“Hi,” she chirps. “I’m Cara. I’ll be training you today.”
Cara talks fast.
Names of pastries. Registers. Timers. What burns if you don’t watch it. What Ivan hates. What Ivan hatesmore.Where not to stand when the ovens open.
I nod. Smile. Memorize.
My hands learn the rhythm before my brain does.
Aprons. Gloves. Heat. Sugar dusting my knuckles. The bell over the door chiming, over and over, until it starts to blur together.
Hours pass.
I don’t ask questions I don’t need answered. I don’t touch anything that isn’t handed to me. I keep my head down and my mouth shut.
By noon, Cara stops hovering.
By the end of the shift, Ivan barely looks at me.
Which means I did fine.
The problem is—there’snothingto see.
No back office traffic. No locked doors being opened. No whispered conversations. No Vaska. No men lingering longer than they should.
Just customers. Cash drawers. Pastries going in, pastries going out.
A bakery.
I scrub counters. I smile. I clock out.
Day two looks the same.
Day three.
Different apron. Same routine.
I learn faces. Regulars. Who tips. Who doesn’t. Who complains for fun.
I learn which shelves get restocked by who—and that everything important stays out of reach.
Whatever Gabriel thinks is hidden here, it isn’t sitting in plain sight.
The doorbell chimes.
Every head in the bakery lifts at once.
The air in the room is suffocating.
I freeze mid-wipe, cloth pressed against the counter, and follow everyone’s gaze to the door.
Blue.
That’s the first thing I see. Blue hair catching the afternoon light streaming through the windows, almost glowing.
Then the rest of him comes into focus.
Tall. Broad shoulders under a leather jacket. Ink crawling up his neck, disappearing into his collar. Silver glinting at his lip—snake bites catching the light as he moves.
