“Well,” she said, sliding into her car with that lingering look he used to find tempting—now it felt like an itch beneath his skin he couldn’t scratch. “I’ll still be around. Can’t miss the Honeybloom Festival.”
He stepped back inside before she’d even cleared the drive, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frames.
“Fuck.”
He sat at the kitchen table and reached into the bag. The aroma of smoked rye and toasted nuts immediately filled the room. His mouth watered; his chest ached.
He pulled out a bun, his thumb tracing the perfect, golden crust.
The door creaked open again.
Who the hell now?
He lifted his head, a growl vibrating in his throat.
His aunt walked in like she owned all the oxygen in the room.
“I just passed two cars speeding away from your farm,” she said, not missing a beat. “Thought you were scaring the customers again.”
She stopped mid-step. Her nostrils flared.
“What smells so good? Smoked rye?”
Her gaze landed on the basket.
She reached in, pulling out a single bun. She inspected it with professional scrutiny.
“Well. These certainly don’t look like Seth’s bricks. Are these Sylvie’s?”
He gave a short, stiff nod.
She tore off a piece. Tasted it.
Her brows lifted, her expression shifting from skepticism to genuine shock.
“Whatever she did with my recipe—this is better.”
His head snapped up.
“You gave her our recipe?”
“She’s a top-tier baker,” his aunt replied calmly. “I trust her hands more than Seth’s. Bless the man, but he butchered the soul out of that bread.”
He dragged a hand over his face, feeling the grit of the day.
“Ronda was here.”
“Clearly Sylvie was, too.”
His aunt tilted her head, her gaze piercing.
“Arla might have mentioned that you used to be engaged.”
Rhavor’s stomach dropped through the floor.
“And I don’t know why you’re still sitting there,” Vera said sharply, gesturing at the basket. “This girl made you the best dragon bread in existence, and she left in a hell of a hurry.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, her expression grim.
