Arla shrugged, her expression turning thoughtful. “Life didn’t exactly go his way. He’s very particular—about, well, everything. Once he sets his mind on something, you’d need a kingdom to get it off him.” She smiled. “That includes the buns.”
Sylvie glanced at her. “You seem to know him very well.”
“Small town,” Arla said with a smirk. “We grew up on the same street. I’ve seen him eat dirt, and he’s seen me fall off my bike more times than I can count.”
Sylvie’s lips twitched.
Arla caught the look and added,
“He’s got a small farm outside of town. Supplies produce to the locals.”
Sylvie wanted to ask more—but she didn’t want to sound desperate. Instead, she adjusted a rolling rack of trays and said, almost to herself, “I’m going to need fresh eggs. Nothing lifts a pastry better than fresh eggs.”
Arla’s eyes lit with an impish glint. “And maybe some… other ingredients?”
Sylvie nodded, ignoring the look and failing to suppress a smile. “Maybe.”
“Well,” Arla said, “I’ll give you Rhavor’s address. You can go straight to the farm. But don’t expect him to open the door for you. He doesn’t like visitors.”
Sylvie straightened, squaring her shoulders. The warning only made him more intriguing—and more of a challenge.
“That’s fine,” she murmured under her breath, her pulse ticking a little faster.
“I can handle a little danger.”
Chapter 4: Rhavor
The image of that lush ass—full and defiant, like sin wrapped in activewear—had no business living in his head rent-free the entire goddamn morning.
He hammered the new goal post in place hard enough to make his teeth rattle.
Summer was coming, and the farm did not give a single shit about his internal crisis. The goat kids were screaming for attention. The chickens were pecking at anything that moved. The weeds in the north pasture were one warm rain away from staging a full-blown hostile takeover.
He should have been exhausted.
He dragged a hand down his face, wiping away grit and frustration, and glared at the strawberry patch before him. The berries had come in early this year, a sudden explosion of red, and he was already drowning in the harvest.
He reached down. His fingers closed around a plump, heavy one.
It had split clean down the middle.
He stared at it.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
It looked exactly like a pair of lush, bare cheeks.
His grip tightened.
Fuck. Even nature was mocking him.
He tossed the strawberry into the basket harder than necessary and stalked toward the fence line, wrenching another post into place with frustration.
A car horn split the morning air.
A small city car skidded wildly up the drive, sending his chickens—perched along the fence like feathered sentinels—into frantic chaos.
Feathers exploded in a white-and-brown cloud, and indignant squawks filled the air.
