Chapter 2 Xaden #5
“Because I know everything,” she replies, accent faint but the smugness universal. “The town eye candy. In Finland, it would be a curse. A pretty face does not bring porridge to the table.”
Earl squeaks. “Maija, that’s inappropriate! Also, what about my pretty face?”
“Don’t worry. You look like you can provide porridge,” Maija replies evenly. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Earl. Can we talk about Willard?”
He lets out a brittle laugh. “Who? Never heard of him!”
“Sheriff Hugh Willard. Who treats your bakery like his personal corner office.”
Earl freezes. “I have nothing to say about Sheriff Willard,” he blurts. “Except that he’s an upstanding, fair, and, uh, honorable man who absolutely does not—”
“—steal your cinnamon rolls,” Maija finishes. “Except he does. Frequently.”
“Maija!” Earl sputters. “We talked about this!”
“Yes. And I told you to stop letting him walk all over you. You’re a grown man, Earl. With buns of your own.”
Eventually, Earl folds like a lawn chair. “Fine. Yes. Willard comes in here like he owns the place. If he doesn’t get what he wants, he makes comments. Zoning codes, fire inspections, permits that might suddenly get... misplaced.”
Maija nods. “Classic corruption. In Finland, we solve this with shame and possibly a duel in the swamp.”
Earl sighs. “She’s visiting in September,” he whispers, eyes wide with meaning. Then he wiggles his eyebrows.
Maija catches it instantly. “Do not waggle. It makes you look like a pervert uncle. In Finland, we send those into the forest.”
I leave a few minutes later, munching a leftover cinnamon roll Earl only gave me after Maija scolded him for being a bad host.
The talk with Earl gave me plenty of noise, but no answers that mattered.
Willard didn’t kill my father over free cinnamon rolls.
Whatever Dad stumbled onto — whatever got him killed — didn’t come from inside a bakery, or a bookstore, or a fae summit permit dispute.
It came from outside Baywood.
And it is something bigger. Darker. Something Willard is helping to protect.
If I don’t find the crack in his armor soon, he won’t just own the donuts.
He’ll own the whole damn town.
COLE
Caspian’s taking me to lunch. The place is Italian, just outside Baywood. I’ve never heard of it but Caspian’s been talking about it for quite some time.
Seemingly nervous, he parks in front of the unassuming restaurant, the kind you wouldn’t look twice at if you didn’t know any better.
The building is narrow, tucked between two larger shops. The door’s slightly chipped, the sign above it faded, but the faint smell of garlic and rosemary wafting from inside makes my mouth water.
“It’s here,” he says, almost reverently, like he’s leading me to some kind of sacred ground. “Hidden gem. Family-run. Traditions,” he adds, quite emphatically. Has he always been this devoted to pasta?
I raise an eyebrow. “How did you hear about this place again?”
“Don’t remember. Doesn’t matter,” he replies quickly, but he’s scratching his neck, a telltale sign that he’s hiding something.
I eye him sideways, suspicion rising. I look at his neat hair, his Hilfiger polo. It looks new. “Have you just had a haircut?” I ask.
Caspian shrugs. “Yeah, maybe.” Something’s definitely going on.
We step inside, and the atmosphere hits me immediately; a warm, welcoming chaos of family. The air’s thick with tomato sauce, herbs, and minced meat. The warm terracotta walls are lined with framed black-and-white photos of people I assume are relatives.
The whole place hums with a comforting, old-world charm.
The only thing missing is staff.
As if on cue, I hear raised voices. Someone’s shouting in Italian behind the beaded curtain that probably leads to the kitchen.
I look at Caspian, ready to exchange amused smiles, but he seems on edge, fidgeting with his collar. Why is he so nervous?
Then the beads on the curtain tremble slightly as a young woman emerges, with one of the most beautiful smiles I’ve ever seen on anyone.
“Welcome,” she says in a voice gentle enough to lower blood pressure. “Mi chiamo Maria. Your waiter will be with you shortly.”
She turns her head and — winking at Caspian, for some reason — shouts: “Antonio! Il tuo sugar daddy è tornato!”
The beads on the curtain rattle with the force of her words, and the other customers turn to stare. A man’s voice swears behind the curtain.
Maria smiles at us again, like she didn’t just try to summon the wrath of an ancient Roman god. She flashes Caspian a knowing smirk, then goes back to the kitchen.
“Sugar daddy?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
“Must be about the desserts,” he says, avoiding my gaze.
“If you say so,” I reply, not believing him for a second. “What’s going on with you? You’re awfully fidgety.”
Before Caspian can reply, a waiter I assume is Antonio emerges from the back. He’s wearing tight black pants, a sleek white t-shirt and a crisp apron.
He’s stunning, like his sister.
But unlike his sister, Antonio doesn’t smile, no, he scowls, looking downright unimpressed with the sight in front of him (which is my friend Caspian, smiling so brightly it’s like he became the sun.)
“You’re resilient,” Antonio says. It’s clearly not meant as a compliment.
I turn to Caspian, watching as his smile fades into something that looks a lot like panic. Finally, understanding dawns on me.
“I — uh,” Caspian tries to speak, but no words come out. I look at him in delight.
I’m thrilled to see this side of him — even if he’s fallen for someone from a whole different solar system. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Caspian lose his cool over anyone. Who would’ve guessed it would be this delicious to watch?
Antonio glances at me for a second before looking back at Caspian. “So, which is it? Sugar daddy or just an accountant who likes to dress the part?”
I snort, and Caspian practically chokes on his own breath. “I’m not — either,” he manages, face flaming.
Antonio smirks. “Are you sure about that, Hilfiger?”
I’m loving every second of witnessing Caspian being absolutely, undeniably flustered.
But I don’t miss the way Antonio’s eyes sharpen when they land on Caspian’s designer clothes, his tastefully expensive watch or neatly cut hair.
For a second, my amusement dips. I don’t like the idea of someone being mean to my friend.
Then I catch it. That flicker. Heat, quickly buried under the scowl, but it’s there.
Antonio might want to sneer, but he definitely wants to look, too. I relax, grinning again. Caspian’s not just rattling Antonio. He’s getting under his skin.
“I don’t have all day,” Antonio says and brushes a curl off his forehead. “So I'll just bring you some of that lasagna you had last time.”
Then he turns to me. “I’ll bring you the same. You'll like it.” Was it a promise or a threat?
Antonio saunters off, Caspian watching him go like he’s trying to solve a complex mathematical conjecture.
I sip my water. “You okay over there?”
Caspian blinks again. “What? Yes. Fine.”
“You stared at his—” I begin, only to be interrupted by a blushing Caspian. “I was admiring his, um, you know — work ethic.”
“You have a weird impression of work ethic, my friend.”
Caspian groans. “I’m doomed, aren’t I?”
“Yup. Next time, maybe warn me, so I can at least get the popcorn ready,” I grin, looking at my smitten friend.
This is the best lunch I’ve had in a long time and I haven’t even eaten yet.
When we’re back in the car, Caspian fumbles so badly with his seatbelt that he nearly strangles himself.
“Smooth,” I say, barely holding back a laugh.
“Can we not talk about it?” he mutters, finally clicking the belt with way more force than necessary.
“But I want to.” I’m already grinning. “I really, really want to.”
He groans and sinks into his seat like a man hoping the upholstery will swallow him whole. “Did that really just happen?”
“So many delightful things just happened that I need you to be more specific,” I say cheerfully.
“I asked for his number and he…” Caspian’s voice trails off. I’m happy to supply the rest.
“…and he said, ‘Sure, I’ll scribble it on your ego when it deflates.’”
Caspian lets out a strangled noise. “I don’t have a chance in hell,” he sighs. “Usually men give me their numbers without asking. Now I ask and got… burned.”
“Exactly,” I nod solemnly. “He’s perfect for you.”
“Well, obviously he didn’t think so”, he says in despair, like he’s Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet just turned him down. I can already imagine him pacing his lakeside flat later as if it was Pemberley.
“He was flirting with you,” I say.
Caspian looks at me in disbelief. “Were we even at the same table? He called me Mr. Hilfiger.”
“Yeah, but he looked intrigued when he said it,” I grin. “But can we talk about the fact you blushed?” I ask, beaming. “I didn’t even know your face could do that. It was so adorable.”
Caspian flips me off without looking at me. “I thought I’d spare you, but since you’re being so mean, I’m telling you. Your mom bought Noah a vintage hat stand and a duck lamp yesterday at the antique auction.”
“What? Why?” I groan.
“Aren’t those critical for four-year-olds?” Caspian says gleefully. “She mentioned something about an early Christmas present.”
“It’s August.”
“Vintage bargains don’t care about the calendar, Cole.” He smirks, clearly satisfied with his petty revenge.
I sigh dramatically. “You leave me no choice. The next time you blush because Antonio breathes in your direction, I’m taking a picture. And Caspian? I’m going to frame it.”
XADEN
A handful of regulars are scattered along the bar, nursing longnecks and shooting the shit. Johnny Cash croons in the background about walking the line.
I order a whisky, take it to a corner table, and make myself part of the furniture.
The half-curious, half-hostile looks from the regulars roll off me — trucker caps pulled low, grease still under their nails, one pair of eyes lingering too long before shifting back to the game on TV. Same as always.