"Blake," he says. "Gunnar."
The name lands heavy. Gunnar. I’ve heard it whispered at the grocery store. The family that runs the mountain. The Kings of Grizzly Peak. The ones you don't cross.
"Okay, Blake," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "I’m Tiffany. And I appreciate the concern, but the lock is fine."
"It's not," he counters flatly. "And you're Tiffany Royce. You drive a beat-up blue sedan that stalls when it rains. You live in the apartment above the bakery. You don't sleep enough."
The blood drains from my face. The room spins.
"Are you stalking me?" The question is sharp, an accusation rather than a plea. I tighten my grip on the counter.
Blake’s expression darkens. He leans further over the counter, invading my space until his face is inches from mine. I shouldrun. I should scream. But I’m rooted to the spot, trapped in the gravitational pull of his dark eyes.
"Watching," he corrects, his voice dropping to a growl meant for my ears only. "There’s a difference."
"Why?"
"Because," he says, and for a moment, the hardness in his eyes fractures, revealing something molten and desperate underneath. "Because you're soft. And this mountain eats soft things if they aren't protected."
"I can protect myself," I insist, though the tremor in my hands says otherwise.
He snorts, a rough, dismissive sound. "With a rolling pin?" He reaches out. I don't flinch. I hold his gaze, daring him.
But he just tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers are rough, calloused sandpaper against my sensitive skin, but his touch is shockingly gentle. Like he’s handling spun sugar. The contact sends a jolt of electricity through me so potent my knees buckle. I have to grab the counter to stay upright.
His knuckles are like hot iron against my cheek, the calluses scraping my skin in a way that makes my breath hitch. He drags his thumb across the swell of my lower lip, forcing it down, exposing the damp heat of my mouth to his gaze. A gasp escapes me, and his pupils blow wide, twin pits of darkness devouring the light. He leans in until his scent—leather, sweat, and hot metal—is the only thing I can breathe. "You smell like warm cinnamon and honey," he murmurs darkly, his thumb dipping just deep enough to catch on my teeth. "And you're already dripping for me. I can smell how bad you want to be taken."
"I..." My brain has short-circuited. I am a deer in headlights, but I don't want to run. I want to lean into his hand. I want to rub my cheek against his rough palm.
"Coffee," he says abruptly, pulling his hand back as if burned. The loss of contact makes me ache. "Black. And two of those bear claws."
I blink, trying to reboot my cognitive functions. "Right. Coffee. Bear claws."
I move on autopilot, grabbing the tongs. My hands are steady now, fueled by a strange mix of anger and arousal. I feel him tracking my every movement. He watches the sway of my hips, the way my apron ties at the waist. I feel exposed, raw, and incredibly, undeniably turned on.
I pour the coffee. The steam rises between us. I place the cup and the bag on the counter.
"That’s... six dollars."
He pulls a wallet from his back pocket, chained to his belt loop. He pulls out a twenty and drops it on the counter.
"Keep it."
"I can't?—"
"Keep it," he commands.
He grabs the coffee, taking a sip without wincing at the heat.
He pins me in place with a stare so heavy it feels like a physical hand around my throat. "I’m fixing that door today," he rumbles, the command vibrating in the pit of my stomach. "Don't even think about locking me out."
"I didn't give you permission to touch my shop," I snap, trying to find a scrap of my spine. Blake doesn't just smile; he looms, closing the distance until I’m trapped against the register.
"I don't need permission to secure what belongs to me," he growls, his voice dropping to a jagged edge. "You’re mine to watch, Tiffany. From the moment you stepped onto this mountain, you became Gunnar property. Get used to the weight of my eyes."
Then he turns and strides out, the bell jingling cheerfully behind him, oblivious to the fact that he just detonated my entire world.
I stare at the empty door. The scent of him—ozone and leather—lingers in the air, overpowering the yeast and sugar. My legs finally give out, and I sink onto the stool behind the register. I press my hand to my chest. My heart tries to beat its way out of my ribcage.
