She exhaled slowly.
Totally worth it.
Julian hovered beside her, producing iced lattes at a rate that bordered on supernatural. All the while, he was shovingFlour & Fireleaflets into unsuspecting hands with the manic enthusiasm of a man campaigning for public office.
Sylvie had made the tactical error of letting him design the marketing materials. He had mentioned—loudly and frequently—that he had taken a course at art college.
She had vetoed the first draft immediately. It had featured Julian entirely nude, reclining among strategically placed croissants like a caffeinated Renaissance cherub.
They had compromised on a polished shot of her behind the display looking “artisanally exhausted,” Bobby in the kitchen holding a rolling pin as if prepared for a medieval battle, and Julian posed at the espresso machine—though the way he was gripping the milk pitcher was still suspiciously suggestive.
She was boxing a dozen cream puffs, her fingers working the twine, when she froze.
Her internal radar didn’t just ping; it went off like a siren.
Ronda was next in line.
Rhavor’s ex-fiancée stood in front of the stall. Her gaze swept over the display first, lingering on the rye buns with suspicion. Then her eyes snapped up to Sylvie and brushed her face and theFlour & Firelogo stitched boldly across her apron.
The sneer that followed was slow and deliberate.
It made Sylvie’s blood simmer.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” Ronda said, her voice like silk dragged over gravel.
“I’m sorry?” Sylvie replied, keeping her tone level, her “customer service” mask firmly in place despite the sudden urge to weaponize a tartlet.
“You left a bag of these on Rhavor’s doorstep.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Julian freeze mid-latte.
“Yes,” Sylvie said calmly, meeting Ronda’s gaze head-on. She refused to lose her cool. She didn’t care about the opinion of someone who had walked away from a man like Rhavor—someone who clearly couldn’t handle the heat of a real life. “I did.”
Ronda tilted her head, a mock-curious smile playing on her lips, sharp as a razor.
“Why sprint away like the building was on fire?”
Because I heard you calling him Rhavi like you still owned him.
Instead, she offered a smile—polite, polished, and absolutely deadly.
“I realized I had forgotten something. A minor detail.”
Ronda’s eyes narrowed, the blue turning to ice.
“Forgotten what?”
“Listen, dear,” Julian chimed in, unable to help himself, his ears twitching with irritation as he slammed a lid onto a cup. “If she says she forgot something, she forgot it. Perhaps she forgot how to tolerate bad manners—and I’m looking right at you.”
Ronda ignored him, her focus locked on Sylvie like a predator.
“I’m just curious. What was so important that you had to bolt?”
Sylvie saw Julian making a small, encouraging gesture behind the counter.
She took a breath.
“I had to go back,” she said sweetly, the words tasting like honey and venom, “because I forgot… the champagne.”
