Page 15 of Sweet Rucking Temptation
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. "Enjoyyour 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.
