CHAPTER 1
lena
FLOUR POWER
There is a very real possibility that I have made a terrible mistake.
Not with the bakery—that part I’m confident about. Mostly.
The ovens work (sometimes). The decor is charming (if you squint past the still-unfinished trim). And the name? Moist? Unapologetically perfect, despite the visceral reactions it gets from some people.
No, the real mistake is the leche flan donuts currently on fire in my oven.
The acrid scent of burnt caramel and singed vanilla fills the air, twisting around the warm, buttery scent of freshly baked pandesal, which had been making the kitchen smell heavenly until now. I fling the oven door open, and a thick wave of smoke rolls out like it’s escaping a crime scene.
My eyes burn. My lungs wheeze in protest. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I register the sharp screech of the fire alarm exploding through my bakery.
Then, I hear him.
A deep, rumbling groan from the front of the shop. Like an avalanche of pure irritation.
Oh no. Oh no no no.
I grab the baking sheet with my mitts and fling it into the sink, turning on the water to douse my molten failure. A loud hiss of steam billows up, adding to the absolute disaster of humidity in my tiny kitchen. I cough, waving my arms like a frantic bird, trying to fan away the smoke before?—
BANG.
The front door slams open, shaking in its frame. Heavy footfalls stomp across my brand-new floors, each step vibrating through my bones. And then, like a demon conjured by my own bad decisions, he appears in the doorway.
Thorne.
My massive, broody Minotaur landlord, looking like he was personally dragged out of his peaceful existence just to deal with me.
His thick arms are crossed over his chest, muscles flexing beneath his fitted black thermal, and his curved horns—normally polished and regal—are currently tilted at a very aggressive angle, like he’s already preparing to headbutt me into another dimension. His dark eyes narrow at the sight of me, the charred remnants of my donuts, and the still-wailing fire alarm.
I try for a winning smile, despite the ash smudge on my cheek and the fact that my hair probably smells like disappointment.
“Thorne! Fancy seeing you here.”
His jaw clenches. “Lena.”
I clear my throat. “So, um. I can explain.”
“You set something on fire.” His voice is deep, rough, like he gargles with gravel every morning. It shouldn’t make my stomach do a little flip, but well, here we are.
“Well. Technically, I only half set something on fire. The other half is just...very well-done.”
He says nothing, but the sheer weight of his judgment is crushing. I can feel it pressing down on my shoulders, makingme want to shrink into the floor tiles. But I’ve never been good at shrinking. My mom always said I was born taking up space and never learned how to stop.
I grab the nearest towel and wave it at the smoke detector, hopping a little to reach it. Thorne sighs—a long, exasperated sound—before effortlessly reaching up and silencing the alarm with one press of his thick finger. The silence that follows is somehow worse.
I peek at him from beneath my lashes, testing the waters. “So. You wanna try a pandesal while you’re here?”
His glare does not soften. “You’re going to burn this place down.”
“Not this place,” I say brightly. “Just the things inside it.”
Nothing. No reaction. Just pure, unfiltered Minotaur disappointment.
