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cydney

Well, isn’t this just delightful. My alarm starts shrieking at 4:08 a.m., and honestly, that should be illegal. But here I am anyway, dragging myself out of bed like a sack of rocks, determined to hit every obstacle on the way down. Whose brilliant idea was it to set it this early? Oh, right. Mine. I manage to shuffle across the room, blinking at the blackness pressing against my apartment windows.

Don’t get me wrong—I love my job. Being the queen bee of Gobble Me Up is basically living my own Food Network fantasy, minus the TV makeup and with about eight billion percent more back pain. But this morning, it’s not just the usual pre-dawn panic that drags me out from under my warm, cookie-patterned comforter. It’s the possibility—no, the desperate hope—that Oliver, aka Mr. Tall, Dark, and Panty-Melting, will come back today.

I do the world’s fastest teeth-brushing, wrangle my hair into a lumpy bun, and shimmy into my best muffin leggings and a pumpkin-orange tee with little muffins printed on the sleeves. I consider putting on makeup, then decide I’m not going to change just to impress a man.

I ride the elevator down to the deserted lobby, already planning the busy day ahead. I unlock the door, and it’s barely 4:40 am. Insanity. Some people start their day with yoga. I start mine with forty-pound bags of flour and the lingering memory of a man who looked at me like I was the only dessert in the case.

Any anxiety I have, I decide to funnel straight into Pumpkin Spice Madness, no apologies. November’s here. If there’s ever a time to go full pumpkin, this is it.

I start with my signature pumpkin spice muffin recipe. I’ve baked these so often I could do it blindfolded, but today? I up the ante. Double cinnamon, a little extra brown sugar. Maybe I’m being reckless, but sometimes you have to live on the edge—a little wild, like a boardroom boss with nothing to lose.

Once the muffins are in the oven, I move on to pumpkin spice latte syrup. This is brand new territory, and I mess with the ratios until I get it just right. My kitchen is total chaos: measuring spoons scattered, sticky fingerprints on every surface, a dust storm of nutmeg that would take down a pilgrim. I keep tasting and adjusting, chasing autumn-in-a-cup, until finally, I nail it. Bold, creamy, decadent. When I hit the perfect blend, I actually fist-pump. Yes. Total victory.

While the muffins are in the oven, I get to work on the display case. I scrub at the glass until it gleams, all mirror–bright, then fuss over the pastries like they’re a batch of beauty queens heading for judgment. No crumb gets to escape my attention. The scent of baking muffins creeps up on me, thick and sweet, and damn near knocks me sideways. If anyone ever tries to tell me what heaven is, I’ll bet everything it smells exactly like this. I grab the pumpkin muffins straight off the tray, still warm, arrange them just so, and set out a line of cinnamon rolls like they’re soldiers in formation. My hands are busy, but my brain is already bracing for Flirt Fest 2.0.

By 6:15, Worthington Hills is starting to wake up. The building maintenance guy pops in for his usual black coffee and two apple fritters. Mrs. Jenkins, the town gossip and queen of cardigans, comes in, ordering an extra-large cinnamon latte and snapping photos of the bakery for her “around town” column. My regulars straggle in, familiar faces, easy banter, but not a single one of them makes my heart flip upside down. I’m still fiddling with the pumpkin muffin display, pretending to look productive, when Tessa sweeps in behind the counter exactly two minutes early. She’s got her practical work sneakers, her wild curls wrangled into a bun, and that look on her face that says she’s about to start interrogating me before I’ve even had a proper breakfast.

She narrows her eyes at me, then at the muffins, then back at me again. “How’s the morning going?”

“It’s been a typical Tuesday morning.” So far, but I’m hoping that changes soon.

Tessa grabs her apron and slips it over her head. “Can’t ask for more than that.” Oh, yes, we can. Damn. Now, I’m actually having full-blown conversations with myself.

While our regular stream of customers trickles in, I watch the time like a hawk. Tick, tick, tick. I’m acting like a lovestruck teenager, but I can’t help myself.

The door chimes at precisely 7:25, and in walks the star of every one of my late-night brain spirals.

Oliver Burkhardt.

This man is impossible. He’s wearing a navy suit that fits his shoulders like it was custom-molded at some secret billionaire’s tailor lair. Impossibly broad, borderline dangerous, and one hundred percent “too hot to handle.” His hair is a little damp from the shower, silver streaks at his temples catching the light. I’m not exaggerating when I say the temperature in here just spiked ten degrees.

He spots me behind the counter, and our eyes lock. The rest of the shop goes soft-focus. I’d like to think I play it cool, but the truth is, my inner thirteen-year-old is tap-dancing on the pristine countertop.

I give him my best not-too-eager smile, which probably looks like I’m trying to pass a kidney stone. “Hey there, stranger. Decided to risk the biscuit again?”

Oliver’s mouth does that half-smirk thing that makes me melt from the inside out. He walks right up to the counter, and I forget about everyone else.

“After yesterday,” he rumbles, “I’d be an idiot not to come back.” He leans in, one hand bracing on the counter, voice dropping like he’s sharing a secret. “I like living dangerously.”

Is it even possible to melt straight into the floor and spontaneously combust at the same time?

“Oh yeah?” I tease, fanning myself with a to-go cup. “How dangerous are we talking? You gonna let me pick your whole order, or are you just here for more of my famous ‘boss man’ coffee?”

He doesn’t even blink. “Surprise me.” Hazel eyes glitter like he knows exactly what effect he’s having.

My hands actually tremble as I grab a cup, but I try to play it off by spinning it in my palm. “Hold on, Mr. Burkhardt. I’m about to spice up your life.”

He chuckles, low and rough, and I have to clench every muscle in my legs to keep from sliding to the floor. Oh, I am so screwed—and loving every second of it.

“The spicier, the better.” Oliver’s voice goes even deeper, sending electricity shooting down my spine. “I trust your expert judgment. Do your worst.”

I fire up the espresso machine, loading it with the pumpkin spice syrup I perfected just this morning. Foam hisses, milk froths, and pumpkin and cinnamon swirl in the air. I might be showing off a little, but judging by the way Oliver’s watching me, I could probably light the place on fire and he’d just stand there smirking.

As I work, he watches every move, arms folded, muscles flexing under the sleeves of that tailored suit. “You always bake this early?” he asks, voice warm—curious, almost gentle.