The letter sat there, crisp cream paper with embossed letterhead. Pâtisserie Lumière. Paris, France. The deadline was in two months.
She hadn’t told anyone. Hadn’t let herself think about it. Because thinking about Paris meant thinking about wantingthings for herself, and that felt impossibly selfish when so many people depended on her.
What do YOU want, Dahlia?
She could hear Avine’s voice asking the question, even though Avine didn’t know about the letter. Avine, who had found her own happiness six months ago. Junie, who had Leo now. Even Cassia and Narla had lives beyond the friend group, interests beyond supporting each other through crises.
What did Dahlia have? The bakery. Her friends’ problems. The fatigue she’d learned to hide so well that no one thought to look for it anymore.
She shoved the letter back into the drawer and slammed it shut.
Marzipan appeared on the windowsill, tail lashing.
Someone’s outside.
Dahlia crossed to the window that overlooked Main Street. A truck was pulling up in front of the bakery—sleek, expensive, completely wrong for coastal Haven Shores. Seattle plates.
The driver’s door opened.
And Dahlia’s breath caught.
He unfolded from the truck in pieces—endless legs, broad shoulders, a body that was built to take up space. Tall. Six-three at least. Dark hair touched with premature gray at the temples, distinguished in a way that spoke of stress rather than age. A suit that probably cost more than her new oven, charcoal gray and perfectly tailored, completely wrong for the windswept streets of Haven Shores.
But it was his face that caught her. Strong jaw, shadowed with stubble. A mouth set in a hard line. And those eyes?—
God. He looked gutted. Worn down to the studs. Permanent shadows carved beneath his lashes spoke of years without proper sleep. He surveyed the bakery like he was cataloging it, assessing it, finding it wanting.
Her stomach dropped. Contracted. A reaction her body had no business having to a stranger. A flush spread across her cheeks that had nothing to do with the afternoon sun streaming through the glass.
Dahlia stood frozen at the window, pulse hammering, trying to remember how to breathe.
Marzipan’s tail puffed to twice its normal size. A low, hostile sound rumbled from the cat’s throat.
Bear. The impression came laced with feline suspicion.That one’s trouble.
“I know.” Dahlia’s voice held steadier than she felt. “That’s Callum Ursa. The prodigal heir.”
The bell downstairs chimed.
Dahlia looked down at herself. Flour-dusted dress. Hair escaping its braid. No makeup.
Doesn’t matter how you look. This isn’t about you.
She smoothed her apron, tucked a stray curl behind her ear, and headed downstairs.
He was standingat the counter when she emerged from the back, surveying the display cases with that same assessing stare he’d given the building exterior.
Up close, he was even more overwhelming. The breadth of his shoulders blocked out half the shop. His presence seemed to press against the walls, making her cozy bakery feel suddenly too small.
He smelled like pine and an undercurrent of danger. A wild edge that her witch senses registered aspredator.
“Welcome to Honey & Hex.” Dahlia slipped behind the counter, letting the familiar barrier rest between them. Herhands wanted to tremble. She didn’t let them. “What can I get you?”
He looked at her then. Really looked. Those worn features taking in her flour-dusted dress, her escaped curls, the shadows that matched his own.
A flicker crossed his face. Recognition? Surprise? She couldn’t read it, and that unsettled her. She could read everyone.
“Coffee.” His voice was low, rough, carrying the rasp of too little sleep. “Black.”
