Page 20 of Sweet Rucking Temptation
She stops short, spotting Elliott. Her eyes dart between us, taking in my disheveled state. A knowing grin spreads across her face.
"Well, well," she purrs, "What do we have here? Liv, you sly minx!"
I feel my cheeks burning. "Tilly, this is Elliott. Elliott, meet my neighbor, Tilly."
"Charmed, I'm sure," Tilly says, extending her hand to Elliott. "My goodness, you're even more handsome in person than on the telly. Those rugby shorts really don't do you justice."
Elliott, to his credit, takes it all in stride. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Tilly. I've heard Liv mention your... unique style."
"Unique!" Tilly cackles. "I like this one, Liv. Perhaps we can convince him to do a talk at the Aquarium. Now, about that WiFi..."
I scribble down the password for Tilly and I catch Elliott's eye. He's biting back a laugh, his eyes dancing with amusement. I grin back, feeling a surge of warmth. If he can handle Tilly's whirlwind presence with such grace, he can handle anything.
Once Tilly swans out with a wink and a promise of a girly catch-up, Elliott and I retreat to the balcony. The sun has set, leaving Auckland's skyline twinkling against the inky sky. We stand side by side, his arm around my waist, as a comfortable silence settles between us.
"So," I say finally, "think you can handle more surprise visits from my neighbor?"
Elliott turns to me, his expression steady in the dim light, a quiet anchor in the storm of my life. "Liv, I'd take on a hundred Tillys if it meant being with you."
My parents pushing, my ex circling, the ground beneath my feet threatening to shift—none of it matters when I'm with him. He makes the chaos fade, makes me feel strong. So, for now, I let it all go and just hold onto this moment. "Even if she tries to rope you into a speech at the Aquarium?"
A slow smile tugs at his lips. "Even then."
7
A week later
LIV
I’m mid-biscotti restock, recovering from family chaos and relishing the sweet noise of the café, when a certain five-foot-seven shadow falls over my happy place. I look up, heart diving into my stomach. Riccardo. My ex, strolling into my freshly opened life with all the silent drama of an uninvited food critic. He drifts through the café, eyes on the shelves like they owe him money. I hide behind the counter, peeking as he does a full circuit, looking but never speaking. Then he leaves, and the café clatter rushes back in, washing away the creepy ghost of relationships past.
The smell of fresh-baked pretension hangs in the air. He's here to look, not buy; I can already tell by the way he slides through the tables, bypassing customers, coffee, me. I sink behind the counter, not sure if I want to throw biscotti or myself in his path.
He pauses near the display case, one hand adjusting the collar of his too-expensive jacket, the other tapping his chin. He surveys my new venture like he's mentally appraising the shelf life. One week, tops. His lips press into a line, and I remember all too well how he used to say more with silence than most people do with an entire argument.
Maybe he's here to congratulate me on the café opening. And maybe I've overdosed on royal icing. My mind races through scenarios, each less likely than the last, while Riccardo continues his pantomime of indifference.
I peek again, heart pounding like it’s trapped in a tiny kitchen with a big ego. He’s moved to the espresso machine, where he lingers just long enough to make me regret every decision from the age of twenty-one onward.
It's the café version of a drive-by. Slow, calculated, haunting. I crouch low, trying to figure out why I'm hiding, why he’s here, and how the tension is more unbearable than watching him sculpt marzipan.
Customers fill the tables, their chatter oblivious to the drama not unfolding in front of them. I glance at the door, half-expecting a film crew, a lawsuit, or at least a dramatic sigh. But Riccardo's gone full iceberg. He doesn’t even spare me a look.
My thoughts are as scrambled as yesterday's eggs. Did he come to see the cafe? To see me? Because he thinks seeing him will make me desperate to have him back? If so, he’s delusional. No matter why he’s here, I don’t trust him.
Riccardo completes his tour, stopping at the corner table with the knitted cozy I made myself, just for fun. He looks at it like it’s grown a face and insulted his great-grandmother's lasagna. That glance alone carries the full sting of Liv, what were you thinking?
Then he’s out the door, vanishing into the busy street with the same slick silence he used to end things. I unfurl frommy crouch, aware of how ridiculous I must look. Of course, he doesn’t see that, either.
The clink of cups and hum of conversation fill the space he's left, as if they’ve been holding their breath along with me. I stand, feeling exposed and more than a little foolish. It’s over, I tell myself. He’s out of my life, and I’m better for it.
But my hands tremble as I rearrange the biscotti, and I can't help thinking about how easily one ghost can shake the foundations of my freshly baked future.
ELLIOTT
On Ponsonby Road, you have to play smart. Play slow. Each shop is a defender I need to move past, the fancy restaurants a stubborn forward pack. I edge by a stroller and sidestep two hipsters in rugby jerseys who'd probably tackle me if they knew what I look like up close. The aroma of coffee and pastries leads me the last few meters to the shop, and Liv is already there, deep in her own little world. It's like she blocks everything out: the street noise, the customers, the guy she lets sneak behind the counter to nick raspberry croissants.
She's decorating a set of pastries with careful swipes of icing, her brow furrowed, tongue just barely peeking out at the corner of her mouth. The shop's busy. It's always busy. I could spend the whole morning watching her like this, pretending my day isn't about to be a storm of rucks and scrums.
