“I mean, you lose your competitive advantage.” He looked up from the phone, meeting her stare directly. “But that’s assuming we can’t find an alternative source. The Ursa apiaries are still operating—Magnus can’t shut those down without direct confrontation with my sleuth. If I can convince the Torres family to resume supply, or find another apiary willing to resist the pressure...”
“You think you can do that?”
“I have to try.” A fierce light entered his features—a glimpse of the alpha underneath the corporate polish. “Magnus doesn’t get to win. Not like this. Not by strangling businesses into submission.”
The conviction in his voice caught her off guard. This wasn’t corporate calculation. This was personal. Protective. The fury that came from somewhere deeper than business strategy.
Dahlia busied herself with organizing the paperwork they’d scattered across her workbench. She needed to do something with her hands. Needed to not look at him too closely, because looking at him made her think about touching him, and thinking about touching him made her think about things she had no business thinking about.
Her hand brushed a stack of papers she’d pulled from her desk and hadn’t meant to include in the inventory.
The cream-colored envelope slid out from between recipe cards, landing face-up on the workbench.
Pâtisserie Lumière. Paris, France.
Dahlia’s heart stopped.
She reached for it, but Cal was faster. His hand closed over the envelope, brow furrowing as he read the return address.
“What’s this?”
“Nothing.” She grabbed for it. He held it out of reach, not maliciously, but with genuine curiosity. “It’s nothing. Private correspondence.”
“Pâtisserie Lumière.” He turned the envelope over, examining the embossed seal. “I know that name. It’s one of the most prestigious pastry schools in Europe. Why are they writing to you?”
Dahlia stopped reaching. The fight drained out of her, replaced by a weariness she felt in her chest. She didn’t have the energy to hide anymore.
“They offered me a residency.” She sighed. “Third time. The first was my grandmother’s doing—she arranged it before she died. Wanted me to have the chance she never did.”
Cal’s brow furrowed deeper. “A residency. AtPatisserie Lumière.”
“Six months in Paris. Study under the masters. Learn techniques I’d never access otherwise.” The words tumbled out, bitter and longing in equal measure.
“When’s the deadline?”
“Two months.”
Cal set the envelope down on the workbench. His features had shifted—less curiosity now, more intensity. Concern. Understanding, maybe.
“Are you going?”
“No.” The word came out automatically. Practiced. The answer she’d been giving herself for months. “I can’t. The bakery needs me.”
“That’s the worst reason I’ve ever heard to give up a dream.”
Dahlia went still.
Cal’s voice was quiet. Direct. Not judging—observing. The tone of a man stating facts, however uncomfortable. “You’ve been handed an opportunity most people would kill for. A chance to learn from the best, to grow, to become more than what you are now. And you’re turning it down because other people need you?”
“Theydoneed me.”
The wall she’d built so carefully—brick by careful brick over years of putting everyone else first, years of smiling and nodding and making everything easier for everyone around her—splintered.
And what came out wasn’t soft. Wasn’t sweet. Wasn’t the nurturing Dahlia everyone expected.
“That’s rich.” Her voice turned sharp, cutting. The edge she’d buried so deep even she’d forgotten it existed. “Coming from a man who hasn’t taken a vacation in—what, a decade? Longer?”
Cal’s expression shuttered. But he didn’t interrupt. Didn’t defend himself.
