“I knew it,” I beam at him. “You like it.”
“I said it was adequate.”
“Your mouth says ‘adequate’ but your eyes say ‘this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted, Lena, you’re a genius.’”
He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deny it. Instead, he pops the rest of the tart into his mouth in one bite, crumbs catching in thelight stubble along his jaw. I have the strangest urge to reach up and brush them away.
“Just so we’re clear,” he says after swallowing, “I still have no idea why you’re giving me special treatment.”
“And I have no idea who fixed my counter,” I counter.
We stand there for a moment, at an impasse, neither willing to admit what we both know. Then he hands me back the empty plate.
“Your counter was a hazard,” he finally says, his voice gruff. “It was a liability issue.”
I nod solemnly. “Of course. Very professional of you to address such concerns.”
“Exactly.”
“Nothing personal at all.”
“Nothing.”
I take the plate, our fingers brushing again. This time, I don’t imagine the tiny hitch in his breathing. “Well, thank you for trying my tart, even if it has nothing to do with you. I’ll be sure to let the counter fairy know it was a hit.”
He grunts, adjusting his clipboard. “Don’t push your luck, Reyes.”
“Pushing luck is my specialty,” I remind him, echoing my words from before. “Along with naming tarts after mysterious building maintenance entities.”
He turns to go, but pauses, looking back at me. “The tart... it wasn’t just adequate.”
My heart does a little somersault. “No?”
“No.” A beat. “It was good.”
And with that, he walks away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk, clutching an empty plate and wearing what I’m sure is the most ridiculous smile.
Inside my sturdy, perfectly level bakery, I decide that tomorrow I’ll experiment with cinnamon rolls. Extra large ones.The kind that might tempt a certain Minotaur to admit he actually enjoys my baking.
Not that I care what he thinks.
Not at all.
(Except that I absolutely do.)
CHAPTER 4
thorne
SUGAR AND SPICE (AND INFURIATING LANDLORDS)
The sound of it reaches me before anything else—the unmistakable rush of water where water should not be rushing.
I freeze mid-sand, my hands still pressed against the oak table I’ve been finishing. My ears prick, swiveling toward the floor beneath me where Lena’s bakery sits. Then comes the crash, followed by her voice—a string of curses that would make lesser men blush.
I’m moving before I consciously decide to, dropping tools and taking the stairs two at a time, my hooves thundering against the steps with an urgency that surprises even me.
The past few days have settled into a dangerous rhythm—me pretending I’m not watching her bakery, her pretending she doesn’t notice, both of us dancing around this... whatever this is. But there’s nothing pretend about the sounds coming from her kitchen now.
