This oven was different.
It was wild.
Untamed.
Entirely unpredictable.
The beast in the bricks and Rhavor clearlyshared the same ancestors.
There was a thrill to it—the raw, elemental challenge of fire meeting dough. Of heat licking at flour and transforming it into something golden and fragrant.
She had studied the dragon’s instruction book, layering those ancient techniques over Vera’s original recipe.
She made two batches of rye buns and laid them side by side.
One followed Vera’s recipe to the letter.
The other was her own refined version—softer crumb, lighter crust, a hint of smoked nuts in the aroma.
She had just put the trays out on the counter when Julian strode in.
“What are these?” he asked, halting and pointing a slender finger at the original batch. “Are you mass-producing lethal weapons?”
“No.” Sylvie smiled, wiping a stray smudge of flour from her cheek. “Those are authentic dragon rye buns. Vera’s recipe.”
Julian grimaced at the dense, dark rounds. “Well, no wonder dragons have legendary tempers. Imagine having to start your day by breaking a tooth on one of these.”
“They’re not that bad,” she said with a smirk. “They’re… rustic.”
“You are far too polite, dear,” he replied. “You need to be seven feet tall and breathe fire to digest those.”
“Well, try these instead,” she said, gesturing to the second tray.
Julian leaned in, sniffing the air dramatically.
“Oh-ho. Not sure about dragons, but this is the top score in every faun’s book.”
He paused thoughtfully. “We’ll need a name for them. Something that sticks.”
Sylvie didn’t have time to brainstorm.
She packed the warm buns into a basket and dashed upstairs to change. She chose a light, buttoned shirt, paired it with her favorite jeans, and navy lace lingerie—a secret shot of confidence hidden beneath soft cotton.
When she ran back downstairs, Julian stopped her.
Without a word, he reached out and deftly unbuttoned the top two buttons of her shirt, exposing the delicate curve of her cleavage.
“That’s better,” he said with a wink.
“You really can’t help yourself getting me into trouble, can you?”
“You will thank me later,” he flung back as he shooed her toward the door.
She climbed into her car, imagining Rhavor’s face when he saw his heritage buns—and her own version beside them.
Not a date,she told herself as she drove the narrow country road toward the farm.
Definitely not a date.
