The mafia boss had been rejected by beautiful women in penthouses, heiresses at charity galas, and one actress who had actually cried when he refused to buy her a house.

But no woman had ever rejected him while holding a tray of strawberry cupcakes.

“Absolutely not.”

Luca Bellini stared at Sophie Bennett.

The kitchen behind Bellini House was roaring with Saturday-night chaos—ovens opening, pans clattering, servers shouting table numbers—but somehow the space around them had gone completely silent.

Luca was six-foot-three, broad-shouldered, dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than Sophie’s car. A black tattoo disappeared beneath the cuff of his white shirt. Two men from his security detail stood ten feet away pretending not to hear.

Sophie, meanwhile, was five-foot-five in flour-covered sneakers, a white chef’s coat stretched over generous curves, and a pink streak of buttercream across her cheek.

Luca blinked. “Do you know who I am?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re saying no?”

“I’m saying you’re blocking my refrigerator.”

One of his security men made a choking sound.

Luca slowly turned. Marco DeSantis, who had protected him for fourteen years and once remained calm while three armed men smashed through the windows of a private club, was suddenly fascinated by a rack of cooling cookies.

Luca looked back at Sophie. “I need a wife.”

“Try a dating app.”

“A temporary wife.”

“Try a temporary dating app.”

Marco faced the wall.

Sophie reached around Luca for the refrigerator handle. “Move.”

Nobody ordered Luca Bellini to move. People negotiated with him carefully. They apologized before disagreeing. They lowered their voices when he entered restaurants he owned.

Sophie Bennett shoved his elbow aside with her hip. “You’re warming my buttercream.”

To his own surprise, Luca stepped away.

Sophie opened the refrigerator, slid in the cupcakes, checked the thermostat, then turned back. “There. Crisis avoided. Now why does a man with half of Chicago afraid to make eye contact with him need to buy a wife?”

“I didn’t say buy.”

“You were about to.”

His mouth twitched. That bothered her. Men like Luca Bellini were not supposed to have mouths that twitched before smiles. They were supposed to appear in expensive cars, terrify accountants, and be vaguely associated with businesses everyone knew better than to ask about.

His legitimate company owned restaurants, hotels, private clubs, and luxury properties across Illinois. The rest of his reputation traveled mostly in whispers.

Sophie folded her arms. “You have four minutes.”

“Five.”

“Four. You wasted one asking if I knew who you were.”

Luca removed his suit jacket.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“You said you were busy.”

“I am.”

He rolled his sleeves to his elbows, revealing strong forearms and more black ink. “Then give me something to do.”

Sophie looked at him. Marco looked at him. Two line cooks openly stopped stopping onions.

Finally Sophie handed Luca a bowl of pink frosting. “Hold that.”

His eyebrows rose. “You want me to hold frosting?”

“You want four minutes.”

He took the bowl. “Careful. That’s valuable.”

“My watch costs forty-two thousand dollars.”

She glanced at it. “You dramatically overpaid.”

Marco turned his face toward the wall again.

Luca stared at Sophie for three long seconds. Then he laughed. It was not the polite laugh he used at fundraisers. It was deep, startled, almost rusty. The kitchen stopped again. Marco actually looked concerned.

Sophie lifted one eyebrow. “Should someone call a doctor?”

“My grandmother turns eighty next month,” Luca said.

“That usually happens after seventy-nine.”

“She’s been sick.” The joke died immediately. Sophie lowered the piping bag. “I’m sorry.”

“She’s improving, but she worries about me.”

“She should. You apparently wander into commercial kitchens asking strangers to marry you.”

“She thinks I’ve spent too long surrounded by people who tell me what I want to hear.”

Sophie glanced toward Marco. Marco studied the ceiling.

“Smart woman,” Sophie conceded.

“She wants to see me settled.”

“Then date someone.”

“I have.”

“Someone you like.”

Silence. For the first time since Luca had walked into the kitchen, Sophie saw something behind the expensive suit and hard eyes. Exhaustion. Not the exhaustion of a man who had slept four hours, but the exhaustion of a man who could call two hundred people and still have nobody he trusted enough to tell the truth.

“There isn’t anyone,” he said.

“Not one?”

“No.”

“That’s either extremely sad or a serious problem with your personality.”

“Possibly both.”

She almost smiled. “Then meet someone normally.”

“I just did.”

Sophie’s hand stopped over a cupcake.

Luca looked down at the frosting bowl. “In fourteen minutes you criticized my watch, my kitchen manager, my personality, and my ability to stand near refrigerated desserts.”

“You forgot your ego.”

“And you made me laugh.”

Something warm moved unexpectedly beneath Sophie’s ribs. She crushed it immediately. “Mr. Bellini, lying to your sick grandmother is a terrible way to make her happy.”

“She wouldn’t know.”

“That is usually the central feature of lying.”

His jaw tightened. “You enjoy making this difficult.”

“You’re proposing temporary marriage to a pastry chef you met twenty minutes ago. Difficult arrived before I did.”

Luca set the bowl down carefully. “One hundred thousand dollars.”

Sophie stopped breathing. Behind him, Marco slowly closed his eyes.

“For what?” she asked.

“Three months.”

Her voice came out quieter. “You are offering me one hundred thousand dollars to pretend to be your wife for three months?”

“Yes.”

“Are you already married?”

“No.”

“Children nobody knows about?”

“No.”

“International tax emergency?”

“No.”

“Terminal disease?”

“No.”

“Then what exactly is wrong with you?”

Marco coughed. Luca turned. “Do you need medical attention?”

“No, sir.”

“Then stop doing that.”

Sophie should have laughed. She didn’t. Because one hundred thousand dollars was not funny. One hundred thousand dollars was the difference between a dream surviving and dying.

For seven years, Sophie had worked mornings, weekends, holidays, double shifts, and private catering jobs. She had saved almost every extra dollar toward Bennett’s Bakery. Not a franchise. Not a trendy dessert lounge, but a quiet, sunlit corner shop on West Oak Street with copper racks and fresh brioche every morning at six.

Two weeks ago, the owner of her dream location had given her thirty days to match a competitive offer on the lease. She was sixty thousand dollars short.