The sun was still high when she pulled up in front of the bakery. She cut the engine and sat there for a moment, staring at the dashboard as if it might offer guidance.
Focus.
She stepped out of the car and forcefully shoved the image of that unfair line of muscle down his stomach out of her head.
She turned toward the shop—
—and nearly walked straight into someone leaning casually against the windowsill.
Sylvie blinked.
An impeccably styled man watched her with mild, polite interest.
A faun.
He wore a tailored purple vest and matching shorts that fit his slim frame perfectly. His thick, glossy hair had been swept neatly to one side, and his beard trimmed with ruler-level precision.
“We’re not open yet,” Sylvie said, suddenly very aware of the faint dirt smudges on her pale dress.
Probably from brushing against a certain dragon’s work jeans.
The faun’s gaze flicked to the fabric.
“Soak it in soda water, dear,” he said smoothly. “It will lift right out.”
“Thank you,” she replied, mildly startled at the unsolicited advice.
He gestured lightly toward the Staff Wanted notice taped to the window.
“I’m here for the job, dear.”
His voice was velvet. Smooth. Melodic. Entirely too confident for someone whose hooves were painted with tiny lucky clovers.
“Dear?” Sylvie muttered, arching one brow. “Who calls their future boss dear?”
And yet…
Somehow, it worked.
“Do you have a CV?” she asked.
“Pardon?” He blinked, long lashes fluttering with genuine confusion.
“A résumé. A cover letter,” she clarified flatly.
The faun stared at her as if she had requested he exchange his tailored ensemble for a pair of baggy cargo pants
“I’m afraid,” he said carefully, “that I do not.”
Sylvie sighed. She felt the day finally settle between her shoulders.
“Please come back when you have those,” she said, unlocking the door. “Then we’ll talk.”
He bowed—fluid and graceful—before stepping aside.
It wasn’t until the door clicked shut and the quiet of the shop wrapped around her that she realized she hadn’t asked his name.
Through the glass, she watched him trot down the pavement, hooves striking a neat, rhythmic pattern against stone.
