Her grip on her arms loosened. “Thank you.”
The words felt strange on her tongue. His eyes flicked to hers, searching, and for a moment he looked almost disarmed.
She cleared her throat, brisk again. “Anyway. I’m taking you up on your offer. For help.”
His grin returned. “Good. Give me ten minutes. I’ll change, and then we’ll head out.”
His apartment above the bakery was smaller than she’d expected. Narrow stairs led up to a space that smelled faintly of soap, undercut by something spiced—cardamom, maybe, and lemon. A narrow bed pressed against the far wall, sheets askew. A desk cluttered with scraps of parchment, half-finished recipes, and a jar of fountain pens with teeth marks in the caps. And everywhere—books. Stacks of them teetered like precarious towers.
Charcoal sketches hung on the wall above his desk. Not professional, but careful. Pages pinned in a patchwork of recipes and the pictures that went with them—loaves swelling mid-rise, sugared tarts like small suns, the curve of a cat’s tail curling across the margin.
Maude’s chest tightened. It was nothing like her cottage, which always felt like it belonged to someone older and wiser from whom she was merely borrowing it. This was…Wesley.
“I’ll be quick,” he said, grabbing a shirt and vanishing into the bathroom.
The moment the door clicked, Maude drifted toward the shelves like a thief.
She scanned the spines: treatises on fermentation, tomes offolklore, a stack of plays—and then she squinted. A pile of lurid romances with covers so garish she snorted.The Duke and the Dough Boy?Really?
She flipped it open.A lonely duke, weary of court intrigue. A humble dough boy, risen from the flour bins of destiny.
Maude laughed, her gaze snagging on the gift card lying beside it:From Oli.
Of course it was.
And then—her breath hitched.
There, nestled in the middle of the shelf:The Verdant Trials. Her favorite book series. She leaned closer. Not just one set.Three.
The first: battered paperbacks, spines cracked, pages underlined in pencil. The second: leather-bound, gilt-edged, collector’s edition. The third—she reached out reverently—was the limited pressing, forest green with silver embossing. The one she’d tried, and failed, to win at auction.
Her fingers brushed the cover as if it might vanish.
Behind her came the faint scrape of fabric, the whisper of cloth sliding over skin. She glanced back—and instantly regretted it.
Wesley stepped out of the washroom, damp hair curling against his forehead as he tugged a clean shirt over his torso. The motion pulled long lines of muscle across his chest and arms—lean but solid from years of kneading, lifting, carrying. He wasn’t bulky—no, worse. He was compact strength, shoulders broad enough to make the room feel smaller, jaw shadowed and severe in the lamplight. His forearms were bare, corded, veins running down to strong hands she suddenly couldn’t stop imagining pressed against her.
One brow lifted, slow as a drawstring pulled taut, his grin tilting. “Find something interesting?”
Heat shot up her neck. She snapped her gaze back to the shelf. “You have three sets ofThe Verdant Trials.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “I…like them.”
“Youhoardthem.”
“Iappreciatethem.” He moved closer, still damp, still warm, smelling of soap. “Let me guess—you’re one of those book snobs who swear paperbacks are the only real editions because they smell like actual trees?”
“Coming from someone who looks like they read cookbooks for the plot.”
He laughed, low and rich, and it did nothing to help her. Then he plucked the green edition from her hands. “Which one’s your favorite?”
Her arms crossed tight over her chest, mostly to keep from wringing them. “The fifth. Mirror maze. When Branna betrays them.”
He groaned, running a hand through damp hair. “Don’t. I’m still convinced she’ll redeem herself in the last book.”
“You’re delusional.”
“Optimistic,” he corrected. “Which, granted, might be the same thing.”
