“The fire is the heart of the kitchen,” she said slowly. She raised her voice just enough to cut through the chaos. “How about…Flour & Fire.”
The room went quiet.
Arla propped her hands on her hips. “I like it. It’s got punch.”
“Sounds like a place where you either get fed or get in a fight. I’m into both,” Bobby added.
That wasn’t exactly what Sylvie had intended, but she let it stand. Julian clapped his hands, brushing raspberries from his vest.
“I’ll start on the marketing materials.Flour & Fire.”
It felt right. At least that was settled.
Her nerves, however, were absolutely not.
***
The day before the festival hit like a storm. Julian and Bobby were basically barricaded in the kitchen until the eleventh hour, piping intricate lemon-icing filigree onto matcha croissants and glazing strawberry tartlets until they shone like rubies under the LED lights.
By the time the sun began to dip, Sylvie felt hollowed out. She sent them both home despite Julian’s theatrical protests that he still needed to perfect the “cinnamon deer” dusting on his lattes.
“I cannot offer a substandard cinnamon dusting upon the public,” he declared dramatically.
“You absolutely can,” she replied, steering him toward the door. “Go home.”
She just needed quiet. She needed to crawl upstairs, uncork a bottle of wine, and let a ridiculous romantic comedy drown out the noise of her own thoughts while she devoured an entire bar of chocolate without shame. She was wiping down the last counter when the bell above the door gave a cheerful, mocking tinkle.
Great. Exactly what I didn’t need.
She turned, ready to snap that they were closed—and froze. Rhavor’s aunt Vera walked in, Arla trailing behind her like a mounting shadow.
“We just stopped by to say we can’t wait to try your pastries tomorrow,” Vera said warmly. Her eyes, however, were far too sharp for this to be a casual visit.
Sylvie knew instantly. This wasn’t about croissants.
“And,” Arla added, exchanging a weighted glance with Vera, “we heard a certain person is back in town. Making herself a little too comfortable.”
Sylvie sighed, the last of her energy draining into the floorboards. “Well,” she said, forcing a weary smile, “if you’re going to give me a lecture, you might as well have some espresso with it.”
She flipped the switch on the machine. The familiar hiss and rich aroma filled the space, grounding her. She set out a plate of the matcha croissants and rose-jam doughnuts. The two women exchanged a look—the kind of look that said they’d already decided Sylvie was “The One” and were prepared to fight about it.
Sylvie sat down, wrapping her hands around her cup like a lifeline.
“So,” she said flatly “I guess you’re here to tell me about a spoiled brat who likes breaking hearts?”
“Well…” Arla began, her voice losing its playful edge. “Rhavor was serious about her. They met young, and Ronda was… wild. I suspect that’s what drew him in. She was beautiful. Still is, in that cold ‘I-only-drink-almond-milk’ kind of way.”
A stab of jealousy cut through Sylvie so sharply it made her stomach ache.
“I’m not sure why you’re telling me this,” she murmured, staring into the dark depths of her coffee.
Vera reached across the table, her dragon grip hot, steady, and surprisingly grounding. “Because he never would. And we think you deserve the full receipts before you let her presence chase you out of his life.”
Sylvie exhaled a long, shaky breath. “I saw her at his farm. She looked… settled.”
The two women exchanged a sharp, knowing look.
“If he took her back, he’d be a certified fool,” Vera said firmly.
