Chapter 3: Sylvie
She knew this place was going to be a project—that it would take sweat and late nights to get it up to scratch, and the added challenge of winning over a small town. But no one had warned her that the property came with a side of obnoxious, demanding, and utterly hot regular.
Seriously, the man should’ve come with a warning label. Or a fire extinguisher.
“Well,” Arla said dryly, breaking the silence as she leaned against a display case. “Looks like you’re making quick acquaintances.”
She smirked, dark eyes sparkling with entirely too much amusement.
Sylvie waved a hand helplessly, her face still burning. “It was a total accident.”
She quickly spun on her feet and began fussing with a stack of linen napkins on the counter—straightening, aligning, re-folding them far more precisely than necessary—anything to avoid Arla’s knowing look and give herself a second to gather her thoughts. Her skin still buzzed where he had touched her.
“Good thing this place isn’t going to stay closed for long,” Arla said, looking around and glancing at the eclectic décor. “Seth left so suddenly it barely gave anyone time to blink.”
Sylvie nodded, but her mind was still hopelessly stuck on the stranger’s arms that had lifted her like she weighed nothing at all.
“Why did he leave so… promptly?” she asked, trying to sound like she cared about local gossip rather than the amber-eyed man who had just manhandled her.
Arla snorted. “Who? Seth? Apparently, he met some travel vlogger online and decided the world was calling louder than the sourdough. Next thing we knew, Seth had sold what he could, packed a bag, and vanished with his camera-toting dream girl.”
She gestured vaguely at the mismatched couches, the overstuffed armchairs, and the tall bookcase crammed with dog-eared novels and inexplicable oddities. “And you inherited all of this.”
Sylvie followed her gaze. The space looked less like a professional front-of-house and more like the living room of an eccentric hermit who’d lost a fight with a thrift store.
“The couches have seen better days,” Sylvie muttered. “And the curtains—” she sighed.
“—definitely not helping,” Arla finished with a grin.
Sylvie let out a small, breathy laugh. “They’re coming down. I was in the middle of that when—” she paused, then cleared her throat. “—I was distracted.”
Arla’s eyes flicked past the furniture, scanning the room as if taking inventory—then she smiled.
“And,” Arla continued, “he left you Fred.”
Sylvie frowned. “Fred?”
Arla pointed toward the far end of the room.
Standing proudly beside a low side table was a wooden unicorn statue, a little smaller than life-size. It was painted in a questionable shade of dusty lavender that had no business being in a bakery, slightly scuffed, and wore a hand-crocheted green bandana tied neatly around its neck, a peace sign stitched into the fabric.
“Oh,” Sylvie said faintly. “That Fred.”
“I’m getting rid of it,” she added immediately.
Arla hummed, tilting her head. “I’d think twice about that. Apparently, it’s got some sort of charm on it. Elvish sorcery. Nothing dramatic, but you wouldn’t want to mess with that without knowing what you’re undoing.”
Sylvie stared at the unicorn. For a second, she wondered if Fred had something to do with the ladder incident. She shook the thought away and lowered her voice.
“The man who was in here,” she started, trying to sound casual. “He didn’t… introduce himself.”
Arla laughed softly and nudged Sylvie’s elbow. “Oh, that’s Rhavor.”
Sylvie’s stomach gave a small, traitorous flip at the name.
“Typically him,” Arla went on. “A little rough around the edges. Dragon, but harmless, if you ask me.”
“Harmless?” Sylvie echoed, her brow furrowing.
