Chapter 2 #2
The scent hits me before she even fully extends her hand—cinnamon and sugar and butter, warm and rich and sinful. My mouth waters traitorously.
“I still think you’ll burn the building down.” I take the muffin, careful not to let our fingers brush. “This is just...insurance. Making sure it’s edible before you poison customers.”
Lena laughs, the sound bright and unreserved. It vibrates through my chest, makes my ears flick involuntarily. “Right. That’s why you’re here. For health and safety reasons.”
“Exactly.”
She leans forward, elbows on the counter, chin propped in her hands. The posture brings her closer, and I catch a whiff of something else beneath the bakery scents—something floral and warm. Her shampoo, maybe.
“So, Thorne. What’s your favorite color?”
I blink, thrown by the conversational whiplash. “What?”
“Favorite color. You know, the one you like best? The hue that makes your Minotaur heart sing?”
I stare at her. “Why would you need to know that?”
“Because we’re neighbors and you just walked into my bakery to eat my muffin, and normal people exchange basic information about themselves.
” She tilts her head, eyes bright with challenge.
“Unless you’re not normal, which, fair. I’m not either.
I once spent three days perfecting an ube cupcake recipe without sleeping. ”
“That’s not healthy,” I say automatically.
“See? Now we’re having a conversation.” She beams at me like I’ve accomplished something remarkable. “So. Favorite color?”
I take a bite of the muffin instead of answering, hoping food will shut her up. The first taste hits me like a physical force—sweet cinnamon and buttery crumb, with a crisp sugar coating that crunches between my teeth. It’s obscenely good. My eyes close for a split second before I catch myself.
“Blue,” I mutter after swallowing. “Dark blue.”
“Like your shirt!” She points at my chest. “I knew it. You strike me as a blue guy. Very solid choice. Mine’s yellow, which is probably super obvious from—” she gestures around the sunny-colored bakery “—all this. Mom always said I was born with sunshine in my pockets.”
I take another bite, larger this time, letting the flavors distract me from how much her random commentary is working its way under my skin. “Your mother sounds... descriptive.”
“Oh, she’s a poet. Literally. Published and everything.” Lena straightens up, grabbing a rag to wipe down the already-clean counter. “What about your parents? Are they bakers? Carpenters? Professional grumps?”
I nearly choke on the muffin. “Professional grumps isn’t a career path.”
“Could have fooled me.” She winks, actually winks at me, and something in my stomach does a slow, dangerous flip. “You seem very accomplished at it.”
I scowl, which only makes her laugh again.
“See? Expert level grumping.” She leans in, conspiratorial. “It’s okay. I like it. It balances out my... everything.” She waves a hand at herself.
As she moves, I notice the counter beneath her shifting slightly.
My eyes narrow, carpenter’s instincts kicking in.
The beautiful marble countertop is improperly mounted—the seam is visible, and there’s a slight wobble.
A shoddy job, probably done by the previous tenant.
Looking around, I see other issues now: cabinet doors hanging unevenly, shelves that aren’t level, trim that was never properly finished.
“Your counter is going to collapse,” I say before I can stop myself.
Lena blinks, following my gaze. “What? No, it’s fine.”
“It’s not.” I reach out, pressing down on one side of the counter. It dips, the wobble more pronounced. “Whoever installed this didn’t secure it properly. And your shelves are all crooked.”
“They add character,” she says defensively.
“They add hazard.” I finish the muffin, licking sugar from my thumb before I realize what I’m doing. I quickly drop my hand. “The whole place is a mess.”
“Says the guy who just demolished my muffin in four bites.” Her smile is smug. “Admit it. You liked it.”
“It was adequate.”
“Adequate?” She slaps a hand to her chest like I’ve mortally wounded her. “That muffin is a work of art. It’s a symphony of flavor. It’s—”
“Fine. It was good.” The admission feels like defeat.
Her eyes light up. “I knew it! That’s high praise coming from you. I should print that on my menu. ‘Thorne says it’s good.’ My Yum ratings would skyrocket.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Too late. Already planning the promotional materials.” She taps her temple. “It’ll be right next to ‘Moist: Where Every Bite Makes You—‘“
“If you finish that sentence, I’m tripling your rent,” I growl.
She laughs again, unfazed by my threat. “You know, for someone so scary-looking, you’re actually kind of a softie.”
I bristle. “I am not.”
“Oh please. You ate my bread and came back for more. You’re worried about my counter collapsing. Classic softie behavior.”
“I’m worried about property damage,” I clarify. “Which you seem determined to cause, one way or another.”
“Speaking of property damage—” she barrels on, ignoring my dig “—what’s your deal? I mean, beyond the horns and the muscles and the whole sexy-broody-landlord vibe. Do you have hobbies? A girlfriend? Boyfriend? Secret passion for knitting tiny sweaters for abandoned kittens?”
The barrage of questions makes my head spin. “What? No. None of those things. I make furniture.”
“Furniture!” She claps her hands together. “That’s perfect! So you could totally fix my counter.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m not your handyman.”
“Of course not.” She waves dismissively. “You’re much more qualified. A craftsman. An artisan of wood and other building materials.”
Despite myself, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. She’s manipulative in the most transparent way possible. It shouldn’t work. It doesn’t work.
“I have projects,” I say firmly. “Paying clients. A business to run.”
“Right, right.” She nods solemnly, then immediately brightens. “But if you ever find yourself with free time and the inexplicable urge to level some shelves, I make an excellent thank-you cake.”
I look at the counter again, at the precarious angle, at the potential disaster waiting to happen. All it would take is one heavy mixer placed wrong, or a particularly enthusiastic kneading session, and the whole thing could go. And then what? Water damage. Structural issues. Insurance claims.
A massive headache for me.
“I’ll think about it,” I say finally, already knowing I’ll be back after hours with my tools. Not for her. For the building. For my sanity.
“That’s Thorne-speak for ‘definitely yes,’ right?” She beams at me, like she’s already won.
I grunt, turning to leave before she can see the reluctant amusement I can feel creeping across my face. “It means I’ll think about it. Don’t push your luck, Reyes.”
“Pushing luck is my specialty!” she calls after me as I reach the door. “Along with cinnamon churro muffins, which you definitely didn’t hate!”
I don’t respond, but as I step back onto the street, I’m already mentally cataloging the tools I’ll need, the measurements I should take, the time it will require to fix her kitchen without her knowing.
Just to save myself future hassle. That’s all.
It has nothing to do with the way her eyes lit up when I took that first bite of her muffin, or how she looked at me like my opinion mattered.
Nothing at all.