“Well, what did you think? Did you like them?”
“They were… different.”
Her brows knit together, a flicker of hurt crossing her face.
“Different?”
“In a good way,” he corrected quickly, his gaze dropping to the lush curve of her mouth. “A very good way.”
He lifted the scarf and looped it gently around the back of her neck. His fingers brushed the silky skin beneath her ear, and she inhaled sharply. He used the ends of the silk to draw her closer, closing the space until her breasts brushed against his chest.
A low, ragged growl escaped him.
Her scent hit him fully now—sweet vanilla threaded with something floral and intoxicating. It went straight to his head like whiskey. Sylvie didn’t step back. She leaned in instead, brushing her lips against his in a teasing, ghost-soft kiss.
“That’s nice,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he growled. “Very.”
He caught her lower lip between his teeth and slid his tongue into her mouth, tasting sugar and heat. He kissed her deeper this time—slow, claiming, hot enough to make his blood pound in his ears. She melted into him, her body molding to his hard edges. He pulled her closer, the soft weight of her breasts pressing against his chest.
His hand slipped beneath her blouse as he cupped her breast. His thumb stroked over the peaked nipple through her bra, and she gasped against his mouth. That sound—small and broken—nearly undid him.
His dragon roared inside him.God, I missed her.The softness. The way she fit against him.
She leaned into him, but there was tension there, too—a hesitation he felt in the way her fingers gripped his arms. He sensed it and he pulled his hand back.
Instead, he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead.
“I missed you,” he said, his voice roughened by too many things he couldn’t put into words.
She smiled, but the hesitation in her eyes almost broke him.
“I should go,” she said softly. “Julian’s on his own.”
“Yeah.” He forced his hands to fall away. “Of course.”
She stepped back, turning away and disappearing into the festival crowd. He watched her walk away, the rhythmic sway of her hips a private siren call. His dragon stirred, restless and possessive.
She was going to ruin him. And he’d never felt more alive.
Chapter 17: Sylvie
Sylvie had been running mostly on espresso, adrenaline, and the kind of manic, white-knuckled determination that made people question their life choices.
By now, her hands ached with a dull, rhythmic throb, her lower back was screaming in a language she didn’t want to translate, and she was fairly certain she had hallucinated an apricot giving her strategic marketing advice at three in the morning.
It was the final day of the festival.
By ten, the grounds were already heaving. By eleven, it felt as though half the county had collectively decided this was their last opportunity on earth to eat a croissant.
She had made a bold decision earlier in the week—a “moment of inspiration.” A new specialty every single day. At the time, it had felt like a great idea. Now, standing in the heat of the stall, it felt entirely unhinged.
Twelve hours at the stall. Then the bakery kitchen until well past midnight, coaxing dough into submission. Then up again before sunrise to start the whole cycle over.
Still.
The orange blossom and blueberry tartlets gleamed like lacquered sunlight under the glass. The walnut rye buns stood in proud, golden rows, smelling of toasted grain and hard work. The apricot galettes, with their blistered crusts and caramelized edges, were practically screamingsold outbefore she could even arrange the napkins.
