“He should’ve opened a salad bar instead. Elves never mastered the art of dough making.”
“I didn’t mind his bread,” Rhavor said, a little defensively.
“You didn’t mind because you got used to it,” she shot back with a smirk. “You don’t need hard buns. You need warm, soft ones.”
Then, casually, like she wasn’t detonating his thoughts, she added, “Arla told me the place has a new owner now. Sylvie. And she’s nice.”
Rhavor felt a strange, low tug in his gut at the sound of her name. It was a heavy, possessive pulse that had his inner hoard sparking with a need to go back and claim her.
“She didn’t look like someone who would understand our ways,” he only said, though he couldn’t dislodge the image of her pretty face—or that embarrassed smile—from his mind.
“We should give her some credit,” his aunt said. “Arla says she’s working hard to get the place up and running.”
“She nearly killed herself this morning,” he said flatly.
His aunt’s lips curved slowly.
“So you’ve already met her.”
“If a meeting counted as saving a city girl from a suicide mission on a rickety ladder,” he said, aiming for a dry tone.
“Well, good thing you were there,” she said, clearly enjoying herself.
He knew that look. His aunt’s unnervingly sharp instincts—courtesy of her succubus mother—were already peeling him open. It was deeply uncomfortable, especially since every mental page was currently filled with red lace and a baker’s sweet smile.
“What happened with Seth?” Rhavor asked, trying to change the subject—and desperately trying to swap out the images in his head, even if Seth wasn’t his top pick for mental real estate.
“I think it had something to do with that travel vlogger he met recently,” she said. “Surely an elf in his prime—five hundred years young—didn’t want to stay tied to one place forever. He finally wandered off. It was rather sudden, though.”
Then she added, “Did you see his recent posts?”
She grabbed her tablet and tapped the screen. She swiped through a couple of profiles, then turned the screen toward Rhavor.
“Look at him. Dancing on a beach. Drinking something neon-orange. Absolutely ridiculous—but happy as a clam.”
He eyed her warily.
“I hope you’re not planning something similarly stupid.”
“Like what?”
She sighed dramatically.
“Running off because a handsome stranger sweeps me off my feet—well, you can count on that.” She smirked, her eyes gleaming. “Or someone falling into your arms and suddenly you can’t think straight?”
Rhavor went still.
“Oh, you need buns, all right,” she purred, her smirk widening. “But not those hard, stone buns. You need something soft. Tender. Warm…”
“Oh, stop it, will you?” He groaned.
“You need to grab the chances life throws at you,” she said, her voice firming, though the mischief never left her eyes.
“Some chances even fall—right into your arms.”
She gave him a slow, deliberate wink.
And Rhavor, for once in his life, didn’t have a single argument left.
