Image management.Right. The reason he's here, the political weight behind his participation. For a few minutes, I'd forgotten this was all performance, all strategy.
"Must be exhausting," I say carefully. "Always being 'on.'"
"Yes." The word comes out heavy. "Always representing, never just... existing."
I understand that feeling more than he probably realizes. Six years of being the face of Lewis Family Bakery, of cheerful customer service and social media presence and never letting anyone see when the numbers don't add up or the equipment breaks down or the loneliness gets overwhelming.
"Well," I say, sprinkling cinnamon over the rolled dough, "you can just exist here. No representing required."
When I look up, his amber eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. Not performance intensity—something deeper, more real.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
The moment stretches between us, charged with something I can't quite name. Then I realize I've been holding the cinnamon shaker motionless for way too long, and the spell breaks.
"Right." I clear my throat, returning to the task. "So, once you've got your filling distributed evenly..."
I'm slicing the rolled dough into individual portions when disaster strikes. The knife slips, just slightly, but enough to send a spray of flour across the prep station. And across Korgan's perfectly pressed suit jacket.
"Shit! I'm so sorry?—"
I grab a kitchen towel and reach toward his jacket without thinking, trying to brush away the flour. But the movement is too quick, too close, and somehow I manage to knock over the open flour container instead.
White powder explodes everywhere.
"Oh, fuck," I breathe, watching flour settle over both of us like the world's least romantic snowfall. "Your suit... Jessica's going to kill me..."
But Korgan is staring down at his flour-dusted jacket with an expression I can't read. Then, to my complete shock, he starts laughing.
Not polite laughter. Not performance laughter. Deep, genuine, from-the-chest laughter that transforms his entire face.
"What?" I demand, though I'm starting to smile despite the disaster. "What's funny?"
"I look like I wrestled a baker," he says between laughs. "And lost."
The absurdity of it hits me. This imposing orc warrior dusted in flour like he's been in a food fight with a toddler. I start laughing too, the stress and nerves of the evening finally finding an outlet.
"Here," he says, reaching toward my hair. "You have..."
His fingers brush against my temple, surprisingly gentle as he removes flour from my hair. The touch is brief, practical, but something about the strict way he does it makes my pulse skip.
"Better?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. We're standing close now, closer than we've been all evening. Close enough that I can see flecks of gold in his searching eyes, close enough to catch his scent under the flour—something earthy and warm and completely masculine.
"Your hair is softer than I expected," he says quietly.
It's such a simple observation, but the way he says it. Honest, almost wondering, makes heat pool low in my stomach.
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know." His thumb traces along my jawline, removing another spot of flour. "Everything about you is unexpected."
Everything about you is unexpected too,I want to say. But my throat has gone dry, and he's still touching my face with those gentle, careful hands, and I can't seem to form coherent words.
"Trinity." His voice has gone rough. "I should not..."
"Should not what?"
