The bakery was dark,but like before, light glowed from the apartment above.
Haven Shores was quiet at this hour. Main Street empty, the storefronts dark, the distant sound of waves against the shore breaking the silence. Cal parked on the quiet street and climbed the narrow stairs to Dahlia’s door. It was past one in the morning, but he could hear movement inside—the clatter of bowls, the hum of an oven, the soft sound of her voice singing off-key.
Stress-baking. Of course. The woman channeled her anxiety into flour and butter the way he channeled his into spreadsheets and strategy sessions. Two sides of the same coin.
He knocked softly. The singing stopped. Footsteps approached, and then the door swung open.
Dahlia stood in the doorway, flour dusting her cheek, hair piled in a messy bun, wearing an oversized T-shirt that hung off one shoulder and shorts that showed entirely too much leg for his sanity. She looked exhausted and beautiful and like everything he’d ever wanted without knowing he was allowed to want it.
“Cal.” His name came out on a breath. “What are you?—”
“I couldn’t sleep.” He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, drawn to her like gravity. “Apparently, neither could you.”
The apartment smelled of butter and vanilla and the ghost of every batch she’d ever baked here. It smelled like her.
Marzipan watched him from a perch on the back of the couch, keen eyes unblinking. The cat’s tail flicked once—acknowledgment, if not approval—before she turned away and began grooming her paw. Progress.
“I’m on my third batch of anxiety croissants.” Dahlia gestured toward the kitchen, where cooling racks covered every surface. “My freezer is going to be full for months.”
“You could open a bakery.” He moved toward her, closing the distance between them one deliberate step at a time. “Oh wait.”
She laughed—a tired, genuine sound that hit him square in the ribs. “Bad joke.”
“I have terrible timing.” He stopped in front of her, close enough to see the rapid pulse at the base of her throat, the way her pupils dilated as she looked up at him. “In comedy and in life.”
“Your timing seems pretty good right now.” Her voice had dropped, gone husky. “I was going crazy in here alone.”
Cal reached out, brushed a smear of flour from her cheek with his thumb. Her skin was soft, flushed from the heat of the ovens. She leaned into his touch like a flower turning toward the sun.
“Tomorrow might go badly.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. All his fears crystallized into five syllables.
Dahlia’s hand came up to cover his where it rested against her face. “It might.”
“Magnus could win. The council could rule in his favor. Everything we’ve built?—”
“Cal.” She cut him off, her fingers tightening around his. “I know. I’ve been running the same scenarios in my head for hours. That’s why there are forty-seven croissants cooling in my kitchen.”
“Forty-seven?”
“I may have miscounted. The point is—” She took a breath, and her eyes locked onto his with fierce determination. “If tomorrow goes badly, I don’t want to have wasted tonight worrying about it.”
His heart stuttered. “What do you want instead?”
“You.” Simple. Direct. Devastating. “I want you, Cal. I’ve wanted you for weeks, and I’m tired of pretending otherwise.”
Cal’s control—theiron discipline he’d built over years of boardrooms and hostile negotiations—crumbled like ash.
He didn’t kiss her. Not yet. Instead, he cradled her face in both hands, tilting it up so he could look at her properly. Really look. The flour dusting her cheekbone. The way her lips had parted. The pulse hammering visibly at the base of her throat.
“You’re sure?” His voice came out ragged, barely controlled. “Because once I start, I’m not going to want to stop.”
“I’m sure.” She turned her head, brushing her lips against his palm. The gesture sent heat flooding through him. “I’ve been sure since you crashed in my storeroom and let me see you without your armor.”
He kissed her.
Not the slow, careful kisses they’d shared before. Not the desperate crash after he’d stumbled bloody to her door. This was deliberate. Consuming. The kiss of a man who’d finally stopped running from what he wanted.
He tasted her bottom lip first, teasing, before slanting his mouth over hers and deepening the kiss. She opened for him immediately, her tongue sliding against his, and the first real taste of her made him groan low in his throat.
