Page 49 of Secret Mafia Daddy

We arrive at the bakery and sit down and they bring us a truly insane amount of cake slices. Angelo digs in to each one but I take my time, savoring the taste. They all taste incredible, but Angelo spits out a couple of them – persimmon with lime and beetroot with lemon.

“No one should put vegetables in cake,” he says, rubbing his tongue with a napkin.

I’m laughing so loud I’m almost crying at the look on his face.

“What about carrot cake?”

“Carrot cake is an abomination,” he argues, and I lean against him, trying to catch my breath.

He idly puts an arm around me and I feel warm and happy, which kind of scares me, so I clear my throat and sit up straight.

“I like the lemon-apple flavor the best,” I say.

He pouts. “No chocolate?”

“What about the chocolate-lemon?” I ask, pointing, and he takes another bite of it.

He hums. “It’s perfect.” He raises his hand to get the bakery worker’s attention. “Chocolate lemon, please!”

“Excellent,” she says, smiling. “And would you like to pick out a cake topper?”

We pick out a simple one, two dark haired people, the man taller. It looks a little bit stilted, but after all, this whole things is for show.

“If we were honest, we’d get the one with the couple in the bed,” he jokes under his breath as we walk out of the bakery.

I snicker and he smiles at me. “Do you want to get some real food before we pick up Chels?”

I nod, my stomach rumbling from eating nothing but sugar all day.

We head to a nearby diner, something quick with burgers, and I immediately order a cheeseburger and fries with a cherry coke.

“You know, that cherry coke from the bar is really a pomegranate coke,” Angelo says solemnly.

I raise an eyebrow. “How do you know that?”

“Used to bartend for a stint about ten years ago,” he explains. “They use grenadine, which is made from pomegranates, but no one ever complains that it’s not cherry.”

“You’re full of surprises,” I murmur. ”Would have never pegged you for a bartender.”

“Why's that? Too handsome?" He cracks a smile.

“No,” I say with a chuckle. “Too hot-headed.”

“I did get fired because I broke a beer glass and threatened a customer who was getting too handsy with the ladies,” he admits, and I laugh again, feeling open and free.

I haven’t laughed like this in what seems like ages because I’ve been so stressed. It’s nice to spend some time with Angelo that doesn’t feel forced.

I have to be careful, though. I have to protect my heart from that winning smile of his and those fierce brown eyes.

“Should I be worried about meeting your parents?” I ask Angelo curiously.

“Absolutely not. My mother is a peach,” he answers, munching on his fries.

“And your father?” I prod.

He grins but there’s no mirth in it, it’s almost bitter. “You won’t be meeting him.”

“Why not?” I ask, remembering that he had told me he didn’t feel like I should meet him when we talked about the ring.

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