“See? Now we’re having a conversation.” She beams at me like I’ve accomplished something remarkable. “So. Favorite color?”
I take a bite of the muffin instead of answering, hoping food will shut her up. The first taste hits me like a physical force—sweet cinnamon and buttery crumb, with a crisp sugar coating that crunches between my teeth. It’s obscenely good. My eyes close for a split second before I catch myself.
“Blue,” I mutter after swallowing. “Dark blue.”
“Like your shirt!” She points at my chest. “I knew it. You strike me as a blue guy. Very solid choice. Mine’s yellow, which is probably super obvious from—” she gestures around the sunny-colored bakery “—all this. Mom always said I was born with sunshine in my pockets.”
I take another bite, larger this time, letting the flavors distract me from how much her random commentary is working its way under my skin. “Your mother sounds... descriptive.”
“Oh, she’s a poet. Literally. Published and everything.” Lena straightens up, grabbing a rag to wipe down the already-clean counter. “What about your parents? Are they bakers? Carpenters? Professional grumps?”
I nearly choke on the muffin. “Professional grumps isn’t a career path.”
“Could have fooled me.” She winks, actually winks at me, and something in my stomach does a slow, dangerous flip. “You seem very accomplished at it.”
I scowl, which only makes her laugh again.
“See? Expert level grumping.” She leans in, conspiratorial. “It’s okay. I like it. It balances out my... everything.” She waves a hand at herself.
As she moves, I notice the counter beneath her shifting slightly. My eyes narrow, carpenter’s instincts kicking in. The beautiful marble countertop is improperly mounted—the seam is visible, and there’s a slight wobble. A shoddy job, probably done by the previous tenant. Looking around, I see other issues now: cabinet doors hanging unevenly, shelves that aren’t level, trim that was never properly finished.
“Your counter is going to collapse,” I say before I can stop myself.
Lena blinks, following my gaze. “What? No, it’s fine.”
“It’s not.” I reach out, pressing down on one side of the counter. It dips, the wobble more pronounced. “Whoever installed this didn’t secure it properly. And your shelves are all crooked.”
“They add character,” she says defensively.
“They add hazard.” I finish the muffin, licking sugar from my thumb before I realize what I’m doing. I quickly drop my hand. “The whole place is a mess.”
“Says the guy who just demolished my muffin in four bites.” Her smile is smug. “Admit it. You liked it.”
“It was adequate.”
“Adequate?” She slaps a hand to her chest like I’ve mortally wounded her. “That muffin is a work of art. It’s a symphony of flavor. It’s?—”
“Fine. It was good.” The admission feels like defeat.
Her eyes light up. “I knew it! That’s high praise coming from you. I should print that on my menu. ‘Thorne says it’s good.’ My Yum ratings would skyrocket.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Too late. Already planning the promotional materials.” She taps her temple. “It’ll be right next to ‘Moist: Where Every Bite Makes You?—‘“
“If you finish that sentence, I’m tripling your rent,” I growl.
She laughs again, unfazed by my threat. “You know, for someone so scary-looking, you’re actually kind of a softie.”
I bristle. “I am not.”
“Oh please. You ate my bread and came back for more. You’re worried about my counter collapsing. Classic softie behavior.”
“I’m worried about property damage,” I clarify. “Which you seem determined to cause, one way or another.”
“Speaking of property damage—” she barrels on, ignoring my dig “—what’s your deal? I mean, beyond the horns and the muscles and the whole sexy-broody-landlord vibe. Do you have hobbies? A girlfriend? Boyfriend? Secret passion for knitting tiny sweaters for abandoned kittens?”
The barrage of questions makes my head spin. “What? No. None of those things. I make furniture.”
