I return minutes later with a tray of fruit, bread, and coffee. She sits up, pulling the sheet around her, and I’m struck by the domesticity of the moment—morning light, shared food, her smile as I hand her a cup.
“I have to go to the workshop soon,” I say, though the words feel heavy. “I have deadlines.”
She nods, understanding in her eyes. “I need to prep the bakery anyway. Test recipes for the competition.”
I lean in, kissing her deeply, tasting coffee and sweetness. When I pull back, her eyes are half-lidded, her lips curved in a satisfied smile.
“Tonight?” I ask, surprising myself with the question.
Her smile widens. “Definitely tonight.”
I dress reluctantly, my body already missing the warmth of hers. At the bedroom door, I pause, turning back for one last look.
She’s wrapped in my sheets, her hair a wild tangle around her face, her skin marked with evidence of my passion. The imageburns into my memory—something to carry with me throughout the day.
And as I head to my workshop, I realize that the walls I’ve built so carefully are already crumbling.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t want to rebuild them.
CHAPTER 11
lena
THAT’S HOW THE COOKIE CRUMBLES
The convention center doors part before us like the entrance to another world. I clutch Thorne’s arm, my breath catching in my throat as we step inside.
The space unfolds in a dazzling expanse of light and color—crystal chandeliers suspended from impossibly high ceilings, elegant displays arranged like jewels in a crown, and everywhere, the intoxicating blend of sugar, chocolate, and magic.
This is the New Vegas Dessert Showcase in all its glory, and I’ve never felt smaller or more desperate to belong.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, tightening my grip on Thorne’s solid forearm. “It’s like walking into Willy Wonka’s fever dream.”
Thorne grunts, but I can feel the tension in his muscles. He’s as overwhelmed as I am, though he’d rather die than admit it. His dark eyes scan the room, assessing exits, measuring distances, doing whatever that hyper-vigilant Minotaur brain of his does in new environments.
“It’s just a room,” he says finally, but I notice how his gaze lingers on the intricate ice sculptures that form the centerpieceof the main hall—a massive frozen waterfall that somehow glitters with rainbows despite never melting.
I bump his shoulder with mine. “Just a room filled with the most prestigious pastry competition in the country, you mean. That’s Chef Lumière over there—she has three Michelin stars and once made a soufflé so perfect that a food critic cried.”
Thorne follows my gaze to where a tall, willowy woman with translucent skin is gesturing to a group of assistants. Light seems to emanate from within her, pulsing gently with her emotions—a Fae trait that makes her both ethereal and impossible to lie to. Perfect for a judge.
“And over there,” I continue, tugging Thorne toward our designated setup area, “that’s Maxwell Thornwood. He specializes in gravity-defying chocolate sculptures. Rumor has it he uses actual levitation spells, but he swears it’s all technique.”
I’m babbling, I know, but I can’t help it. Nerves make me talk. Terror makes me overshare. And right now, I’m terrified that I’ve made a terrible mistake thinking I belong here.
Our display area is marked with a simple placard: “MOIST - Lena Reyes.” Seeing my name there, official and permanent, sends a fresh wave of panic through me.
“Breathe,” Thorne murmurs, his hand settling at the small of my back. The warmth of it anchors me, pulls me back from the edge of spiraling. “Your work belongs here.”
I swallow hard, nodding. “Right. Yes. Totally.”
We begin unpacking the components of our display—Thorne’s magnificent wooden structure with its three tiers that will showcase my dessert creations. The craftsmanship is exquisite, each level featuring carved details that echo Filipino designs, just as he promised. The base resembles terraced rice fields, the middle evokes ocean waves, and the top tier looks like distant mountains, all connected by flowing, organic curves.
“This is...” I run my fingers over the polished wood, feeling the love embedded in every grain. “This is incredible, Thorne.”
He shrugs, but I don’t miss the pleased twitch at the corner of his mouth. “It’s adequate.”
“Adequate, he says,” I roll my eyes, but I’m grinning. “Just admit you’re a genius already.”
