Page 64 of Love Me in the Dark
Thanks to Rafe’s talented mouth, cock, and fingers it’s early afternoon when I finally leave the apartment, flanked by some of his people.
The moment I step inside the bakery, a wave of warmth and familiarity washes over me. Even though it’s been days, the air is still filled with the comforting scent of freshly baked bread, mingling with the sweet aroma of buttery pastries.
“Welcome back, Miss Moretti,” one of Rafe’s men says as he holds the door open for me.
It’s clear they’re here to keep an eye on me, but their presence is a stark contrast to the sterile luxury of Rafe’s penthouse. Here, amidst the worn wooden countertops and creaking floorboards, I can breathe again.
“Thank you,” I reply, my voice barely above a whisper.
I take in the familiar sight of the bakery—the glass display cases lined with a colorful array of pastries, the warm glow of the ovens casting flickering shadows on the walls. Each detail is atangible reminder of my mother, who poured her heart and soul into this place.
“Rafe mentioned that you might want to redecorate the bakery,” one of his men speaks up, breaking me from my reverie. “You know, give it a fresh look.”
Nodding to show I’ve heard him, I mull over the words as I look around. It’s not a bad idea. While I’d never want to change anything per se, there’s nothing wrong with sprucing things up.
Some of the equipment is rather old, and honestly looks atrociously dated. The walls could do with a new layer of paint, and the linoleum floor has seen better days. But each of these elements holds a story, a memory. Replacing them feels like erasing a part of my mother’s legacy.
I walk over to the display case and run my fingers along the glass. Empty. The bakery looks desolate. It’s amazing how quickly things can change. How quickly a place can go from thriving to withering.
“Just think about it,” the man continues. “Rafe only wants to help.”
I know Rafe wants me to succeed. But the fact that he isn’t here to tell me himself doesn’t sit right with me.
“Yeah, and I appreciate it,” I say, turning to face them. “Really. But I need some time to figure out what’s best.”
The men exchange glances but don’t press further. They know their boundaries—or maybe they just fear Rafe enough to respect mine.
“Take your time,” one of them says. “We’ll be outside if you need anything.”
With that, they leave me alone in the quiet of the bakery. The door closes with a soft jingle of bells, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
I walk to the back where the small office is located. Stacks of invoices and order forms clutter the desk, but I’m drawn to aframed photo on the wall. It’s of my mother and me on opening day, both of us wearing flour-dusted aprons and huge, ridiculous grins. I was sixteen and utterly convinced that we were starting an empire.
The photo blurs as tears well up in my eyes. We worked so hard, and for a while it seemed like we would make it. Now I’m not so sure.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Rafe: How's my good girl?
I stare at the screen for a moment before typing out a response.
Me: At the bakery. Thinking about your suggestion. Why didn’t you mention your redecorating idea to me yourself?
His response is almost immediate.
Rafe: A good girl would just say thank you.
Me: And a good guy would have the decency to mention it themselves.
Rafe: Good guy?
Me: Well, yeah. You’re not a boy. Would you prefer ‘good man’?
Rafe: I’m on my way, baby. You can tell me which one you like better when you’re naked and riding my face.
I snort and send him a thumbs up before switching my phone off. I need to think before he gets here.
The offer is good, and there’s no logical reason to say no. I’m not opposed to Rafe spending money on me. Seriously, I’m not that virtuous. But I need to know if it’s a loan, an investment, or something he wants to do for his future bride-to-be.
