart.

Play slow. Each shop is a defender I need to move past, the fancy restaurants a stubborn forward pack.

I edge by a stroller and sidestep two hipsters in rugby jerseys who'd probably tackle me if they knew what I look like up close.

The aroma of coffee and pastries leads me the last few meters to the shop, and Liv is already there, deep in her own little world.

It's like she blocks everything out: the street noise, the customers, the guy she lets sneak behind the counter to nick raspberry croissants.

She's decorating a set of pastries with careful swipes of icing, her brow furrowed, tongue just barely peeking out at the corner of her mouth. The shop's busy. It's always busy. I could spend the whole morning watching her like this, pretending my day isn't about to be a storm of rucks and scrums.

Then, crash. It's like the heavens have opened and rained down pure chaos. Paparazzi. All in my face, snapping shots, calling my name. The quiet café morphs into a maelstrom of cameras and demands.

"Over here, mate!"

"Iceman! Give us a shot!"

They're pressing in, pushing past bewildered patrons who look like they've just realized they could be having coffee with New Zealand rugby royalty. I'm not worried for myself—I've faced tighter packs than this. But Liv? I'm already moving before I finish the thought.

I've been at this long enough to know there's no stopping them.

Best I can do is slow them down, make them work for it.

My frame fills their lenses as I move to cover Liv, turning the bakery into a defensive drill.

She stops mid-icing, her eyes finding mine.

They're full of something I don't like seeing: surprise.

Maybe even a little fear. I set my jaw and do what I can.

It's not enough. They keep pressing, even as I shout back a few lines of my own.

"Iceman! Look this way, mate!"

"Elliott! Over here!"

"Where's your rugby kit, eh?"

Their voices overlap, a constant pressure, each one another hit to fend off. I shuffle right, and they're already shifting left, ready for the next play. In the middle of it all, Liv is just standing there, spatula in hand, like she's forgotten it exists. And maybe me, too.

I close the gap between us, set a final pick, and give her my best pass under pressure. "I'll see you after the game," I murmur, keeping my voice low, my eyes on hers. She's wide-eyed, caught completely off guard. That's the thing with this kind of tackle; it always comes from nowhere.

My exit strategy is the rear door. Not graceful, but effective.

One last look and Liv is still there, still astonished, still surrounded by the hungry pack.

This isn't how I want to leave her, but it's how it has to be today.

I slip into the back alley and take a breath.

I've done all I can, left her with a promise.

If it were a match, I'd say I'm playing injured, but I'm still playing.

Liv stands in the chaos, and the sounds of the game are replaced with quiet once more. My frame isn't there to shield her anymore, and I imagine the questions hitting her like blows. She watches me go, and I'm sure she wonders how long until she sees me again.

The bakery is in bits. No tables upended, but the calm is gone, along with half the customers.

Liv's still there, unmoving, the confusion of the past few minutes lingering around her.

She's got that look again. Uncertain. I don't blame her.

Fame's the worst kind of intruder, and it just walked right into her home.

I hope my words meant something, even with all the noise.

The cameras flash and pop, each one a reminder that I'm gone and she's in this alone.

My exit might've been quick, but the scene in the bakery plays in slow motion. Liv puts the spatula down, flour dusting her hands. She wipes the counter, like tidying up will clear the rest of the mess. Her eyes stay on the spot where I stood, even as she moves. She bites her lip, shakes her head. No, I imagine her saying, we’re not seeing each other.

I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Just like we agreed. Wait until after the season to go public. The flashes keep coming.

Outside, I keep to side streets, take it slow to where I've parked. The lot will catch up eventually, and I've got a plane to catch anyway. Inside, Liv stays right where I left her, exactly as I knew she would. Watching the door. Thinking too much.

I hate that the cameras got to her, hate it even more that I can’t be the shield she needs right now.

But she's strong. I see it every time she takes the field in her own way, every time she sets up her life exactly the way she wants it.

My leaving feels too much like the other kind of game I play—one with too many moves and never enough time.

I'm afraid of the scoreboard at the end.

LIV

I cower behind the espresso machine, breathing in chocolate and breathing out a thousand worries.

In the temporary peace of the bakery's back room, Maia my employee tilts her head, eyes round with concern.

"I don't suppose it's been quiet around here, too?

" I say, finding refuge in sarcasm. This morning's blitz of photographers still crackles in my head, an explosive mix of flashbulbs and Elliott's determination.

"How bad was it?" Maia asks. I picture her already crafting headlines: Flour Child of Rugby Superstar. Local Pastry Chef in Way Over Her Head. Maia doesn’t ask that one out loud. She can already see my answer in my freaked-out face.

"Let’s just say it was some creative reporting," I sigh.

"They pounced on us the moment we opened the front door, took up every seat in the cafe, waiting for the Iceman to saunter in. I didn’t even have time to warn him about the ambush.

" I tug at my apron, wishing I could erase the morning’s chaos as easily as flour dust. Maia leans in, setting her phone down like it's ready to spring into action.

"And Elliott? How did he handle it?" Her voice is like a knitted blanket of sympathy.

"He was fine, amazing actually." I roll my eyes at my own frazzled self. "Blocked me from every lens like an All Blacks fullback." The vision of Elliott, calm and solid against the whirlwind, fills me with a confused mix of admiration and self-doubt.

"You’re the one who wasn’t fine, then?" Maia knows me too well, catching the tremor under my attempt at bravado.

I take a breath, the scent of chocolate pushing back the panic. "The more he tries to protect me, the more I feel like... I don’t know, like maybe I can’t handle all this."

Maia nudges me with a gentle shoulder. "Liv, you can handle anything. Maybe even him." The corners of her lips lift, but her eyes stay serious.

I shake my head, half laughing, half despairing. "You know how they say opposites attract? Is there a saying for opposites making complete idiots of themselves?"

Maia crosses her arms, settling into supportive-friend mode. "Pretty sure you made that one up. You're being too hard on yourself."

"You think so?" I want to believe her, need to believe her, but a fresh wave of insecurity pulls me under. "What if he gets sick of it, Maia? Sick of me?"

"Stop. You're worth every second of it," she insists, with a conviction that starts to poke little holes in my balloon of doubt.

The air is heavy with sweetness and my apprehension, and I open my mouth to spill more worries when a new voice slices through.

"Livia. We need to talk." My mother stands in the doorway, arms crossed, looking like she's been exhumed from a tomb of Family Obligation Weekly.

I’m almost impressed by her stealth attack. "Hey, Carla," I say, trying to sound casual as my mother scrutinizes every inch of my soul.

"You’re needed at a family event this afternoon." Carla's eyes pin me with a you-know-this-is-not-optional look.

Maia stands up straighter, like she might try to run interference for me. "Liv’s had kind of a morning, and?—"

"I can speak for myself, Maia." My voice is too loud, too brittle. I’m mad at myself for sounding mad. "But thank you," I add, quieter.

Maia’s eyes are all concern, but I can’t look at her, because if I do, I might actually break down.

"Very well," Carla says, the edges of her mouth pulling into something that resembles approval. "We’ll leave shortly. Be ready." She sweeps out, a royal command performance.

I’m left staring at the space where she stood, knowing that resistance is futile and the Borg is my family. "I guess I’m going to a family thing."

"You can’t skip it?" Maia’s tone is hopeful, but she knows better.

"You heard Carla." I slump against the counter. "I’ll be disinherited if I’m late."

"So?" Maia raises an eyebrow. "Sounds like a win."

I laugh, a sad little thing that leaves me feeling hollow. "What about Elliott? Did you at least talk to him before you left?"

I grab my phone, thumbs flying over the screen. "Not yet," I say. "But I’m about to."

Maia watches me, her own phone buzzing with incoming texts, likely important. I pause before pressing send, my thumb hovering like I’m scared to cut the connection. "I won't be available after your match." The message feels inadequate, a flimsy Band-Aid for something that might need stitches.

"You should call him," Maia says, sounding so much like my conscience that I almost expect her to sprout angel wings.

"Yeah. I should." I pocket my phone, the small digital betrayal done.

"Call me if you need backup," she says as I drag myself toward my fate.

"I always need backup," I say over my shoulder. "And doughnuts."

Maia's voice is a thread of support as I reach the door. "I’ve got you covered on both." She’s already turning back to her task list, the mountain of things she’s handling while I stumble through the soap opera of my life.

I follow Carla, each step out of the bakery feeling like I'm being pulled from sanctuary to storm, from my world into everyone else's. My phone sits heavy in my pocket, the message to Elliott echoing with what I didn’t say.