Page 1 of Sweet Rucking Temptation
1
LIV
The scent of vanilla and warm butter envelops me as I knead the dough, my hands working in a familiar rhythm. Sunlight streams through the cafe windows, catching the specks of dust dancing in the air. I smile, feeling the day's potential rising like the bread in my oven.
"Nonna always said, 'La vita è come una ricetta – devi aggiungere amore,'" I murmur to myself, channeling her wisdom. Life is like a recipe – you must put love into it.
I'm so lost in thought, I almost miss the chime of the bell as my first customer enters. Looking up, I see Mrs. Watkins, her silver hair neatly coiffed as always.
"Hello, Mrs. Watkins!" I call out, wiping my floury hands on my apron. "How are you this beautiful morning?"
She beams, settling into her usual spot by the window. "All the better for seeing you, dear. And smelling those heavenly creations of yours."
I laugh, already reaching for her favorite almond croissant. "Ah, you flatter me! But tell me, how is that grandbaby of yours? Still keeping everyone on their toes, I bet." I place her pastryin a takeout box. I adore these morning chats. They remind me why I opened this cafe – not just to bake, but to create a warm, welcoming space in the heart of Ponsonby.
Mrs. Watkins chuckles, her eyes twinkling. "Oh, you have no idea. He's discovered the joy of 'no' and uses it liberally. Especially at bedtime."
"Sounds like quite the handful." I set down her coffee with a flourish. "Maybe next time, bring him in for a treat. A little dolce might sweeten his disposition."
She takes a sip of her latte, sighing contentedly. "You and your magic touch, Liv. I swear, you could charm the clouds from the sky if you set your mind to it."
A warmth blooms in my chest that has nothing to do with the ovens behind me. This, I think, is why I push through the early mornings and long hours. For connections like these, as sweet and satisfying as any pastry I could create.
"Now, Mrs. Watkins," I say with a wink, "don't go giving away all my secrets. A girl's got to maintain some mystery, after all!"
The bell above the café door chimes again after Mrs Watkins’ departure, and I look up from the cinnamon rolls I'm glazing, my hands sticky with sugar. This time, my heart sinks. Mama is gliding in, her Italian designer heels clicking against the hardwood floor.
"Ciao, Liv." Her eyes sweep over the mismatched chairs and vintage teacups lining the shelves. Her lips purse like she's tasted something sour. "I see you're still... pursuing this little hobby of yours."
I wipe my hands on my flour-dusted apron, forcing a smile. "Mama, what a surprise! What brings you to Ponsonby?"
She sniffs the air, nostrils flaring slightly. "Can't a mother check on her daughter? Though I must say,tesoro, the aroma is... interesting. Not quite like Nonna's kitchen, is it?"
I bite my tongue, tasting the metallic sting of frustration. "It's a blend of cinnamon and cardamom," I explain, my voice tight. "A new recipe I'm experimenting with."
Mama's eyebrows arch. "Experimenting? Liv, darling, there's no need to reinvent the wheel. Our family's recipes have stood the test of time for a reason."
I take a deep breath, willing myself to stay calm. "I'm not reinventing, Mama. I'm innovating. Creating something uniquely mine."
"Ah, yes." She sighs, running a manicured finger along the counter. "Your grand ambition. Tell me,cara, how long do you plan to play at being a... what do they call it? A 'small business owner'?"
The words sting, and my cheeks flush. "This isn't playing, Mama. This is my life, my passion."
"Passion doesn't pay the bills, Liv," she says, her tone sharp. "Or secure a respectable future. Have you given any more thought to that law school application?"
I grip the edge of the counter, anchoring myself. "I have a respectable future right here, Mama. My café is thriving. I'm happy."
"Happy?" She laughs, a brittle sound. "Happiness is fleeting, cara. Security, tradition – these are what matter."
As she speaks, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the polished espresso machine. Flour dusts my cheek, and there's a smear of cinnamon on my forehead. I see Nonna's eyes staring back at me, filled with the same fire that always lit up when she baked.
"No, Mama," I say softly, straightening my spine. "What matters is being true to yourself. Nonna taught me that."
"Sofia indulges you too much." Her eyes flick to the empty tables and the busy counter, seeing only what she wants to see. Her displeasure is palpable, almost a living thing between us.
I take a deep breath, a silent count to three. "I wish you’d see this for what it is. Not a rebellion. Not a phase. It's my life."
"Your life?" Her words cut like a razor, leaving invisible marks. "Livia, your life should mean more than rolling pastry and cleaning tables."
