Then there’s the contract—and again, my idiot brother, Bobby, was right.
It’s magically binding.
And if I break it, my company will be charged a “soul tax.”
A literal one.
So yeah, I’m screwed.
Which is how I find myself standing outside The Cookie Hive at five o’clock sharp on a Wednesday evening—staring at a pastel-painted door that smells like cinnamon sugar and kisses—trying to convince myself this is all some cosmic joke.
The window’s fogged from the ovens, but I can see people inside.
Smiling.
Laughing.
Holding hands.
I growl under my breath.
“People in love suck. Especially when you’re not one of them,” I mumble aloud.
A woman with a Santa hat passing by gives me a wide berth.
Good. She should.
I look like a Wall Street hitman about to evict Santa’s elves.
The bell above the door jingles when I push it open.
Instantly, warmth hits me—sweet, buttery warmth that makes my Badger perk up like someone just cracked open a jar of golden honey.
I sniff.
Then I growl.
Mine.
“No, she’s not,” I hiss quietly to my inner beast.
But he’s already pacing, claws clicking, the scent of sugar and female satisfaction winding through my blood like wildfire.
And then I see her.
Marigold.
Flour on her cheek.
A green apron tied around that ridiculously perfect waist.
It’s not tiny. Not small.
No, Marigold is curvy and thick.
Fucking gorgeous.
My fingers itch to touch her, and I quickly clench them into fists to stop myself from reaching for her.
