What the hell just happened?
The faint scent of woodsmoke and musk still clung to her clothes. Had she just shared the most explosive kiss of her life with the most bad-tempered, impossible man she’d ever met?
Her stomach flipped.
She pushed away and padded into the kitchen. The adrenaline was fading, leaving a sharp, hollow hunger. She reached for the loaf she’d baked, the knife sliding through the crust with a satisfying crackle. She sliced a piece of his goat cheese—with a mild spark of self-deprecating irritation—and added sun-dried tomatoes.
Simple. Balanced.
She took a bite. The crunch and the tang were perfect. Honest.
“Well,” she murmured to the empty kitchen.
She didn’t have to cut him off entirely. She just had to keep things strictly professional. Business. Neighborly civility.
No dragon-blooded male—no matter how magnetic, how broad his shoulders were, or how unfairly well he filled out a pair of jeans—was going to derail her plans.
She had recipes to refine. A menu to finalize.
Tomorrow, she would be perfectly fine.
She just had to get through tonight first.
***
The next morning, Arla arrived like a small domestic hurricane, blowing through the bakery door with enough momentum to rattle the windowpanes. She strode in, balancing a new ladder over one shoulder with the kind of casual ease Sylvie usually reserved for a baguette.
Behind her trudged a man who looked like he had made a series of poor life choices involving early mornings.
“When are you opening?” Arla asked, skipping any greeting entirely.
“This weekend,” Sylvie said.
Saying it out loud sent a warm, jittery spark through her chest, despite the mountain of unfinished work stacked in every corner.
Arla froze mid-step.
“It’s the Honeybloom Festival this weekend,” she said, her voice dipping into a tone people used when they were about to deliver a reality check.
Sylvie blinked.
“And?”
“And most of the town will be at the pier. You might not get much foot traffic”
Of course.
Of course there would be a town-wide festival on her opening weekend.
“Well,” Sylvie said, her brain already shifting gears, clicking into problem-solving mode, “then maybe I’ll set up a stall at the festival.”
Arla’s mouth twitched.
“If you’re lucky. Stalls are usually booked months ahead, but you can ask at Town Hall about the waiting list. I heard Joe, who usually sells candy floss, has been having… bladder issues.”
Sylvie stared.
“If he pulls out,” Arla added helpfully, “you might get a spot.”
