Chapter 3
THREE
DAHLIA
The afternoon lull hit at three.
Dahlia retreated to her apartment above the shop, supposedly to grab lunch, actually to collapse on her grandmother’s old sofa and stare at the ceiling for five precious minutes of silence.
The living room held her grandmother’s things she’d never had the heart to change.
Hazel Moon’s portrait hung above the fireplace—a formidable woman with Dahlia’s coloring and a smile that promised mischief.
The reading nook by the window held books Dahlia hadn’t touched in months.
Dust gathered on surfaces she never had time to clean.
Her attention drifted to the desk in the corner. To the drawer where she kept the things she didn’t want to think about.
Don’t.
She got up and opened the drawer anyway.
The letter sat there, crisp cream paper with embossed letterhead. Patisserie Lumière. Paris, France. The deadline was in two months.
She hadn’t told anyone. Hadn’t let herself think about it. Because thinking about Paris meant thinking about wanting things for herself, and that felt impossibly selfish when so many people depended on her.
What do YOU want, Dahlia?
She could hear Avine’s voice asking the question, even though Avine didn’t know about the letter. Avine, who had found her own happiness six months ago. Junie, who had Leo now. Even Cassia and Narla had lives beyond the friend group, interests beyond supporting each other through crises.
What did Dahlia have? The bakery. Her friends’ problems. The fatigue she’d learned to hide so well that no one thought to look for it anymore.
She shoved the letter back into the drawer and slammed it shut.
Marzipan appeared on the windowsill, tail lashing.
Someone’s outside.
Dahlia crossed to the window that overlooked Main Street. A truck was pulling up in front of the bakery—sleek, expensive, completely wrong for coastal Haven Shores. Seattle plates.
The driver’s door opened.
And Dahlia’s breath caught.
He unfolded from the truck in pieces—endless legs, broad shoulders, a body that was built to take up space.
Tall. Six-three at least. Dark hair touched with premature gray at the temples, distinguished in a way that spoke of stress rather than age.
A suit that probably cost more than her new oven, charcoal gray and perfectly tailored, completely wrong for the windswept streets of Haven Shores.
But it was his face that caught her. Strong jaw, shadowed with stubble. A mouth set in a hard line. And those eyes—
God. He looked gutted. Worn down to the studs. Permanent shadows carved beneath his lashes spoke of years without proper sleep. He surveyed the bakery like he was cataloging it, assessing it, finding it wanting.
Her stomach dropped. Contracted. A reaction her body had no business having to a stranger. A flush spread across her cheeks that had nothing to do with the afternoon sun streaming through the glass.
Dahlia stood frozen at the window, pulse hammering, trying to remember how to breathe.
Marzipan’s tail puffed to twice its normal size. A low, hostile sound rumbled from the cat’s throat.
Bear. The impression came laced with feline suspicion. That one’s trouble.
“I know.” Dahlia’s voice held steadier than she felt. “That’s Callum Ursa. The prodigal heir.”
The bell downstairs chimed.
Dahlia looked down at herself. Flour-dusted dress. Hair escaping its braid. No makeup.
Doesn’t matter how you look. This isn’t about you.
She smoothed her apron, tucked a stray curl behind her ear, and headed downstairs.
He was standing at the counter when she emerged from the back, surveying the display cases with that same assessing stare he’d given the building exterior.
Up close, he was even more overwhelming. The breadth of his shoulders blocked out half the shop. His presence seemed to press against the walls, making her cozy bakery feel suddenly too small.
He smelled like pine and an undercurrent of danger. A wild edge that her witch senses registered as predator.
“Welcome to Honey & Hex.” Dahlia slipped behind the counter, letting the familiar barrier rest between them. Her hands wanted to tremble. She didn’t let them. “What can I get you?”
He looked at her then. Really looked. Those worn features taking in her flour-dusted dress, her escaped curls, the shadows that matched his own.
A flicker crossed his face. Recognition? Surprise? She couldn’t read it, and that unsettled her. She could read everyone.
“Coffee.” His voice was low, rough, carrying the rasp of too little sleep. “Black.”
“Coming right up.”
She moved to the coffee station, grateful for occupation. Behind her, she felt his gaze tracking her movements. Cataloging. Assessing.
He’s a bear. That’s what they do. They watch.
But this didn’t feel like idle observation. It felt personal. Pointed.
It felt hungry.
She poured the coffee, added a lid, and turned back to find him closer than he’d been before. He’d moved without making a sound—too silent for someone his size.
“Anything else?” She set the cup on the counter between them.
He reached for it. Their fingers brushed.
Dahlia sucked in a breath.
The touch was electric. Brief. A spark of contact that shouldn’t have meant anything, but instead burned through her nerve endings and lodged deep in her gut. His skin was rough. Callused in ways she hadn’t expected from a corporate CEO.
His hand went still on the cup.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The air between them felt charged, heavy with a tension neither could name. His nostrils flared slightly—a bear taking in her scent. His jaw tightened. His pupils dilated.
Then he pulled back like she’d burned him.
“What do I owe you?” The words were clipped. Harsh.
“Three-fifty.”
He dropped a ten on the counter. “Keep the change.”
And then he was gone, pushing out the door with more force than necessary, bell jangling in his wake. Dahlia stood behind the counter, staring at the ten-dollar bill, pulse hammering and her skin still tingling where they’d touched.
Marzipan materialized on the counter, having crept down from the apartment. The cat stared at the door with profound hostility, tail lashing.
Dahlia said nothing. Her hand still tingled. Her pulse still raced. Her body still felt flushed and aware in ways she couldn’t explain and didn’t want to examine.
Callum Ursa had come home.
And Dahlia’s carefully ordered life—the routine she’d built, the role she’d perfected, the dreams she’d buried in a desk drawer—suddenly felt far more precarious than the territorial dispute that had brought him here.
Through the window, she watched his truck pull away. Watched him grip the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands. Watched him stare straight ahead, not looking back, shoulders rigid with tension.
He felt it too. The realization landed with startling force. Whatever that was—he felt it too.
Marzipan hissed at the retreating vehicle.
Dahlia picked up the ten-dollar bill, tucked it into the register, and tried to convince herself that everything was fine. That this was attraction—simple, uncomplicated, easily ignored.
She was very good at lying to herself.
But even she couldn’t deny that a shift had occurred. A crack had opened the moment their fingers touched. And the look on his face when he’d pulled away—startled, almost frightened—suggested he was thrown by it as much as she was.
She thought about what Sue had said. Bears who need feeding.
Unfinished business.
She thought about the Paris letter in her desk drawer. About the dreams she’d convinced herself she didn’t deserve to want.
She thought about Callum Ursa’s hands—rough with calluses, steady despite his weariness—and the way his touch had made her feel more alive than she’d felt in years.
The cat wasn’t wrong.
But as Dahlia turned back to her display cases, adjusting pastries that didn’t need adjusting, she caught herself wondering what kind of trouble Callum Ursa might be.
And whether, after a decade and a half of putting everyone else first, she might be ready for a little trouble of her own.
The bell above the door chimed again—another customer, another need, another demand on her attention. Dahlia plastered on her smile, the one that came automatically now, and turned to greet them.