Her gaze sharpened.
“Your farm would be ideal.”
Rhavor stiffened. He barely let his own business onto the farm, and now he was supposed to host half the damn town? He hated crowds. Hated the noise.
But he hated the thought of veterans sitting under a leaking roof even more.
“I’m pretty sure Sylvie is already planning treats for the event,” Arla added, not even pretending she wasn’t baiting him.
“Fine,” Rhavor muttered. “I’ll clear space for the tent.”
“That’s the spirit.” She clapped him hard enough to rattle his bones.
As she disappeared into the crowd, a sudden gust of wind rattled the tents. Canvas snapped overhead like a gunshot. Through the shifting fabric, Rhavor caught sight of Sylvie—framed in gold light, her hair glowing like spun copper beneath the scarf.
For a second, her gaze locked with his.
His heart stuttered.Is she watching me?
The wind roared again—a violent swirl that tore the silk scarf from her hair and sent it spiraling into the air. He moved without thinking. He chased it through stalls and shouting vendors until it vanished into a narrow alleyway.
Gravel crunched beneath his boots. He thought he caught a flicker of Myrtle disappearing behind a corner.
“So,” a familiar drawl came from behind him, “is this where you’re hiding?”
He spun around. Vera stood by the brickwork, looking entirely too smug.
“I’m not hiding,” he snapped. “I’m looking for something.”
She gave him a look that sliced straight through his bullshit.
“I think what you’re looking for is closer to the doughnuts with rose jam,” she said, arms crossed over her T-shirt that flashedDONUT BITEacross her chest.
“Don’t tell me you’re just going to stare at her all weekend.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You did this, didn’t you? That ‘gust’ of wind?”
She offered a look of feigned innocence that fooled absolutely no one. “My boy, don’t talk to me about winds—you really don’t want to know. Just find the damn thing and go to her.”
He spotted the scarf tangled in a wooden crate and snatched it up. The silk was cool and soft in his hand.
Footsteps approached, and Sylvie appeared at the end of the alley, slightly breathless, her chest rising and falling in a way that made his jaw tighten.
Vera didn’t miss a beat. “Hi, Sylvie! I was just leaving to get some chilled rosé. I’ll pop by your stall for those éclairs later. Cheerio!”
She vanished, smug smile intact. The alley fell quiet, the noise of the festival fading into a distant hum.
Rhavor stepped closer, holding out the scarf.
“I’ve got something of yours,” he said, his voice lowering into a deep, territorial rumble. “I’m afraid my aunt’s impossible. She might have been the one to get it flying in the first place.”
Sylvie smiled, and the tight band around his chest loosened slightly.
“She’s actually really nice,” she said. “She gave me the best recipe for rye buns.”
“Yes. She did.”
“I didn’t get the chance to thank you for making them for me,” he said, stepping closer until he could feel her warmth. Her scent—vanilla and sugar—curled into his lungs.
