By six, the bakery was humming. Aspen wore her new favorite dress—a little navy thing with a white collar and short sleeves, paired with black tights and tall boots. Her hair was up in a high ponytail, flour already dusting the tips black and white. She worked the dough with a confidence I’d never seen in her before, rolling and shaping like she was built for it.
“Papa,” she called, “Kolache batch one’s ready for the oven.”
“On it,” I replied, grabbing the trays with a kitchen towel and loading them into the big steel beast of an oven she’d inherited from the previous owner. The heat blasted my face, sharp and clean, and for a minute I could almost believe everything outside the bakery walls was just a bad dream.
Oscar perched on the counter, invisible to anyone but us, reviewing the orders on a clipboard nearly as big as his body. “Miss, you have a custom cake order for the Winthrop first birthday at ten. Kitty cat theme, I believe.”
Aspen snorted. “Almost done with that one. Just gotta get that little kitty done.”
I set out the scones and wiped the counter, then flipped the sign in the window to OPEN. The first customer of the day was a cowboy in starched Wranglers and a worn work shirt with pearl snaps. He looked me up and down—six-five, scarred, beard maybe a day over neat, and standing in a bakery like I owned the place.
He blinked. “Morning. Where’s the, uh—”
“Right here,” Aspen called, waving from behind the counter. “I’m training him. He’s not as fast as me, but he’s got a sweet tooth.”
The cowboy grinned, and the tension snapped. “Got any of those jalapeno cheddar scones?”
Oscar slipped off the counter and scurried to the fridge, grabbing the special box before I could even answer. I handed it over and rang him up with a smile, and the man tipped his hat to Aspen as he left.
“He likes you,” I said, winking at her.
“He likes the scones,” she replied, face pink. But I could see the pride in her eyes. She was good at this. Maybe better than she knew.
For the next hour, we worked the morning rush: teachers grabbing coffee and cinnamon rolls, a group of women in athletic gear who gossiped loud enough to shake the windows, a tired mom with three kids in tow. I handled the register, Aspen ran the ovens, and Oscar handled quality control by stealing crumbs and giving them a tiny, judgy taste-test.
Every so often, someone would look at me and ask, “Aren’t you Big Papa from Iron Valor?” or “Didn’t I see you at the parade last month?” I’d shrug, say, “I get that a lot,” and try not to laugh when they did a double-take seeing me in a bakery apron. It was a hell of a lot better than being recognized for the scars.
During a lull, Oscar hopped onto my shoulder, careful to avoid the flour dust.
“She’s doing well today,” he murmured. “No nightmares last night?”
“Not that I could tell,” I said. “She slept like a log.”
Oscar nodded, satisfied. “Keep her busy, keep her safe.”
“Working on it,” I replied, and meant it.
By eleven, the traffic had thinned. Aspen sat at one of the front tables, sipping a mug of coffee and reading her mother’s grimoire, lips moving as she practiced a protection spell under her breath. Her hand traced the outline of the sigil on the cover, and I could see a faint shimmer where her skin met the leather. Magic, I guessed. It still gave me chills.
I cleared the last table and was about to pour myself a cup when the bell above the door chimed.
Bronc and Juliet walked in, arm in arm. He wore his usual jeans and a black tee under the club cut, silver glinting at the temples of his short-cropped hair. Juliet—pregnant now and glowing like she’d swallowed the sun—wore a green dress and a denim jacket, her hair down in waves. She moved slower these days, and Bronc hovered close, his hand never straying far from her back.
“Morning, y’all,” I said, grinning. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Juliet beamed at Aspen. “Craving lemon tarts. Heard you were the only one in town who makes them right.”
Aspen stood, smoothing her skirt. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll box up half a dozen.”
Bronc scanned the shop, eyes missing nothing. He nodded to me, then to Oscar—who gave a tiny, dignified bow from behind the espresso machine. “Everything quiet this morning?” he asked.
“So far,” I said, keeping my voice low. “No sign of weirdness. No new faces, no trouble.”
He relaxed just a little. “Good. We want to keep it that way.”
I poured two cups of coffee—black for the men, chamomile tea for Juliet—and brought them to the table where Aspen was boxing the tarts. She glanced up at me, eyes green and bright, and I felt the mate bond pulse through my chest. It was like someone had run a live wire straight to my heart. Every time she smiled, the world made sense again.
Juliet caught me staring and grinned. “You’re totally gone for her.”
