She was just about to slide her hand inside when a bright, rhythmic voice trilled from the front of the shop.
“Oh, dear! Is anyone home?”
Then came the sound of clacking hooves—fast and cheerful—echoing down the corridor.
Sylvie scrambled off the counter, nearly losing her footing. She yanked her skirt back into place just as Rhavor swore a dark, guttural oath under his breath and fumbled with his trousers.
God. She was still wearing his shirt.
She couldn’t take it off because beneath the apron she was wearing only a lace bra.
Thinking fast, she dragged the heavy cotton down and tied the hem into a loose, jaunty knot at her hips. Intentional. Fashionably oversized. Definitely not “recently manhandled by a dragon.”
She shoved the far-too-long sleeves up her arms, retied her apron, and smoothed the chocolate-colored fabric with brisk, decisive strokes.
“I’m here!” she called, forcing brightness into her voice that sounded like a cracked bell.
The kitchen door swung open with a cheerful creak. Julian strode in, waving a sheet of paper like a victory flag.
“I’ve got my CV—”
He stopped short.
A low, appreciative whistle escaped him as he took in the scene.
Rhavor stood at the counter, his massive, broad back turned to the room. He was wearing only a fitted tank that clung indecently well to every ripple of muscle, his attention focused on the egg crates with the intensity of a man performing open-heart surgery.
His frame seemed to dominate every square inch of the kitchen.
“Quite warm in here,” Julian observed mildly, glancing at the cold ovens. “And rather… steamy.”
The faun’s eyes swept over Sylvie—taking in the suspiciously large, worn shirt, Rhavor’s bare arms, and the spectacular mess of his hair—before his gaze dropped to her waist.
She followed his look.
And froze.
White streaks stood out boldly across her dark apron like a neon confession.
For one second she considered blurting that it was icing from the cake she decorated earlier. But Julian’s expression said he had already written the entire scandal in his head—in bold, capitalized letters.
She inhaled. Exhaled.
Get it together, Sylvie.
“Nice to see you again,” she said, forcing a composure she absolutely did not feel. “That’s Rhavor,” she added, gesturing vaguely toward the man currently hunching over the crates. “He’s supplying the bakery. Mostly sex—I mean, eggs!”
The silence that followed was heavy enough to sink a ship.
Was there a larger shovel I could possibly use to dig this hole?she asked herself, wishing a meteorite would just land to turn the attention from her.
Julian’s brows climbed steadily higher, his smirk deepening into something delighted and merciless.
“Well,” he said lightly, adjusting the cuffs of his perfectly tailored jacket. “Your kingdom, dear. You do what you like. I only serve coffee.”
He turned toward Rhavor and extended a hand with a theatrical flourish.
“Julian.”
