Chapter 1 #2
William’s photo shows a silver fox, perfect gray at his temples, with eyes like storm clouds that have seen everything and liked most of it.
He's sitting behind a massive desk, in an expensive suit that probably costs more than my car, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that should be illegal.
My gaze wanders towards a glass of something amber at his elbow, and next to it is my college graduation photo visible on his desk.
Pause.
My graduation photo?
Before I can process it, my tense hands accidentally brush against the screen, causing William's picture to be replaced by another one.
Marcus’s aura feels dark and dangerous; chef's whites that can't hide the tattoos peeking out at his collar, hands that I can’t decide if they look more like they could create a soufflé or strangle someone with equal skill.
He's mid-motion in a kitchen, holding a rather large knife, and the intensity in his eyes makes me think of every mafia romance I've ever read.
There's something violent in the graceful way he moves, like barely contained danger.
Fully aware this time, I swipe with calculated intention to see the last photo I received.
Jake appears rugged in firefighter gear, visible scars that tell stories I want to trace with my tongue, a jaw that could cut glass, and eyes as warm and burning as the fires they have surely seen.
He's leaning against a fire truck—the same one outside—and the smirk on his face says he knows exactly what kind of heroic fantasies every woman has about firefighters.
"Oh no," I breathe, sinking down until my forehead hits the cool marble counter. "Oh no, no, no."
Because they're not just hot. They're the kind of hot I write in the margins of my books. The kind of hot I dream about but never thought actually existed. Silver fox daddy energy. Dangerous chef with violent tendencies. Protective firefighter with a dark side. Are they even truly real?
They're literally my favorite romance novel heroes come to life.
And they've been watching me.
Marcus:
She's processing. Look how she's biting that lip.
Wait. Look how I'm—
I spin around, scanning the bakery with new eyes. The vintage light fixtures, the exposed brick walls, the industrial equipment. How do they know what I'm doing right now?
Jake:
Don’t panic. Your grandmother made sure you were protected. That includes making sure we could watch over you.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," I whisper.
This is crazy. You're all crazy. I'm crazy for not immediately blocking all of you.
William:
But you won't. Because you're curious.
My breath catches. They're right. God help me, they're right. Every book is a promise, a possibility, a door to something I want so desperately but don't know how to ask for in real life.
And this whole situation looks exactly like those books. And they look and speak and act exactly like the kind of men those stories portray.
How do you tell a normal guy you want to be owned? Shared? Pushed to limits you don't even know you have?
You don't. So you read about it instead and touch yourself in the dark, pretending.
But now... Now I feel like I've become the protagonist of one of those stories. The really dirty ones. With three men who look like sin incarnated.
And that, for someone like me, is impossible to ignore, no matter how illogical and terrifying it all is.
William:
7 AM. We'll explain everything. And if you're very good, little baker...
The typing bubbles appear and disappear several times before the next message comes through.
Marcus:
We'll show you that reality can be so much better than fiction.
Jake:
All you have to do is say yes.
I stare at the messages, my heart racing like I've run a marathon in heels. This is insane. Dangerous. Probably illegal in several ways. I should absolutely not meet three strangers who've been cyber-stalking me just because they're hot and know about some mysterious inheritance.
But they mentioned Grandmother. Grandmother, who never did anything without five reasons, all of them calculated. Who left me this bakery six months ago with cryptic notes in Italian and a locked basement room I can't open. Who apparently arranged for three men to... what? Spy on me? Protect me?
And I've been so alone since she died. So completely, devastatingly alone in this city where I know no one.
I've kept that part of myself hidden—the books I read, the fantasies I never say out loud, the nights I cry myself to sleep because I'm twenty-four and still a virgin, untouched the way those fictional women get touched.
Yet, these men have been seeing that all this time. They've really seen all that of me. They've seen me at my most vulnerable, my most real, my most... me. And they're still there, talking to me like that.
That has to mean something.
Doesn't it?
But my fingers are already typing.
7 AM.
William:
Good girl.
Those two words shouldn't affect me like they do. Shouldn't make heat pool low in my belly. Shouldn't make me think about all the scenes I've read where those words come right before—
Marcus:
Tomorrow then, principessa.
Jake:
Sweet dreams, baby. Try not to think about us too much.
William:
Though if you need material for your bedtime activities... I sent a gift to your apartment. It should arrive by six AM.
Bedtime activities? I flush even deeper, if that's possible. My face feels like it might actually catch fire.
I don't—I'm not—
Jake:
We know exactly what you are, princess.
Marcus:
Untouched. Pure
William:
For now.
The chat goes silent after that, leaving me sitting in my grandmother's bakery at midnight, covered in frosting, still holding my phone like it might explode. The place smells like sugar and butter and the ghost of grandmother's perfume—something with gardenias she wore every day until she died.
My entire world just tilted off its axis. Three men—three dangerously hot men—have been watching me. Want to meet me. Know things about my grandmother I don't.
And think I'm pure.
If only they knew how impure my thoughts are right now. How my body is reacting to just their words, their pictures, the promise in their texts. I've read about instant attraction, about chemistry that defies logic, about women who fall for multiple men and somehow make it work.
But that's fiction. Fantasy. The kind of thing that sells books but doesn't happen to virgin bakers in Baltimore who inherited their grandmother's struggling shop.
Right?
"Grandmother," I whisper to the empty bakery, "what did you do?"
I think about her. About how she'd smile mysteriously and say "You'll understand when you're ready."
Maybe I'm ready now.
Or maybe I'm just desperate enough, lonely enough, curious enough to walk straight into whatever trap this is.
Either way, I'm going to that hotel tomorrow.
Because the alternative is staying here, in this bakery, in this life, reading about other women's adventures while having none of my own.
And I'm so tired of being the girl who watches. Who reads. Who just fantasizes.
Tomorrow, I act.
Grandmother would approve.
I think.