She now wanted to throw an entire sack of flour at him. Preferably at his immaculate vest.
“If you can’t get a stall at the Honeybloom,” he continued, ignoring her murderous glare, “this is your best chance at a proper introduction. And don’t worry. You’re new. You’ve got a blank slate.”
“What do you mean?”
This conversation felt like she was ten steps behind him, running through deep mud.
“I mean,” he said sweetly, “you haven’t done anything crazy or stupid yet.”
Sylvie wasn’t entirely sure where making out with a seven-foot dragon-man on her kitchen counter ranked on the scale of crazy or stupid, but she suspected it was somewhere near the top.
“At least not in public,” he added with a grin that suggested he knew exactly what her kitchen counters had witnessed.
Now she just wanted to throw him straight into the industrial dough mixer.
“People like it when newcomers show up,” Julian continued. “Shows that you care about more than just your profit margins.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
“Because,” he said plainly, his smile softening for a fraction of a second, “I like working here. And I would very much prefer this place—and my employment—to last.”
Then, with a wide, triumphant smile, he strode to the front door to pick up the morning post.
Sylvie watched him go. She hadn’t just hired a barista; she had acquired a business strategist, a social engineer, and possibly a demon sent specifically to question her life choices.
Her gaze drifted to the invitation lying on the side table.
This town had already offered her more than she’d expected.
It might be time to give something back.
***
The following evening, Sylvie walked toward the pub with the deliberate calm of someone pretending she wasn’t nervous.
The night air carried salt from the sea and the faint, heady sweetness of blooming jasmine.
Laughter spilled through the open doors in warm, boisterous waves as she approached Hearth & Hollow.
Inside, the noise hit her all at once—a wall of communal energy that smelled of craft ale and dusty, ancient wood.
She hesitated until she spotted Arla at a corner table.
The orc waved enthusiastically, flagging her over.
“Hi! Everyone, this is Sylvie. Sylvie, meet Vera and Myrtle.”
“Nice to meet you,” Sylvie said, though she was a little intimidated by Vera’s striking pink skin and emerald-green eyes that looked like they could see through lead.
“I heard you met my nephew,” Vera said, eyes twinkling with unmistakable mischief.
Sylvie’s stomach dropped.
Myrtle, calm and grounded, smiled kindly.
“Don’t look so worried, dear. It’s perfectly fine to fall into a handsome man’s arms first thing in the morning.”
Heat climbed Sylvie’s neck.
