“Wonderful. It’s for a good cause.”
And no, he did not agree to this just because Sylvie would be there.
But his dragon knew better.
It was already counting the minutes.
Chapter 11: Sylvie
Sylvie wasn’t entirely sure how to handle her new employee. She had managed staff before—temperamental bakers, passive-aggressive dishwashers, and one memorable pastry chef who wept whenever his soufflé didn’t rise.
But she had never—never—managed an extroverted faun with a weaponized smile and a hobby of providing unsolicited life advice.
“Oh, the Honeybloom Festival is simply divine, dear,” Julian cooed, draping himself over the kitchen counter like he was auditioning for a lifestyle magazine spread. “Right by the pier. The crowds are dreadful, of course. An absolute stampede of city folk.”
His eyes sparkled with a brand of mischief that made Sylvie’s neckitch.
“You can meet so many new people,” he added, his tone suggesting this event was the absolute peak of his social calendar.
Sylvie resisted the urge to throw a baguette at him.
“That sounds great,” she said, focusing on the crate of baking supplies she was unpacking. “I was looking to get a stall there, Juju, not a husband.”
Julian studied her the way one studies a particularly naïve kitten that had just walked into a glass door.
“Arla said most of the vendor spots were booked months ago,” she added, stacking bags of baking powder on the shelf with more force than necessary.
“Oh, they are,” Julian agreed cheerfully. “Terribly exclusive. One must practically sacrifice a goat—and a favorite cousin—to get a spot.”
Since she possessed neither, she simply stared at him, her jaw tightening.
“That’s not helpful, Julian.”
“Well, then you need a different way to get visibility.”
She paused mid-reach, her fingers hovering over a bag of flour.
“What different way?”
“Darling,” he said, as if this were painfully obvious, “you mingle.”
“I… bake. Baking is my mingle.”
“You mingle,” he repeated firmly. “There’s a charity auction tomorrow night at the local pub. Monthly tradition. People donate products, they bid, everyone drinks too much. It’s community bonding disguised as fundraising—and practically mandatory.”
Sylvie blinked. She vaguely remembered an unopened envelope with an invitation sitting on her counter.
“I’ve never done an auction,” she admitted. “And it’s in a pub.”
She realized, with a small stab of self-deprecation, that she hadn’t socialized in a very long time. She simply hadn’t had the time—the space in her head for anything but flour, sugar, and survival.
“Well,” Julian waved a hand breezily, “ask the egg boy to escort you.”
Her heart gave a sudden, traitorous thud against her ribs.
“What?”
He smirked. “Oh, never mind. Your kingdom. Your dragon, dear.”
