He was currently unloading heavy wooden crates of goat cheese and amber bottles of cider, his muscles doing that effortless shifting thing beneath his shirt that made it very hard to focus on inventory.
Arla had told her a fishmonger named Sam would be at the stall next door. Honestly, Sylvie wasn’t sure which was worse: the smell of salt-crusted cod for the next forty-eight hours, or being trapped in the intoxicating radius of woodsmoke and pure male heat that radiated off Rhavor.
Last night’s conversation with the aunties was still looping in her brain. What it meant for him. What it meant for them. One thing was nonnegotiable—she wouldn’t let anything happen to him.The mere thought of his “vitality” draining away made her chest tighten.
“Mamma mia!” Julian screeched, breaking her trance. “I forgot my stamps!”
That snapped her back to reality. To the festival. To the business she actually had to run.
They spent the next hour setting up the “Flour & Fire” stall. Julian was in his element, hand-lettering slate boards with artistic calligraphy and arranging bundles of dried wheat in terracotta vases. It was rustic, elegant, and it smelled like heaven.
Then Sylvie glanced at the stall next door. It was a chaotic pile of onions, strawberries, and random plates of cheese. It didn’t just look disheveled; it looked like a cry for help.
“Julian,” she whispered, nodding toward the disaster zone.
Julian followed her gaze and winced like he’d been physically struck. “He just ordered a latte. I’ll pop over there and sort that mess out. It bothers me personally, as an artist. A dragon’s sense of aesthetics is known for not existing.”
Sylvie turned back to her own counter, feeling a surge of genuine pride as she looked at her sign.Flour & Fire. It fit the town. It fit her.
She was leaning over a crate of almond croissants, carefully transferring them into a wicker basket, when a low, vibrating growl sounded right against her ear.
“Mmm. Those are my absolute favorite.”
Sylvie straightened so fast she nearly clocked her head against Rhavor’s chest. He was standing inches away, a small, wicked smirk playing on his lips.
“In your dreams, big guy,” she shot back, though her pulse was doing triple-time.
“I was talking about the croissants,” he rumbled, his voice dropping into a dangerous, playful register.
“These are for paying customers only.”
“Who said I’m not buying?”
“Then get in line like everyone else.”
He glanced at the completely empty space in front of her counter. “So I’m being forced to run on empty?” he teased, stepping closer. The heat coming off him in waves. The scent—addictive.
“I don’t care what you run on,” she lied. Her heart was thundering loud enough that he had to feel the vibrations. She was running on empty, too—starved for the way he touched her.
“Can I at least get a baguette?” he asked, his gaze dropping to her mouth with zero subtlety. “Julian wouldn’t let me sample the jam unless I had a ‘vessel’ to put it on.”
Sylvie reached for a long, crusty loaf. Her hand slid slowly down the length of it, her fingers grazing the surface with slow, deliberate care. Her eyes locked onto his for one electric second.
Rhavor let out a sharp, ragged breath. His eyes flashed a predatory amber.
She shoved the bread into a paper bag and thrust it into his hands, stepping back abruptly. The look on his face was pure, unadulterated frustration.
She spent the rest of the morning trying—and failing—not to watch him. But every time she looked up, he was there. Charming the locals. Joking with the city tourists. His thick hair kept falling into his eyes with roguish ease, his golden skin literally glowing in the sun.
Arla and Myrtle were right. He looked… happy.
And Sylvie knew she was exactly one more smirk away from letting him drag her behind those cider crates.
And judging by the way he kept tracking her every move, he was one more smirk away from doing exactly that.
Chapter 16: Rhavor
He had managed to convince Joe the candy floss maker that the festival tents would be too drafty for his health issues. A promise of a free yearly supply of apple cider might have sealed the deal. It was his first Honeybloom Festival in years.
