Unknown number
Stop watching ME through the window.
I feel a rush of heat crawl up my neck. Caught. Damn it.
Unknown number
Seriously though. One muffin. Then I promise I’ll leave you alone for at least 12 hours.
The bargaining. As if twelve hours of peace is some generous offer.
I shouldn’t respond. I shouldn’t engage. I’ll tell her right now.
Thorne
I’ll come get it. Stop texting me.
Unknown number
I put the phone down and stare at it as if it’s betrayed me. My fingers, too, are traitors, typing out words I know better than to say aloud.
I shouldn’t go down there. I need to finish my work, and pretend Lena Reyes doesn’t exist.
Instead, I find myself washing my hands, changing my sawdust-covered shirt for a clean one, and heading for the door.
As I descend the stairs, each footfall heavy with resignation, I tell myself this is just about the muffin. After all, her fire alarm woke me earlier than I had intended. And, I need to make sure whatever she’s baking won’t set off another alarm.
That’s it. It’s not about her smile, or her fearlessness, or the way she looks at me like I’m something worth looking at.
It’s definitely not about that.
“You came!” Lena’s voice cuts through the sweet-scented air like a knife through butter. She’s bouncing on her toes, flour dusting her cheeks, her apron a battlefield of ingredients. The counter between us might as well be made of glass for all the protection it offers from her unbridled enthusiasm. I feel exposed, caught, like she’s seeing straight through my thin excuses to the hunger underneath.
“I said I would,” I grunt, keeping my voice low, controlled. The opposite of whatever hurricane of energy she is.
“Yeah, but you say a lot of things.” She grins, reaching beneath the counter to produce a muffin the size of my fist. “Like how you’re not going to try my baking anymore, or how I’m going to burn the building down.”
The scent hits me before she even fully extends her hand—cinnamon and sugar and butter, warm and rich and sinful. My mouth waters traitorously.
“I still think you’ll burn the building down.” I take the muffin, careful not to let our fingers brush. “This is just...insurance. Making sure it’s edible before you poison customers.”
Lena laughs, the sound bright and unreserved. It vibrates through my chest, makes my ears flick involuntarily. “Right. That’s why you’re here. For health and safety reasons.”
“Exactly.”
She leans forward, elbows on the counter, chin propped in her hands. The posture brings her closer, and I catch a whiff of something else beneath the bakery scents—something floral and warm. Her shampoo, maybe.
“So, Thorne. What’s your favorite color?”
I blink, thrown by the conversational whiplash. “What?”
“Favorite color. You know, the one you like best? The hue that makes your Minotaur heart sing?”
I stare at her. “Why would you need to know that?”
“Because we’re neighbors and you just walked into my bakery to eat my muffin, and normal people exchange basic information about themselves.” She tilts her head, eyes bright with challenge. “Unless you’re not normal, which, fair. I’m not either. I once spent three days perfecting an ube cupcake recipe without sleeping.”
“That’s not healthy,” I say automatically.
