The bright, cheerful sound cut through the quiet shop, sharp enough to make her heart skip a beat. Her hand touched nothing but empty air. A sudden motion was all it took. Her braced footslid a fraction of an inch. Her knee lost its pressure point against the ladder’s hinge.
Her balance vanished.
She lunged forward on instinct. The ladder stayed upright; she did not. Sylvie folded over the top rung, her chest pressed against cold metal. One foot barely hooked its step while the other dangled in empty air.
If she moved, she was going down.
Her arms locked around the ladder, shoulders trembling as she froze. Slow breath. Don’t panic. She twisted her head slightly, just enough to glance toward the door. The ladder creaked in protest.
Who would even come in? The shop isn’t open.
She’d only been here two days, just long enough to get the kitchen usable and drag down a few essentials for the apartment upstairs. Now she was stuck on a ladder in yoga pants with dust in her hair. Great. Fantastic.
All she could see at first was a large, dark shape standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the morning light.
Then the scent hit her.
Smoke. Pine. Intense.
Her pulse didn’t just jump; it thrummed. She was suddenly, painfully aware that she was bent over the top of a ladder, her yoga pants stretched tight, her backside pointed directly at whoever had just walked in.
And the man standing there wasn’t just looking; he was absolutely devouring the sight.
He filled the doorway. Towering. Broad. Wings folded behind him. His T-shirt was stretched tight across his wide chest, and his eyes were an unmistakable, glowing amber.
Her brain stalled.
He didn’t look like someone who’d wandered in by accident.
The only explanation her mind could scramble together was that he’d come for the sign she’d taped up barely half an hour ago. She didn’t have time to fully process the situation when she heard his voice.
“I came for my buns,” he rumbled—a low, gravelly sound that vibrated right through her.
She swallowed hard. “B—buns?” she squeaked, fighting to keep her balance.
“Yes.” His voice shifted, impatience giving way to something darker as his gaze dipped again to her backside. “My round… excellent buns.”
Heat rushed to her face fast enough to bake a tray of macarons. She wasn’t sure he still meant bread.
“So… you’re not here for the job?” she blurted.
His attention lifted to her face—then flicked right back to her waist.
“I always get my buns here,” he said. “On Saturday.”
She shifted, trying to regain some shred of dignity. The ladder creaked again.
“Are you all right up there?” he asked. The question was casual, but his wings twitched, tension pulling through his shoulders like he was already halfway to catching her.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, lifting her chin even as the ladder gave another warning groan. “I’ve got it.”
His mouth curved—not quite a smile. More like disbelief.
“Doesn’t look like you’ve got much of anything.”
Heat flared in her chest. She refused to acknowledge the very reasonable urge to let someone tall and broad and infuriatingly capable take over.
“I didn’t ask,” she said, sharp enough to end the discussion.
