Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
DAHLIA
The morning rush came and went. Dahlia smiled at customers, made small talk, pretended everything was fine.
Mrs. Patterson bought her usual comfort croissant, chatting about her husband’s latest doctor’s appointment while Dahlia made sympathetic noises and wrapped the pastry with extra care.
Tom Chen picked up a clarity cookie—still unemployed, still pretending otherwise, his shoulders hunched with the particular shame of a man who’d been taught that his worth depended on his work.
The Nakamura twins came in for their weekly box of courage cinnamon rolls, blushing and giggling about some upcoming event they wouldn’t explain. Dahlia didn’t push. She smiled, charged them half price, and watched them practically skip out the door.
Normal. Routine. As if Dahlia’s entire livelihood wasn’t crumbling beneath her feet.
By ten, the rush had faded to a trickle. Dahlia retreated to the kitchen, needing the comfort of flour between her fingers, dough yielding beneath her palms. Stress-baking. The only therapy that had ever worked for her.
She was elbow-deep in bread dough—a simple sourdough that didn’t require honey, only time and patience—when the bell above the front door chimed.
“Be right there!” She wiped her hands on her apron, tucked a stray curl behind her ear, and pushed through the swinging door.
And stopped.
Callum Ursa stood in the middle of her shop, filling the space with that same impossible presence she remembered from four days ago.
He’d lost the suit jacket—a white button-down today, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms roped with muscle.
His collar hung open at the throat, and his dark hair was disheveled, as if he’d been running his hands through it.
He looked furious.
Not at her—she could tell that immediately. His anger was directed outward, at a target beyond the walls of her bakery. But the intensity of it still made her breath catch.
“You heard about the Torres cancellation.” Not a question.
Dahlia leaned against the counter, keeping the barrier between them. Her body wanted to lean toward him, and she needed distance. Space. “News travels fast in Haven Shores.”
“Margot told me. She’s been tracking Magnus’s moves.” Cal’s jaw tightened, the muscle there jumping. “This is him. It has to be. Coordinated pressure on every honey supplier in bear territory, all happening within the same week? That’s not coincidence.”
“I figured that out on my own, thanks.” The words came out sharper than intended. Dahlia softened her voice, embarrassed by the snap of temper. “But I appreciate you coming to tell me.”
Cal moved closer. One step, but suddenly the shop felt smaller. His scent reached her—pine and a darker, wilder note. Predator musk that made her witch senses sit up and take notice. “How much do you have left?”
“Three jars. Maybe two weeks if I ration carefully.”
“And then?”
“Then I become a regular bakery.” She forced the words out flat. Emotionless. As if they didn’t represent the destruction of everything her grandmother had built. “No charms. No magic. Flour, sugar, and butter like everyone else.”
A flicker crossed Cal’s face. That same intensity she’d noticed when their hands had touched, but directed now at her problem rather than at her.
“Show me your inventory.”
Dahlia blinked. “What?”
“Your supplies. Your storage. I want to see exactly what you’re working with.” He was already moving toward the kitchen door, that corporate command presence taking over. “If we’re going to fix this, I need data.”
“We?” Dahlia followed him, caught off-guard by the assumption. “I don’t recall asking for—”
“Magnus is targeting you because your bakery sits on the boundary line.” Cal pushed through the swinging door into her kitchen, surveying the space with an assessing stare—taking in the commercial ovens, the massive wooden workbench, the ingredient shelves organized by magical property.
“That makes this my problem as much as yours. The sleuth’s problem. ”
Dahlia opened her mouth to argue. Closed it again.
Because he wasn’t wrong. And because some exhausted, overwhelmed part of her was relieved that someone else wanted to help carry this burden, even if she didn’t know how to accept help. Even if accepting help felt like failure.
“Fine.” She gestured toward the storeroom. “Through there. But I have to warn you—it’s not pretty.”