He chuckled, his arm wrapping around her with a heavy, possessive weight. “Careful, my little berry—dragons recover fast.”
Chapter 19: Sylvie
Sylvie had learned exactly three things at the Honeybloom Festival.
One—never trust a faun with marketing materials.
Two—there was nothing worse than running out of ice for iced lattes on a blistering summer afternoon.
And three—the most important rule for self-preservation—she absolutely, categorically, should not be allowed anywhere near large, morally complicated dragons after sunset.
It was the first official day ofFlour and Fire’sopening, but the crowds were not exactly pushing through the doors.
“How was the festival?” Vera called, sweeping into the bakery as though she owned the building—and every calorie currently resting on the cooling racks.
“No one threw any doughnuts back at me. I’m counting that as a success,” Sylvie replied.
Vera’s eyes drifted over the shop. The empty tables practically echoed, the silence heavy and mocking.
Officially open. Unofficially… painfully quiet.
It was a sharp, jagged contrast to the festival crowds that had been elbowing each other for fries and ice creams.
“We’ve got warm blueberry muffins,” Julian chirped from the counter, polishing the same cup for a second time. “I glazed them myself.”
Vera’s eyebrow arched.
“With icing,” Julian added quickly.
“Well, I’m happy to be first in line,” Vera said, her lips curving into a smirk as she leaned against the counter. “Once word spreads about your cream scones and those rye buns—your doors won’t stay quiet for long.”
Sylvie hoped so. She really hoped so. Preferably before her flour supplier started giving her those “bless-your-heart” sympathetic looks.
“Anyway,” Vera added, her tone shifting into that too-casual register that usually preceded a disaster, “the next auction is at Rhavor’s farm.”
Sylvie froze mid-motion, her fingers clutching a pastry box.
Julian rested his chin in his hands, leaning over the counter with predatory interest. “That’s new. He barely lets delivery drivers past the front gate without a background check and a blood sacrifice. How did half the town get an invite?”
“The veterans’ home roof caught it during the last storm,” Vera explained softly. “Rhavor actually gives a damn about those people. He’s always dropping off clotted cream. They adore him. He’s a softie under all those scales and grunting.”
Something warm and inconvenient shifted in Sylvie’s chest.
“Oh,” she managed, her voice sounding thin even to her own ears.
“And,” Vera added—the trap snapping shut—“I told him you were coming.”
Sylvie stopped folding the box with the scones. Her heart started a frantic, self-deprecating rhythm against her ribs.
“No pressure, then,” she said, smiling.
Julian clapped his hands, looking entirely too delighted. “Another social event! One must love living here!”
She did love it. That was the problem.
***
On the morning of the auction, Sylvie was up before the sun had even thought about rising.
