Chapter 3
lena
THE TART OF WAR
I know something is different the moment I unlock the bakery door.
There’s a faint scent lingering in the air that doesn’t belong—sawdust and something musky, almost spicy.
Like cedar and cinnamon had a baby. It’s not unpleasant, just unexpected, and it mingles with the permanent backdrop of sugar and butter that’s become the bakery’s signature perfume.
I flip on the lights, my keys still dangling from my finger, and freeze.
My counter—my beautiful, wobbly, character-filled counter—is different.
Sturdy. Secure. Perfect. And I know exactly who to blame.
“You sneaky bull,” I whisper, running my hands along the smooth marble surface.
The counter doesn’t move. Not even a millimeter. Yesterday, I could make it dance with a firm press of my palm. Today, it’s as immovable as its installer’s stubbornness.
I look around, noticing other miracles. The shelves that once tilted like they were perpetually drunk now stand at perfect right angles.
The cabinet doors hang straight, their hinges no longer screaming in protest when opened.
Even the trim around the windows has been finished, the once-raw edges now smooth and sealed.
My chest fills with something warm and fizzy, like I’ve swallowed champagne too fast.
I trace my fingers along the counter’s edge, feeling the precise craftsmanship. No visible seams where yesterday there had been a gap wide enough to lose a piping tip in. I test it with my hip, leaning my full weight against it. Nothing. Not even the whisper of movement.
“Thorne,” I say his name like a secret, like a spell, letting it melt on my tongue.
The silly, grumpy, surprisingly thoughtful Minotaur sneaked into my bakery after hours and fixed everything without a word. Without permission. Without asking for thanks.
I should probably be annoyed about the boundary crossing, but all I feel is a flutter in my stomach that has nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with the mental image of him working in the darkness, those massive hands carefully adjusting hinges and leveling shelves with a precision I wouldn’t have expected from someone so. .. large.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the warm, fuzzy feeling creeping up my neck. This doesn’t change anything. He’s still my landlord. Still a grump. Still the guy who threatens to raise my rent when I make moisture jokes.
But he’s also the guy who fixed my counter because he was worried it might collapse.
I slip my apron over my head, tying it with quick, practiced movements, and get to work. I’ve got pain au chocolat to laminate, sourdough to shape, and mango filling to cook down for a new tart recipe I’ve been tinkering with. No time for dwelling on mysterious midnight repair missions.
Except... my movements feel lighter today.
More confident. I slap my dough onto the counter with extra force, just because I can.
I load up my heaviest mixing bowl with double the usual amount of flour, place it near the edge—a spot that yesterday would have made it teeter dangerously—and watch it sit there, perfectly stable.
I practically dance around my kitchen, music blasting from my portable speaker, taking advantage of every inch of my newly sturdy workspace.
I’m piping chocolate filling into croissants when I spot him through the window.
Thorne, making his way across the courtyard, clipboard in hand.
His dark horns gleam in the morning sunlight, curving up majestically from his head.
He’s wearing a tight black t-shirt that clings to his shoulders like it’s afraid to let go, and a scowl that would send small children running for cover.
He stops to speak with the owner of the vintage clothing shop across the way, gesturing at something on his clipboard. His movements are crisp, efficient. All business. Not at all like someone who spent what must have been hours last night secretly fixing up my bakery.
I smile to myself, sliding the croissants into the oven.
I could let it go. Pretend I haven’t noticed. Match his stubborn silence with my own.
Or I could thank him properly and watch him squirm.
I opt for the latter, because I’m me, and tormenting my stoic landlord has become my favorite hobby. Plus, I know exactly how to do it: with food. His one weakness.
I assemble a box with military precision, selecting my best offerings: a chocolate-almond croissant still warm from the oven, a slice of guava cheesecake with a graham cracker crust that took me twelve attempts to perfect, a calamansi tart with toasted meringue, and my personal favorite—an ube pandesal roll glazed with condensed milk.
Each item a different color, texture, flavor profile. A greatest hits album in pastry form.
I close the box, tie it with a sunshine-yellow ribbon because I know it’ll make him groan, and wait for the perfect moment.
It comes just after the morning rush dies down. Through the window, I see him exit the flower shop next door, making notes on his clipboard. I grab the box and dart out the front door, timing my “casual” sidewalk crossing to intercept him.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I say, as if bumping into him in front of his own building is some wild coincidence.
He looks up, those dark eyes narrowing slightly as they focus on me. “Reyes.”
Just my name. One word. Yet somehow he manages to pack it with a world of suspicion.
“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” I gesture vaguely at the sky, which is actually overcast and threatening rain. “Perfect day for... making rounds? Is that what you call it? When you stalk around looking all official with your clipboard of doom?”
His left eyebrow twitches. “It’s called property management.”
“Riiiight.” I rock back on my heels, hugging the box to my chest. “Very important business. Lots of managing to do. Speaking of managing things...”
I thrust the box at him before I lose my nerve. He stares at it like I’m offering him a live grenade.
“What’s this?”
“A thank you,” I say simply.
His expression doesn’t change, but his ears—those adorable, furry, bovine ears—flick once. A tell. “For what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. For fixing my counter. And my shelves. And basically everything else in my kitchen that was one strong breeze away from collapse.”
He shifts his weight, his massive frame suddenly looking uncomfortable in a way that makes my heart do a stupid little flip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I bite back my smile. “No? So my counter just... magically repaired itself overnight? And the shelves decided to straighten up on their own? And the trim fairy came to finish my windows?”
“Must have,” he grunts, still not taking the box.
“Well, then I guess this is for the counter fairy,” I say, pushing the box closer to his chest. “I hope they like pastries.”
For a moment, I think he might actually keep up the charade and refuse the box.
But then, with a sigh that sounds like it’s dragged up from the depths of his soul, he takes it.
His fingers brush against mine in the process, warm and rough, and I pretend not to notice the little spark that shoots up my arm.
“I have no idea what you’re thanking me for,” he insists, but the box is already securely in his grasp. “But I’ll... dispose of this properly.”
“You do that,” I say, grinning up at him. “Just be warned—proper disposal of those pastries requires teeth and an appreciation for butter.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches, like he’s fighting back something that might be dangerously close to amusement. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He turns to leave, box in hand, and I should let him go. I should head back to my bakery and let this strange, silent agreement between us stand. He pretends he didn’t fix my counter; I pretend I believe him. But I can’t resist one last push.
“Thorne?”
He pauses, looking back at me over his broad shoulder, one horn catching the light. “What?”
“Whatever mysterious counter fairy did all that work... you might want to tell them they left their scent behind.” I tap my nose. “Sawdust and something spicy. Very distinctive.”
His ears flick again, and this time I swear I see a hint of color creep up his neck. “I’ll be sure to pass that along.”
“You do that. And tell them they’re welcome in my bakery anytime. Day or night.”
He grunts something unintelligible and stalks away, clutching my box of treats like it’s a lifeline. I watch him go, admiring the way his broad back tapers down to his waist, the confident stride that makes the earth seem to tremble just a little.
Back in my kitchen, I’m struck with inspiration as I stare at the mango mixture bubbling away on the stove. It’s vibrant, tangy-sweet, with a hint of heat from the ginger I’ve added. Complicated and layered, just like a certain someone I know.
The next morning, I arrive extra early. I have tarts to make. A lot of them.
By opening time, a row of perfect golden pastry shells filled with luscious mango curd sits in my display case, each topped with a delicate butter cookie in the shape of horns. A small sign propped in front of them reads:
“The Grumpy Bullberry Tart – Sweet, Tart, and Secretly Tender.”
The first customer of the day points at them with delight. “Those are adorable! Are they new?”
“Brand new,” I confirm, sliding one into a box for her. “Inspired by a very special Minotaur.”
By noon, I’ve sold out of every tart except one, which I’ve kept hidden behind the counter. It’s not until late afternoon that I spot him again, making another round of the building. This time, I don’t wait for him to pass by. I dart outside, special tart in hand, presented on my nicest plate.
“Before you say anything,” I announce as I approach him, “this is not a thank you.”
He looks down at the tart, then at me, his expression unreadable. “Then what is it?”
“It’s a Grumpy Bullberry Tart,” I explain, holding it higher so he can see the horn-shaped cookie on top. “Named after someone who definitely did not fix my counter and absolutely deserves no gratitude whatsoever.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but something dangerously close. “Bullberry isn’t a real fruit.”
“Artistic license,” I shrug. “Try it. They sold out in like, three hours, but I saved this one specially for the... inspiration.”
He takes the plate, his large hand making it look doll-sized, and studies the tart with suspicion. “You named a dessert after me?”
“No, I named it after a mythical grumpy bull. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.”
This time, I swear I see his lips curve up. Just for a second. Like a solar eclipse—rare and stunning and gone before you can truly appreciate it.
“It has horns,” he points out.
“Lots of things have horns.”
“It’s literally called ‘Grumpy Bull.’”
“Pure coincidence.”
He shakes his head, but then, to my absolute delight, he picks up the tart with his fingers and takes a bite. His eyes widen slightly as the flavors hit—the buttery crust, the bright mango filling with that kick of ginger, the sweet cookie garnish.
“Well?” I ask, bouncing a little on my toes. “Verdict?”
He chews slowly, deliberately, making me wait. Then, with studied casualness, he says, “It’s adequate.”
Coming from Thorne, that’s practically a five-star review.
“I knew it,” I beam at him. “You like it.”
“I said it was adequate.”
“Your mouth says ‘adequate’ but your eyes say ‘this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted, Lena, you’re a genius.’”
He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deny it. Instead, he pops the rest of the tart into his mouth in one bite, crumbs catching in the light stubble along his jaw. I have the strangest urge to reach up and brush them away.
“Just so we’re clear,” he says after swallowing, “I still have no idea why you’re giving me special treatment.”
“And I have no idea who fixed my counter,” I counter.
We stand there for a moment, at an impasse, neither willing to admit what we both know. Then he hands me back the empty plate.
“Your counter was a hazard,” he finally says, his voice gruff. “It was a liability issue.”
I nod solemnly. “Of course. Very professional of you to address such concerns.”
“Exactly.”
“Nothing personal at all.”
“Nothing.”
I take the plate, our fingers brushing again. This time, I don’t imagine the tiny hitch in his breathing. “Well, thank you for trying my tart, even if it has nothing to do with you. I’ll be sure to let the counter fairy know it was a hit.”
He grunts, adjusting his clipboard. “Don’t push your luck, Reyes.”
“Pushing luck is my specialty,” I remind him, echoing my words from before. “Along with naming tarts after mysterious building maintenance entities.”
He turns to go, but pauses, looking back at me. “The tart... it wasn’t just adequate.”
My heart does a little somersault. “No?”
“No.” A beat. “It was good.”
And with that, he walks away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk, clutching an empty plate and wearing what I’m sure is the most ridiculous smile.
Inside my sturdy, perfectly level bakery, I decide that tomorrow I’ll experiment with cinnamon rolls. Extra large ones. The kind that might tempt a certain Minotaur to admit he actually enjoys my baking.
Not that I care what he thinks.
Not at all.
(Except that I absolutely do.)