He walked back to his briefcase, claws tapping against the floor with each step. “You’ve gone soft, Brok. You used to train in blizzards while other people hid indoors drinking hot chocolate. Now you’re turning down the contract of a lifetime for what? A bunny with anxiety and a woman who makes cookies? You’ve lost your edge.”
My jaw clenched hard enough to make my teeth ache. “My edge is fine. Tell the Minotaur I’m unavailable due to a prior tactical commitment.”
With a simple flick of his fingers, Grix snapped his briefcase shut. The projections vanished instantly, leaving only empty air where financial security had been floating moments before. The room seemed darker without the blue glow. Another flick, and Grix’s repertoire of magical files floated from the counter, into his waiting arms.
“Fine,” he rumbled, already toeing on his expensive loafers. “But don’t come crying to me when the Rabbit has a complete mental breakdown mid-squat and ruins your completion stats. I can’t scrub a failure from your record, Brok. Once it’s there, it’s permanent. It follows you forever.”
He paused at the threshold, one hand on the doorframe. “Oh, and Brok?”
“What?”
“Good luck.” He looked back at me, expression unreadable. Then he smirked, showing all his teeth. “You’re going to need it.”
With a final sneer, Grix left the apartment, the door slamming shut behind him. I grimaced. That hadn’t gone well at all. Kobolds never wished anyone ‘luck’. They believed luck was for leprechauns or faerie creatures. A part of me couldn’t help but agree. However, at this point, I wouldn’t refuse help from anyone.
My phone buzzed against the counter, snapping me out of my trance. I picked it up and stared at the screen. Three texts from Barnaby had arrived while I’d been talking to Grix.
Barnaby (5:45 AM): I bought new sneakers! They light up when I jump! Is that professional? Will they intimidate the Rottweilers?
Barnaby (5:47 AM): Does coffee count as a carb if I think about sugar while drinking it? Or is it the thought that counts as the carb?
Barnaby (5:50 AM): I’m scared of the hill today, Brok. Please don’t yell at me. My feelings are very sensitive this morning.
I couldn’t help but chuckle.
Asterion would never text me about light-up sneakers. He would never need me the way Barnaby did, with that desperate, genuine vulnerability that made you want to help despite every logical reason not to. And he certainly didn’t know a chocolatier who could make protein taste like actual joy.
I grabbed my gym bag from beside the door and carefully placed the white box inside, tucking it into a side pocket where it wouldn’t get crushed. It was time to work, but for the first time in years, I was looking forward to more than just the cardio.
6
Enter Nana
Hazel
When crafted from a Swiss meringue buttercream, an elderflower petal tended to protest. The delicate curve wanted to collapse under its own weight. The ruffled edge threatened to smooth itself into mediocrity if I so much as breathed wrong. It required patience, a steady hand, and absolute concentration.
I had none of these things.
“Focus, Hazel,” I muttered. A delicate petal emerged from my piping bag. It was pale yellow, architecturally sound, delicate enough to survive until Saturday’s wedding.
Except I didn’t want to cook for weddings. I wanted to cook for Barnaby, and I wanted to see Brok again.
My piping hand trembled. The next petal came out slightly lopsided. Damn it!
“Stop,” I told myself firmly. I scraped off the petal with my offset spatula and started again, forcing my attention back where it belonged.
My cheeks felt warm. I blamed the ovens, even though they weren’t on.
I needed to get it together. This was unprofessional. Brok was a client. Well, his brother was a client. Brok was just the large, intense, impossibly gentle…
Oh for heaven’s sake!
The bell above the door chimed, snapping me out of my fugue. It was a single, precise ding. Authoritative. Expensive. Ominous. If I didn’t squirt buttercream all over my carefully crafted cake, it was because I knew that sound all too well.
I looked up, already knowing my day was about to get worse. I was right.
Standing in the doorway was a woman who had just stepped out of a Vogue editorial specifically about aggressively wealthy grandmothers. She wore a Chanel tweed suit that probably cost more than my delivery van. Her hat featured an entire fruit basket, yet somehow managed to look chic. When she pulled off her designer sunglasses, my stomach dropped.
