There was a loud, unmistakable thud from the neighboring stall. Some heavy crate meeting the dirt on impact.
“Champagne?” Ronda repeated, her perfectly manicured brows shooting toward her hairline.
“Yes, to celebrate,” Sylvie replied smoothly, smoothing her apron.
“Celebrate what?”
Ronda’s smile thinned into a sharp, jagged line that looked like it could cut glass.
“Look, dear,” Julian strode in, leaning over the counter, “you’re getting nosy—even by faun standards. And that’s saying something.”
“A new business venture,” Sylvie added, her voice airy and light. “I don’t like to toast with anything less than the best.”
Ronda’s jaw tightened, the skin pulling taut over her cheekbones.
“Well. Congratulations.”
She glanced toward Rhavor’s stall, her eyes lingering with a possessive, bitter hunger.
“I suppose a ‘business deal’ is a nice consolation prize for some.”
“Planning a long stay in town?” Sylvie asked lightly, tucking a loose, flour-dusted strand of hair behind her ear.
“That depends,” Ronda said softly, her gaze drifting back to the neighboring stall.
A voice cut through the air then—deep, vibrating with a primal power, and edged with a dangerous, mountain-air chill.
“I’d make it a brief visit.”
Both women turned.
Rhavor had stepped out from behind his counter. He didn’t just walk; he moved with a heavy, predatory grace that commanded the space around him. His sleeves were rolled high, exposing the powerful, corded muscle of his forearms. His shirt was open at the collar, revealing the broad line of his chest.
The sun caught the sheen of sweat on his golden skin and the sharp, amber glint in his dark eyes.
He looked infuriatingly, devastatingly handsome.
A mountain of a man with the soul of a storm.
“People around here have zero patience for your kind of drama,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
“And that champagne,” he added, a low, wicked smile ghosting across his lips as his eyes found Sylvie’s, pinning her to the spot, “is already chilling in the fridge. I’d hate for it to go to waste.”
Ronda flinched as if he had slapped her.
Sylvie saw the woman swallow hard, the polish finally cracking. She looked like she had just realized exactly what she had thrown away—and exactly who was standing in her place now.
“Dear, you have some serious reflecting to do. Maybe start with a mirror,” Julian added, tossing a tea towel over his shoulder with a flourish.
“Who even are you?” Ronda snapped, her voice trembling.
Julian did not lose his cool. He adjusted his vest, looking down his nose at her.
“I’m the person who makes sure she doesn’t have to deal with trash while she’s working.”
“Thanks, Julian,” Rhavor murmured, his gaze never leaving Sylvie.
Then he stepped closer, his shadow falling over Ronda, heavy and protective.
