But the words stuck in my throat.
What if she didn't feel the same? What if she only wanted the baker, not the prince? Or worse, what if she only wanted the prince and couldn't care less about the man?
"Have a good day," I said instead.
Coward.
"You too."
She practically ran out the door and I stood there, gripping the edge of the counter.
Fucking coward.
Marco poked his head out from the kitchen. "You gonna tell her eventually or just keep pining?"
"Shut up," I muttered.
He laughed. "Your funeral, man."
It really did feel like it though. Sometimes, I thought I was going to die if I never saw her again, if I never smelled that scent of hers again.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of customers and pastries and small talk I barely registered. My mind was stuck on Amara. I even handed the wrong change to a customer and nearly put salt on the scones. Every time the bell above the door chimed, I whipped to see if it was her. All I could think about was Amara and the way her eyes had lit up when she saw the honey-ember tarts.
On the way her fingers had felt against mine.
On the fact that I was running out of time.
My mother had sent word this morning. A formal summons, delivered by one of my brothers' assistants.
The annualSolas Valentine Galawas in two weeks.
And you guessed it, attendance was mandatory.
I'd tried to get out of it last year and the year before that. But my mother had made it clear this time: show up or she'd come drag me there herself.
And if Amara saw me there...
Fuck.
She'd know. She'd know I'd been lying to her. Or at least omitting the truth, which was basically the same thing.
I should tell her before the gala and give her a chance to process it without the shock of seeing me in a custom tux surrounded by my brothers. The press would be there and the society pages. Every eligible Omega and their mothers would be there hoping to catch the eye of at least one of my brothers.
Damon would be in his usual perfectly tailored Armani, probably with some blonde socialite on his arm. Ryker, the one who looked the most like a male model would be looking like he stepped off a magazine cover. Even Caspian, my brother who was a year older than me, who hated these things as much as I did, would clean up and play his part.
And me? I was the youngest Solas son, the one everyone whispered about. The one who'd chosen a bakery over the family business. The one who'd supposedly "wasted his potential." But every time I thought about telling Amara the truth, my throat closed up.
What if she hated me for it? What if she thought I was playing with her?
"Kael?" Marco's voice pulled me back. "You good?"
"Yeah," I lied. "Just thinking."
"About the librarian?"
I shot him a look that could have murdered him on the spot.
He held up his hands. "I'm just saying, man. You've been making those honey-ember tarts for months. You only make them when you know she's coming in. At some point, you gotta actually do something about it."
