“Furniture!” She claps her hands together. “That’s perfect! So you could totally fix my counter.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m not your handyman.”
“Of course not.” She waves dismissively. “You’re much more qualified. A craftsman. An artisan of wood and other building materials.”
Despite myself, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. She’s manipulative in the most transparent way possible. It shouldn’t work. It doesn’t work.
“I have projects,” I say firmly. “Paying clients. A business to run.”
“Right, right.” She nods solemnly, then immediately brightens. “But if you ever find yourself with free time and the inexplicable urge to level some shelves, I make an excellent thank-you cake.”
I look at the counter again, at the precarious angle, at the potential disaster waiting to happen. All it would take is one heavy mixer placed wrong, or a particularly enthusiastic kneading session, and the whole thing could go. And then what? Water damage. Structural issues. Insurance claims.
A massive headache for me.
“I’ll think about it,” I say finally, already knowing I’ll be back after hours with my tools. Not for her. For the building. For my sanity.
“That’s Thorne-speak for ‘definitely yes,’ right?” She beams at me, like she’s already won.
I grunt, turning to leave before she can see the reluctant amusement I can feel creeping across my face. “It means I’ll think about it. Don’t push your luck, Reyes.”
“Pushing luck is my specialty!” she calls after me as I reach the door. “Along with cinnamon churro muffins, which you definitely didn’t hate!”
I don’t respond, but as I step back onto the street, I’m already mentally cataloging the tools I’ll need, the measurements I should take, the time it will require to fix her kitchen without her knowing.
Just to save myself future hassle. That’s all.
It has nothing to do with the way her eyes lit up when I took that first bite of her muffin, or how she looked at me like my opinion mattered.
Nothing at all.
CHAPTER 3
lena
THE TART OF WAR
I know something is different the moment I unlock the bakery door. There’s a faint scent lingering in the air that doesn’t belong—sawdust and something musky, almost spicy. Like cedar and cinnamon had a baby. It’s not unpleasant, just unexpected, and it mingles with the permanent backdrop of sugar and butter that’s become the bakery’s signature perfume. I flip on the lights, my keys still dangling from my finger, and freeze. My counter—my beautiful, wobbly, character-filled counter—is different. Sturdy. Secure. Perfect. And I know exactly who to blame.
“You sneaky bull,” I whisper, running my hands along the smooth marble surface.
The counter doesn’t move. Not even a millimeter. Yesterday, I could make it dance with a firm press of my palm. Today, it’s as immovable as its installer’s stubbornness.
I look around, noticing other miracles. The shelves that once tilted like they were perpetually drunk now stand at perfect right angles. The cabinet doors hang straight, their hinges no longer screaming in protest when opened. Even the trim around the windows has been finished, the once-raw edges now smooth and sealed.
My chest fills with something warm and fizzy, like I’ve swallowed champagne too fast.
I trace my fingers along the counter’s edge, feeling the precise craftsmanship. No visible seams where yesterday there had been a gap wide enough to lose a piping tip in. I test it with my hip, leaning my full weight against it. Nothing. Not even the whisper of movement.
“Thorne,” I say his name like a secret, like a spell, letting it melt on my tongue.
The silly, grumpy, surprisingly thoughtful Minotaur sneaked into my bakery after hours and fixed everything without a word. Without permission. Without asking for thanks.
I should probably be annoyed about the boundary crossing, but all I feel is a flutter in my stomach that has nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with the mental image of him working in the darkness, those massive hands carefully adjusting hinges and leveling shelves with a precision I wouldn’t have expected from someone so... large.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the warm, fuzzy feeling creeping up my neck. This doesn’t change anything. He’s still my landlord. Still a grump. Still the guy who threatens to raise my rent when I make moisture jokes.
But he’s also the guy who fixed my counter because he was worried it might collapse.
