He can kill a man with a spatula but can’t make a goddamn cookie to save his life. The universe is a joke and I’m the punchline.
“It’s not my fault,” Enzo told me after the fourth tray of brownies became charcoal. “Baking is for witches. You and Dario are sorcerers and Saul’s a familiar. I’m the village idiot with a whisk.”
“Baking requires patience,” I told him.
“Baking requires a pentagram and an animal sacrifice,” he replied. “I don’t make the rules.”
He’s found his role in other ways. Deliveries. Heavy lifting. The early morning runs to the farmer’s market for fresh berries and eggs.
The customers adore Enzo, especially the local grandmas, who treat him like he’s the cover model for ‘Bakery Hunks Monthly.’
Martha calls him ‘that sexy husband of yours’ and tried to set him up with her granddaughter, until Enzo, deadpan as ever, said, “Sorry, I’m committed to Saul. We have a very complicated relationship.”
Saul nearly died on a mouthful of scone. Martha’s still not sure if he was joking.
Neither am I, honestly.
We don’t explain shit. We’re Zoey and Nate and their not-so-imaginary friends Dario and Saul, and the town lets us live because we bring pastries and drama to every community event.
As long as the cookies are chewy and we don’t burn down the school fundraiser, nobody cares what goes on behind our blue door.
Except when there’s a shirtless croissant fight at dawn. Then everyone wants front row seats.
The bakery opens at seven.
By six-thirty, we’re all there. Dario precision-crafting croissants like he’s defusing a bomb, I’m mainlining sugar and cursing at the cookie sheets, Enzo’s artfully stacking pastries in the display case, and Saul is at the register crunching numbers with that look that says “I’ve seen dead bodies, but bakery receipts are scarier.”
It’s choreography, but with more profanity and accidental groping. We’ve nearly achieved collision-free living. Nearly.
The boys have mostly stopped threatening to kill each other over dough temperature. Mostly. Somewhere along the way, all that unresolved tension mutated into this weird, gruff brother-in-arms vibe.
Not quite friends, not quite rivals. Just three men co-parenting a bakery, a trauma history, and one deeply unstable wife.
Late nights, I’ll catch them in the kitchen: Dario pretending not to worry about Enzo’s nightmares, Enzo pretending not to care about Dario’s business drama, both of them low-key flexing their emotional growth like it’s an Olympic sport.
They never talk about bodies or guns or the shit that used to keep them up. It’s all “should we add another oven?” and “how many bathrooms does a murder mansion need?”
They don’t even bat a luscious eye when Saul starts researching school districts and leaves a toothbrush in every bathroom like a man marking his territory.
Sometimes I catch snippets, my name, soft-voiced, when they think I’m not listening. “What does she need? Are we fucking this up? Who bought decaf again?”
Every time, my chest does that embarrassing, wide-open, raw thing.
These idiots actually love me. And miracle of miracles, they’re starting to love each other, too.
It’s gross. I’m obsessed.
Martha arrives at 6:48, because she still hasn’t learned what opening hours means.
“Morning, Zoey. Scone and the filthiest gossip you can legally provide.”
I sigh. “No fresh dirt today, Martha. Try Saul, he’s the secret scandal.”
“There’s always something, honey. I know what goes on in this bakery.” She scopes out Dario, all forearms and bedroom eyes, and goes full cougar.
“So, is your boyfriend sticking around this time, or is he going to run off to Milan for a week and break your heart?”
“Few weeks, unless the croissants mutiny.”
