Chapter 4
4
LILY
F or most of the morning, I’ve been playing catch-up in the kitchen while Hannah handles the steady stream of customers filtering through our storefront. Flour & Fable Bakery isn’t huge—just the long glass counter showcasing our daily offerings, the register area where Hannah works her magic with the customers, and the main domain—the kitchen visible through the wide archway behind the counter when the door is open.
Even with Christmas packed away and already one week into the new year, I’m still humming Jingle Bells while the industrial mixer whirs, my hands working through another batch of cinnamon rolls. They’re still selling out faster than fresh coffee. These are Mom’s recipe—the one that took her three years to perfect, tweaking the cream cheese ratio until it was exactly right. Even now, years after losing her, I still catch myself turning to share a joke or ask her opinion, usually right when I’m dusting flour off my favorite plum-colored dress that she would’ve lovingly scolded me for wearing in the kitchen.
Then, a new scent finds me, and I’m breathing it in deeper, unable to get enough. It stops me in my tracks, something inside me fluttering…
Between one heartbeat and the next, my world narrows to that scent—bergamot, old books, and autumn leaves, with an underlying sweetness that makes my insides flutter. The mixing bowl slips in my suddenly trembling hands, but I catch it before nearly sending frosting everywhere.
I set the bowl down with shaking fingers as I drift toward the kitchen archway. Through the open doorway, I spot Hannah manning the counter, boxing up pastries. The bakery is in full swing, regulars clustered around, the bell above the door chiming every few minutes with new customers.
But the usual comfortable chaos of our little shop fades to background noise as I step into the main bakery. Everyone keeps glancing up from their conversation, trying to be subtle about their staring and failing miserably.
Because there he is.
He’s examining our display case with the same careful attention I’ve seen art curators give to priceless paintings, one long finger tracing the glass above a row of eclairs. Tall enough that he has to duck slightly under our vintage crystal chandelier, with the kind of presence that makes our cozy shop feel somehow smaller and larger at the same time. His hair glints in the morning light, turning it to burnished gold, and when he straightens up, I see a glimpse of an intricate rose tattoo peeking from beneath his rolled sleeve.
My heart stumbles over itself when his gaze finds mine. Amber eyes are as bright as honey in sunlight. His mouth curves into a smile that feels like a secret shared between just us two. He strolls toward me like someone completely at ease in their own skin, and I find myself rooted to the spot, pulse thundering in my ears.
The way my body responds to his presence tells me everything my rational mind is still catching up to. He just looks at me, his smile widening just enough to show a hint of a dimple in his left cheek.
“I hope you’re the one responsible for those cinnamon rolls in the window,” he says finally, his deep voice sliding down my spine like warm honey. “Because they’re the most enticing thing I’ve seen all day.” His eyes say otherwise, and the heat in my cheeks tells me I’m not the only one affected by whatever this is between us.
For a moment, I forget how to breathe.
Then, I manage to find my words. “Most enticing thing all day? It’s barely nine in the morning. I’d hate to peak this early.” The words slip out before my brain can fully engage its filter, and fire slides up my neck.
Up close, his presence is even more overwhelming—a charcoal Henley that hugs broad shoulders, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with lean muscle. My eyes trace the sharp line of his jaw, those impossible cheekbones, and I’m convinced the temperature in the shop rises another few hundred degrees. I catch another whiff of that intoxicating scent. God, who is this man, and why does it feel like my whole world just tilted on its axis?
His laugh is rich and genuine, and something in my chest does a little flip at the sound. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” he says, and the way his gaze shifts over me tells me he caught my double entendre.
Hannah catches my attention, her eyebrows raised in a way that says we’ll definitely be talking about this later. I should care about that. I should care about a lot of things right now. But all I can focus on is the way his amber eyes haven’t left my face, like I’m some rare first edition he’s just discovered.
My knees actually wobble.
A slight smile plays at the corners of his mouth like he knows exactly what effect he’s having.
“What can I get you?” My response comes out embarrassingly breathy. I clear my throat and try again.
Hannah chooses that moment to practically skip past, bless her evil heart, and the look she shoots at me can only be described as delightedly wicked as she accidentally bumps my hip while delivering a tray of fresh scones. The gentle nudge sends me a half-step closer to him from behind the counter. She disappears back behind the counter with a satisfied little smirk.
The Alpha—and good Lord, is he ever an Alpha—prowls closer. There’s no other word for it. He moves like someone who knows exactly how much space he takes up and how to use it to maximum effect. All the ladies in the bakery notice him, staring, gawking, lost in their own fantasies.
“What would you recommend?” His gaze never leaves mine, even as he surveys the display case.
My hands dip into the pockets of my apron, and I’m grateful for the space between us because my body is doing things it has never done before. Heat pools low in my belly, igniting into flames. My skin feels too tight.
“That depends. Are you feeling adventurous, or do you prefer to play it safe?”
Something sparks in those eyes. “Do I look like someone who plays it safe?”
No. No, he really doesn’t.
“In that case...” I move along the display case, trying to ignore how his presence seems to follow me like a physical touch. How other customers Hannah is serving keep watching us. “The almond croissants are fresh out of the oven. Or there’s our signature cinnamon rolls—Mom’s recipe, actually.”
“Oh?” Something like recognition shifts in his expression as I glance at him. “You grew up in the business?”
“Sort of.” My response comes easier now, on familiar ground. “She started in our home kitchen, just catering at first. Built it into this.” I gesture around the shop, pride mixing with the old ache. I don’t know why I’m saying all this, yet I can’t seem to stop. “My sister and I took over after... after she passed. Added our own touches while keeping her recipes alive.”
“That couldn’t have been easy.” A softness coats his tone, as if he knows about loss, too.
“Worth it, though.” I straighten slightly. “Every time someone says our cinnamon rolls taste like home, or a bride cries over her wedding cake... that’s Mom’s legacy. That’s what matters.”
He studies me for a long moment, something unreadable on his face. “A woman who knows what she wants and builds it herself. Impressive.”
The compliment settles warmly in my chest, different from the heat his presence inspires. This feels... real. Earned.
“So,” I manage a real smile. “About those recommendations?”
“I’ll trust your judgment.” He returns the smile, and oh, that’s not fair at all. “Surprise me.”
I gather an assortment of our best sellers, adding one of our special chocolate Sin in a Box cookies. My hands still shake slightly when I pass him the bag, and when our fingers brush, electricity shoots straight through me.
His nostrils flare. His pupils dilate slightly. The air between us thickens with something that has nothing to do with baked goods.
“We’re open every day except Mondays.” I try to be professional, miss by a mile, and land somewhere around breathlessly interested. “Though mornings are best for the croissants.”
“Actually, I’m only in town for the day for business.” His smile turns rueful as he leans slightly closer, and I catch a few women at nearby tables shooting daggers in my direction. “Local antiques dealer wouldn’t stop raving about this place. Said your cinnamon rolls were worth crossing state lines for.”
“Just the cinnamon rolls?” I arch an eyebrow, channeling my inner femme fatale, but pretty sure I look more like a flour-dusted disaster. “Our scones have been known to start minor turf wars.”
He laughs, a ridiculously sexy sound that has me daydreaming about what it would feel like to be kissed by a man like him. “Is that why there’s a line out the door? Here, I thought it was the charming company.”
“Smooth,” I snort before I can stop myself. “Do you practice those lines in front of a mirror, or do they just come naturally?”
“Only to a beautiful baker.” His eyes are dancing up and down my body, and I’m suddenly very aware of how the morning light streaming through our front windows reflects the brightness in them.
“Let me guess—you say that to all the patissiers,” I shoot back while my heart flutters when his grin widens. I can’t stop staring at that adorable dimple of his.
The bell above our door chimes as another wave of customers floods in, and he glances over his shoulder at the growing crowd.
“I should probably stop monopolizing all this prime bakery real estate,” he says, adjusting his hold on the bag of pastries, stepping back with obvious reluctance. Then he winks—actually winks—and I swear my knees turn to butter on the spot. “Thanks for making my brief stay in town memorable.”
Just then, my phone dings in my apron pocket with a message from James.
Hey baker girl. Missed chatting with you.
I stare at it for too long. He’s been radio silent for days. Of course, he’d choose this exact moment to resurface. I stuff the phone away in my apron.
As the gorgeous customer slips out the door, I become acutely aware that every female gaze in the shop is locked onto me with laser focus.
“Ladies, our chocolate croissants are just as dreamy and far more attainable,” I quip, earning a few grudging laughs. But even as I head back to my mixing bowls, I can’t quite shake the lingering scent of bergamot and old books or the way his smile made the whole world feel a little brighter.
My phone beeps again, but I ignore it and jump into serving customers as the shop is chaotically busy. When we’re finally quiet, shelves close to empty, I head back into the kitchen, Hannah quickly on my heels.
“Well, well, well.” She’s leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. “That Alpha was interested in you.”
“That was nothing.” I busy myself with the abandoned frosting. “Just a customer.”
“Lily, your scent changed the moment he walked in. I could smell it from the register.” She moves closer. “Has that ever happened before?”
“No,” I admit quietly. “Never. I don’t... I don’t react to Alphas. You know that.”
She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “Maybe you just hadn’t met the right one.”
There goes my phone again, insistent. Hannah’s gaze tracks over my apron.
“Speaking of the right ones... you’ve been awfully attached to that phone lately. Something you want to tell your big sister?”
“Nope.” I pop the p sound, aiming for casual. “Nothing to tell.”
“Really? Because you’ve been checking it a lot. And now this Alpha walks in, and your Omega practically purrs, which has never happened before. Is he the one messaging you?”
I focus very hard on piping perfect swirls of frosting. “It’s nothing. Just... just someone else I text with sometimes. It’s not serious.”
“Uh-huh.” Her tone drips skepticism. “And this not-serious person is James, right?”
“It’s not serious... I mean, we haven’t even met. It’s just texts. Fun conversations. Nothing worth mentioning.”
“That’s why you’re keeping it a secret?”
Sometimes, I hate how well she knows me. How she can see right through my defenses to the truth I’m trying to hide from myself—that I’m terrified of how real this feels, how much I looked forward to his messages, and how defeated I felt when he stopped sending them.
“I just...” I struggle to find the words. “If I tell people, if I make it real... then it turns out to be nothing...”
“Oh, honey.” Hannah pulls me into a hug, her familiar scent—vanilla, coffee, and home—wrapping around me. “You’re allowed to hope, you know. You’re allowed to want things.”
My phone buzzes a third time. Hannah releases me with a knowing smile.
“Go on, check it. I’ll collect the empty baskets from the shelves in the shop.”
Hands shaking slightly, I pull out my phone and read James’s message.
Just wondering if you’ve committed any felonies today. You know, for research purposes. Also, hypothetically, what are your thoughts on Valentine’s Day? Asking for a friend. Who might be me. Who might want to try asking about meeting up. If you’re still interested.
I stare at his words, my stomach doing that familiar flip even as anger bubbles up. Two weeks of silence and he just waltzes back in with his charming serial killer routine? I’m torn between the urge to tell him off and the traitorous flutter in my chest at seeing his name on my screen again.
Oh, look who’s emerged from witness protection. Should I alert the authorities that you’re alive?
Ouch. Deserved that.
You think? I was THIS close to posting missing-person flyers with your chat avatar on them.
Would you have described me as armed with questionable timing?
Despite myself, I snort. More like ‘Approach with caution. Known to disappear without warning and reappear with suspicious Valentine’s plans.’
There’s actually a reason for that. One I’d rather explain in person.
Hmm. Sounds exactly like something a serial killer would say.
Says the woman who knows suspiciously specific details about body disposal, thanks to her true crime obsession.
Hey! Those are purely theoretical knowledge points. And you’re deflecting.
A pause, then.
You’re right. I am. Look, I know I messed up by vanishing again, but I swear I had a good reason. One that involves an emergency out of my control, location, and a series of unfortunately timed events.
And you couldn’t send a single ‘hey, not dead’ text?
Would you believe my phone got eaten by a mountain goat?
Now I KNOW you’re making shit up.
He pauses for a moment. Yeah... I am. But the truth is… unusual. And not great. And I’ve been beating myself up about going dark on you.
That’s... surprisingly honest.
I owed you that much. I really messed up, didn’t I? He responds quickly.
The fact that you know that helps. A little. Maybe. Jury’s still out.
Fair enough. I miss our talks. And your terrible puns.
Hey! My puns are works of art. Unlike your disappearing act.
Meet me for coffee, and I’ll tell you the whole ridiculous story. I promise it’s worth hearing. And if it’s not, you can add pathological liar with a vivid imagination to that missing-person flyer.
I bite my lip, staring at the screen. Meeting in person would make this real. Would risk turning this perfect bubble of connection into something that could disappoint. Or hurt. Or end. But there’s something about the way he owns up to his mistake, the thread of sincerity woven through his playful words… Unless he’s lying about that, too.
Fine. Valentine’s it is. And you’re buying or baking. And it better be a REALLY good story about that goat.
Deal. Though I should warn you, I clean up surprisingly well for a suspected serial killer.
I giggle. Now who’s getting cocky? I’ll have you know I just had a very charming customer who set a high bar for mysterious strangers.
Sounds like I have some competition. I better bring my A-game and best murder alibi.
You’re ridiculous. And that’s not the compliment you think it is.
And yet you’re smiling right now. Aren’t you?
I am, damn him. I plead the fifth. Now, stop fishing for compliments.
Outside the kitchen window, snow starts to fall again. My thoughts drift between bergamot and old books, the mysterious stranger’s wink that turned my knees to butter, and James’s words that still manage to make me laugh even when I want to be mad at him. I’m standing in the middle of my bakery store, suddenly understanding why my mother always said relationships were the most complicated recipe of all.