Page 7

LIV

The scent of cinnamon and warm butter envelops me as I slide a tray of freshly baked cornetti into the display case. "There!" I announce triumphantly, my fingers dancing over the flaky crescents. "Still warm from Nonna's recipe."

Mrs. Fitzgerald, a regular with silver curls and kind eyes, leans in conspiratorially. "You spoil us, Liv. I swear these pastries are what keep my Arthur young at heart."

I wink, about to share a cheeky comment about other secrets to keeping husbands on their toes, when the familiar jingle of the door chime cuts through the cozy chatter. My hands freeze mid-gesture as I look up, time seeming to slow.

No. It can't be.

But it is. Again. Ricky. My ex-fiancé saunters into my cafe like he owns the place. Which, let's be clear, he absolutely does not.

I plaster on my best "the customer is always right" smile, even as my stomach does an unwelcome backflip. "Keep it together, Livia," I mutter under my breath, channeling the strength of my inner Nonna.

Ricky's presence seems to suck the warmth right out of the room. His perfectly coiffed hair and crisp designer shirt are so out of place among the cafe's rustic charm that I half expect him to burst into flames upon contact with anything remotely homey.

"Buongiorno, Liv," he purrs, voice dripping with false sweetness. "Good to see you again."

I grip the edge of the counter, willing my voice to stay steady. "Ricky. What an unexpected surprise." And not the good kind, like finding an extra cannoli in your box. More like biting into what you thought was a chocolate chip cookie only to discover it's soggy and past its sell-by-date.

He leans against the counter, invading my carefully cultivated space with his expensive cologne. "Can't an old friend stop by for a cappuccino?"

Friend. Ha! That's rich, coming from the man who-- No. I won't let him get to me. This is my turf, my dream. I've faced down health inspectors and entitled influencers. I can handle one smug ex.

I square my shoulders, summoning all the fierce independence that led me to open this cafe in the first place. "Of course," I reply, voice sugary sweet. "One cappuccino coming right up. Unless you'd prefer something a little more... familiar?"

Let him chew on that double meaning. I turn to the espresso machine, my safe haven of steam and perfectly pulled shots. Whatever Ricky's game is, I refuse to let him spoil the life I've built here in Ponsonby. This cafe, with its mismatched mugs and loyal customers, is my home now.

And I'll be damned if I let him waltz in and shake that foundation.

As I froth the milk, Ricky's gaze wanders around the cafe, his lips curling into a smirk that sets my teeth on edge.

"Quaint little place you've got here, Liv," he says, his tone dripping with condescension. "Very... rustic. Charming, really."

I inhale deeply, the rich aroma of espresso grounding me. "Thanks, I'm quite proud of what I've created."

Ricky chuckles, and it grates on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. "Oh, I'm sure you are, cara . But don't you ever wonder if you're... settling?"

I place his cappuccino on the counter with more force than necessary, a small splash of foam marring the perfect latte art I'd crafted. "Settling?" My voice is steady despite the indignation bubbling up inside me. "I'd say I'm thriving, actually."

He takes a sip, his eyebrows rising in mock surprise. "Not bad," he concedes, as if his approval means anything to me anymore. "But come on, Liv. We both know you're capable of so much more. Remember our plans? The firm we were going to create? A union of our illustrious families."

Our plans? More like his plans. I was nothing but a pretty sidekick. I bite back the retort dancing on my tongue, opting instead for a polite but firm response. "I'm happy with my choices, Ricky. This cafe is exactly where I want to be."

He laughs dismissively, and I picture dumping his precious cappuccino over his perfectly coiffed head. "Still so stubborn," he muses, his eyes glinting with something that looks suspiciously like a challenge. "But then, that's always been part of your charm, hasn't it?"

I feel my cheeks flush, memories of our past threatening to surface. No. I won't let him drag me back there. This is my present, my future. And it's so much brighter without his shadow looming over me.

Ricky's gaze shifts, a predatory glint in his eyes as he leans in closer. "Speaking of choices, I hear you're dating that rugby player now. Elliott Snow, right? The 'Iceman'?" He emphasizes the nickname with air quotes, his tone dripping with disdain.

I clench my jaw and tighten my grip on the edge of the counter. "Elliott is a wonderful person." I struggle to keep my voice even. "Not that it's any of your business."

"Oh, come on, Liv," Ricky chuckles. "A rugby player? Really? You know how unstable that lifestyle is. One bad tackle and poof”—he snaps his fingers—“career over. Is that the kind of future you want?"

My patience, already stretched thin, finally snaps. "The kind of future I want is one where I'm happy and surrounded by people who support me. Elliott does that. He respects my dreams, unlike some people ."

Ricky's eyebrows shoot up, feigning innocence. "I'm just looking out for you, Liv. You deserve someone stable, someone who can provide for you. Not some meathead who spends his days getting knocked around on a field."

My cheeks are burning hot, not with embarrassment this time, but with anger. "Elliott is more than just a rugby player. He's kind, hardworking, and he understands the value of chasing your dreams. And for the record, he's doing pretty well for himself."

In my mind, I see Elliott's face, his quiet confidence and the way his eyes soften when he looks at me. The thought of him gives me strength, and I straighten my spine, meeting Ricky's gaze head-on.

"My relationship with Elliott is none of your concern," I state firmly. "And I'd appreciate it if you'd respect that. Now, is there anything else I can get for you today? Are you done questioning my life choices?"

Ricky's expression shifts, his sharp edges softening into something that might be mistaken for vulnerability. He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. "Come on, Liv. Don't you remember how good we were together?"

The scent of his familiar cologne wafts over me, stirring unwelcome memories. I grip the edge of the counter, anchoring myself in the present.

He reaches out, his fingers barely grazing my arm. "We could have that again, tesoro . Better, even. I've changed. I know what I lost."

I step back, shaking my head. "No, Ricky. What we had is in the past, and that's where it's staying."

"But-"

"You cheated," I cut him off, my voice steady despite the old hurt bubbling up. "Multiple times. You lied. You tried to control every aspect of my life. That's not love, that's not respect."

Ricky's face hardens, the mask of tenderness slipping. "I made mistakes, sure. But?—”

"They weren't mistakes," I’m so calm, I surprise myself. "They were choices. Choices that showed exactly who you are."

I take a deep breath, the comforting scent of cinnamon and butter from the kitchen grounding me. "I've moved on, Ricky. I'm happy here, with my café, with Elliott. I'm not interested in rekindling anything with you."

As I speak, a weight lifts. The lingering doubts, the what-ifs – they dissipate like steam from a freshly baked loaf.

Ricky's eyes darken, and he leans in close, his cologne suddenly overpowering the sweet scents of my café. "You think this little bakery is your future?" he hisses, voice low and menacing. "I could crush it with one phone call."

My heart races, but I force myself to remain still. I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

"You know I have connections," he continues, a cruel smile playing at his lips. "Health inspectors, business reviewers, suppliers... It would be a shame if they all decided to make your life difficult."

A chill runs down my spine despite the warmth radiating from the ovens. The fairy lights strung across the ceiling seem to dim, and the cheerful chatter of customers fades to a distant hum.

I swallow hard, tasting the bitter tang of fear. But then I catch sight of the family photo hanging behind the counter – Nonna's proud smile as she opened this very café decades ago. Her strength flows through me, and I lift my chin.

"Nice try, Ricky," I say, meeting his gaze steadily. "But I won't be intimidated by empty threats."

He blinks, clearly not expecting this response. I press on, my voice low but firm. "This café isn't just a business. It's my heritage, my passion. And the people of Ponsonby? They're my community, not pawns in your game."

I lean in slightly, mirroring his posture. "So go ahead, make your calls. I'll be here, baking, serving, and thriving – just like I have been since you left."

The scent of lavender from my apron mixes with the aroma of fresh bread, reminding me of all I've built. I stand a little straighter, feeling the strength of generations of strong women behind me.

"Now," I say, gesturing towards the door, "I think it's time for you to leave."

Ricky straightens up, his cocky demeanor cracking. He runs a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair, messing it up just a bit. I feel a tiny spark of satisfaction at that.

"You know, Liv," he says, his voice dripping with condescension, "it's cute that you think you can play in the big leagues. But remember, some dreams are better left as just that. Dreams."

He turns on his heel, heading for the door. As he reaches for the handle, he tosses one last barb over his shoulder. "Enjoy your little... What did you call it? Heritage? While it lasts, cara mia ."

The bell above the door jingles as he exits, the sound jarring in the tense atmosphere he leaves behind. I watch him swagger down Ponsonby Road through the window, willing my hands to stop shaking.

I take a deep breath, inhaling the comforting scents of cinnamon and coffee that usually bring me such joy. Right now, they're doing little to calm the storm in my chest.

I force myself to move, to do something, anything. My fingers find the edge of my apron, twisting the fabric as I try to ground myself. The soft cotton, worn smooth from years of use, reminds me of Nonna's hands guiding mine as I learned to knead dough.

"Never give up," I whisper, echoing her favorite phrase.