“Half veto power.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“Quarter veto power.”
I rub my forehead. “What does that even mean?”
“It means I get to veto one-fourth of your vetoes.”
“That’s...” I pause, trying to work out the logic. “No. That’s ridiculous.”
“Fine,” she says, crossing her arms. “But you have to at least listen to my ideas before you shoot them down. Actually listen. Not just grunt and say no.”
I consider this. It’s not unreasonable. “Deal.”
She sticks out her hand, and I take it cautiously. Her fingers are warm, slightly rough from years of working with dough and hot ovens. The contact sends an unwelcome jolt up my arm.
I release her hand quickly.
She hops off the workbench, leaving a small cloud of flour behind. “Great! When do we start?”
“I need to finish the Hendersons’ table first. Day after tomorrow.”
“Perfect,” she says, already backing toward the door. “I’ll bring sketches. And dinner. We can plan the whole thing!”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
She pauses at the door, that mischievous grin back on her face. “This is going to be fun, Thorne.”
“Fun,” I repeat flatly.
“Yes, fun. That thing normal people experience occasionally. You should try it sometime.”
“I experience fun.”
“Staring at wood grain doesn’t count.”
“It does to me.”
She laughs, and the sound is bright and sudden in my quiet workshop. “I’ll see you Thursday. Six o’clock. Don’t be late.”
“It’s my workshop.”
“And it’s my food,” she counters, and then she’s gone, the door swinging shut behind her.
The workshop feels strangely empty in her absence. Quieter, certainly. But also...flatter somehow. Less vibrant.
I shake my head, clearing it. This is a business arrangement. Nothing more. She needs a display for her competition, and I need...well, I don’t really need anything, which is the problem. I’ve let myself be bribed with pastries and the promise of home-cooked meals.
Ridiculous.
I turn back to the Hendersons’ table, running my palm over the smooth mahogany surface. The wood is cool beneath my touch, grounding me. This is what I do. This is what I know. Solid, tangible things that stay where you put them.
Not flighty bakers with flour-dusted cheeks and smiles that seem to reshape the air around them.
I reach for my sander, determined to focus.
But when I glance at the bakery box she left behind, I can’t help but grab another croissant. The buttery scent fills my workshop, mingling with the smell of wood and varnish. The contrast shouldn’t work.
