He turns to leave, box in hand, and I should let him go. I should head back to my bakery and let this strange, silent agreement between us stand. He pretends he didn’t fix my counter; I pretend I believe him. But I can’t resist one last push.
“Thorne?”
He pauses, looking back at me over his broad shoulder, one horn catching the light. “What?”
“Whatever mysterious counter fairy did all that work... you might want to tell them they left their scent behind.” I tap my nose. “Sawdust and something spicy. Very distinctive.”
His ears flick again, and this time I swear I see a hint of color creep up his neck. “I’ll be sure to pass that along.”
“You do that. And tell them they’re welcome in my bakery anytime. Day or night.”
He grunts something unintelligible and stalks away, clutching my box of treats like it’s a lifeline. I watch him go, admiring the way his broad back tapers down to his waist, the confident stride that makes the earth seem to tremble just a little.
Back in my kitchen, I’m struck with inspiration as I stare at the mango mixture bubbling away on the stove. It’s vibrant, tangy-sweet, with a hint of heat from the ginger I’ve added. Complicated and layered, just like a certain someone I know.
The next morning, I arrive extra early. I have tarts to make. A lot of them.
By opening time, a row of perfect golden pastry shells filled with luscious mango curd sits in my display case, each topped with a delicate butter cookie in the shape of horns. A small sign propped in front of them reads:
“The Grumpy Bullberry Tart – Sweet, Tart, and Secretly Tender.”
The first customer of the day points at them with delight. “Those are adorable! Are they new?”
“Brand new,” I confirm, sliding one into a box for her. “Inspired by a very special Minotaur.”
By noon, I’ve sold out of every tart except one, which I’ve kept hidden behind the counter. It’s not until late afternoon that I spot him again, making another round of the building. This time, I don’t wait for him to pass by. I dart outside, special tart in hand, presented on my nicest plate.
“Before you say anything,” I announce as I approach him, “this is not a thank you.”
He looks down at the tart, then at me, his expression unreadable. “Then what is it?”
“It’s a Grumpy Bullberry Tart,” I explain, holding it higher so he can see the horn-shaped cookie on top. “Named aftersomeone who definitely did not fix my counter and absolutely deserves no gratitude whatsoever.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but something dangerously close. “Bullberry isn’t a real fruit.”
“Artistic license,” I shrug. “Try it. They sold out in like, three hours, but I saved this one specially for the... inspiration.”
He takes the plate, his large hand making it look doll-sized, and studies the tart with suspicion. “You named a dessert after me?”
“No, I named it after a mythical grumpy bull. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.”
This time, I swear I see his lips curve up. Just for a second. Like a solar eclipse—rare and stunning and gone before you can truly appreciate it.
“It has horns,” he points out.
“Lots of things have horns.”
“It’s literally called ‘Grumpy Bull.’”
“Pure coincidence.”
He shakes his head, but then, to my absolute delight, he picks up the tart with his fingers and takes a bite. His eyes widen slightly as the flavors hit—the buttery crust, the bright mango filling with that kick of ginger, the sweet cookie garnish.
“Well?” I ask, bouncing a little on my toes. “Verdict?”
He chews slowly, deliberately, making me wait. Then, with studied casualness, he says, “It’s adequate.”
Coming from Thorne, that’s practically a five-star review.
