9. Wrenley
NINE
WRENLEY
M y heart does a little flip-flop at what Saint probably thinks is an innocuous question. It’s ridiculous, this fluttery reaction to a man who considers smiling to be a strenuous activity.
“I’m still browsing,” I say, my voice a little too breathless for a casual pastry inspection.
My gaze skitters from his intense blue eyes to the apple crumble. “But you guys are right. That one looks promising.”
Promising? What am I, a food critic now?
Noa, bless her observant, probably smirking soul, chimes in. “There’s only one slice left. Usually I reserve it for Saint, but since you were first in line…”
Oh no.
My eyes widen. “Oh. No. Absolutely not. I couldn’t. That’s practically grand larceny in the Toussaint penal code, isn’t it?”
I glance at Saint, expecting a thundercloud, but find something far more unsettling: a flicker of amusement in his eyes and the barest hint of a grin playing on his lips .
He leans an arm on the counter, bringing him closer. Too close. The scent of him, cooking smoke and that subtle, woody spice, wraps around me.
“Grand larceny?” he repeats, his voice a low rumble that vibrates right through me. “You have no idea, Wrenley. Crumble theft is a particularly heinous crime in Falcon Haven. Punishable by … well, we’d have to consult the ancient town charter. It involves public shaming, possibly.”
Noa chuckles, wiping down an already spotless part of the counter. “He’s kidding. Mostly. Though he does get a little possessive over that last slice.”
Noa slides the warm slice onto a plate with a spatula, then places it between us. “I’ll let you two work it out while I restock the muffins in the back.”
Noa winks at me— winks at me—before disappearing through the kitchen’s double doors.
I practically shove the air in the direction of the crumble. “You have it. Please. It’s all yours.”
My stomach rumbles with the loss, and I swear Saint hears it because he pushes off the counter and picks up a fork from the nearby container.
His fingers are long, calloused, and tattooed between each knuckle. The same fingers that had so gently bandaged my arm now wield a dessert fork like a weapon.
Saint stabs the fork into the crumble, expertly capturing a perfect bite, laden with apple and buttery topping. Then he extends it toward my mouth.
“Go on,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that seems to thrum through the floorboards. “Steal my crumble, Wrenley.”
My eyes lock with his. The air in the small café suddenly feels thick and hot as every background noise fades into a distant hum. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a glint in his eyes, a subtle shift that makes my pulse hammer.
Slowly, because my limbs feel like they’re moving through honey, I lean forward.
My lips part, brushing against the cool metal of the fork as he gently settles it on my tongue.
The crumble is warm, sweet, the cinnamon a gentle spice. It melts. I melt. This is divine.
“Good?” he asks, his attention fixed on my mouth.
My cheeks are on fire. I snatch up the other fork, needing to do something with my hands. “It’s very good.”
“Just very good?” Saint stands close enough that I can feel his breath on my lips. “If you said that about one of my dishes, I’d kick you out of the kitchen.”
Before I can process what’s happening, he lifts another bite to my lips. “Try it again. Properly this time. Close your eyes.”
My eyes do the exact goddamn opposite. “What?”
“You heard me. Do it.”
He leaves no room for argument, but his tone is edged with something that isn’t annoyance for once.
I hesitate, then slowly let my eyelids drift shut. The world narrows to the scent of cinnamon, apples, and Saint.
“Now,” he murmurs, his voice closer, “you don’t just attack it with your teeth. You let it linger. Feel the warmth on your tongue first, then the way the apple gives, the texture. Let it coat your tongue before you even think about swallowing.”
He’s talking about the apple crumble. He is. But the way he’s describing this moment is like he’s giving instructions for a far more intimate moment, like if I were on my knees and he was unzipping his pants …
Mind out of the GUTTER, Wrenley! This is your boss now. And you’re in a public place. Have some decency.
My brain has the right idea, but my body doesn’t want to hear it. My thighs clench together, containing the ache.
The fork touches my lips again. I part them, a shiver tracing down my spine as he carefully places the bite inside. This time, I follow his instructions, the crumble a slow explosion of flavor and sensation, the buttery topping melting, the apples soft and tangy. It’s ridiculously, obscenely good.
And the way he described it…
My eyes fly open as I swallow, a small, mortified sound escaping me. “Oh my god. That’s your crumble. You’re the one who makes it, aren’t you? I just ate your crumble. Twice.”
Saint’s mouth quirks. He sets the fork down on the plate, then leans back and crosses his arms. “Technically, Noa and I have joint custody. We created it together when she was a student in my cooking class.”
My brows jump, and I blurt, “You taught people? Willingly? And you didn’t make them cry?”
“I taught a local class for one summer when I first opened C’est Trois to bring in business. Never again.”
Saint’s probably referring to the teaching, but my brain, traitor that it is, is stuck on the other kind of instruction he’d just delivered, the one that had my thighs clenching and my stomach doing a nervous, fluttery jig. The man weaponizes dessert.
And I, apparently, am a willing casualty.
His gaze drops to my mouth again, a slow, deliberate trail that makes me have to remember to breathe. “You have a little… right there.”
Saint reaches out, his thumb brushing the corner of my lips. His touch is like fire, and it fucking brands me .
“Oh.” My voice is a whisper. I feel like I’ve just run a marathon. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t pull his hand away immediately. His thumb lingers for a fraction of a second too long, his blue eyes holding mine captive. The air crackles again.
Add walking electrical storm to his résumé, too.
“You should probably,” I stammer, gesturing vaguely toward the door, “get back to your restaurant things. Chef duties. Important stuff.”
My brain has officially shriveled.
“Probably,” he agrees, but he doesn’t move. His gaze is still on my mouth, as if he’s memorizing the shape of it.
I need to escape. Now. Before I do something monumentally stupid, like ask him to feed me the rest of the crumble.
Or kiss me.
“Well, this has been … crumbly,” I say, then clamp my mouth shut at the horror of what I just said. “I, um, I have to go.”
I grab my purse, nearly knocking over my coffee cup. Smooth. So smooth. Saint raises an eyebrow, a hint of that earlier amusement back in his eyes. I practically flee Libby Jude’s, the cheerful bell above the door mocking my clumsy retreat.
Outside, the crisp autumn air is a shock to my heated skin. I gulp it down, leaning against the cool metal of the Range Rover, trying to get my pulse under control.
What in the actual hell was that? It felt like foreplay. Hot, intense, cinnamon-dusted foreplay.
I need a distraction. A big one. I drive a few blocks, my hands still trembling slightly, and park near the town green, a picturesque square with a gazebo and ancient oak trees.
Grabbing the book I’d optimistically brought, I find an empty bench beneath one of the oaks, its leaves a riot of red and gold.
The words on the page blur. My mind keeps replaying Saint’s thumb on my lips.
Giving up on reading, I pull out my phone.
Maybe a mindless scroll through social media will help.
But Brenda’s email still casts a shadow, and I’ve banned myself from accessing socials for at least a week.
Instead, my thumb hovers over the camera icon.
The sunlight filters through the leaves, dappling the grass, and the gazebo looks like something out of a movie.
It’s all so perfect. Too gorgeous not to capture.
I’ll record just a few clips. For me to look back on.
I tap the record button.
The familiar weight of the phone feels steady in my hand.
I pan slowly, capturing the way the light catches the vibrant leaves, the intricate ironwork of the gazebo, and the distant steeple of a church.
It’s purely mechanical at first, framing shots and adjusting focus, as the muscle memory of a thousand videos takes over.
A dog walker ambles past, his golden retriever sniffing enthusiastically at the base of a lamppost. A group of children chase a stray soccer ball across the green, their laughter bright and unrestrained.
Another clip of the charming, colorful storefronts across the street, the old-fashioned lampposts.
The beauty of Falcon Haven, unfiltered and unassuming, pulls me forward. I take another clip, then another, the small act of framing these moments a tiny harbor in the swirling mess of my emotions.
Saint’s face, the taste of his passion on my tongue, the heat of his touch against my skin… it all recedes, just a little, with each frame I save.