Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
DAHLIA
They spent the next two hours taking stock.
Cal was surprisingly competent. He moved through her kitchen with an efficiency that spoke of familiarity—checking dates on ingredient bags, calculating usage rates, building a spreadsheet on his phone that tracked every magical component she’d need to maintain her charmed products.
His hands were sure as he organized her cluttered storeroom, grouping supplies by category, by urgency, by replaceability.
Those hands. Dahlia kept finding her attention drawn to them. Broad palms. Long fingers. Calluses she hadn’t expected—roughness that spoke of work beyond keyboards and boardrooms.
“You know your way around a commercial kitchen.” She watched him navigate the narrow space between her workbench and the industrial ovens, ducking under hanging copper pots with practiced ease. “That’s not what I expected from a corporate CEO.”
“My grandmother taught me.” His voice softened, the hard edges rounding. “Before everything went to hell. She ran the sleuth’s communal kitchen—fed everyone during festivals, holidays, gatherings. I spent half my childhood in that kitchen, getting underfoot and stealing scraps.”
Her breath caught. A crack in the image she’d built of him—the closed-off corporate stranger, the abandoner who’d left his people behind. The man standing in her kitchen now, working through her supplies with careful attention, didn’t match that image at all.
“Passed down recipes?” she asked, trying to keep her voice light.
“She tried.” The corner of his mouth lifted—brief, almost reluctant, but real. “I’m better at eating than cooking. But I can identify quality ingredients. And I know how to organize a supply chain.”
“Useful skills.”
“In the right context.” He reached past her to grab a jar from the upper shelf—spelled sugar, the label written in Narla’s elegant script.
His arm brushed her shoulder.
Dahlia sucked in a breath.
The touch was brief. Accidental. The sleeve of his shirt against the bare skin of her arm, cotton against flesh.
But heat spread across her skin where they’d made contact, traveling down her arm and settling low in her belly.
She pressed her lips together and did not make a sound.
Her body had apparently decided, without consulting her, that this was significant.
Cal went still. His arm was still raised, still close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body through the thin cotton of his shirt.
Neither of them moved.
Dahlia could hear his breathing. Slightly faster than it should be.
Could see the tension in his jaw, the way his pupils had dilated until his gaze looked almost black.
This close, she could smell him—not the pine and wild animal warmth alone, but a deeper note underneath.
A scent that made her want to lean in, press her nose to his throat, breathe him in.
He felt it too. Whatever this was—this pull, this awareness—he felt it as strongly as she did.
“The jar.” Her voice came out more strained than intended. “Did you need it for something?”
Cal blinked. Stepped back. Put distance between them that Dahlia both appreciated and resented in equal measure.
“Spelled sugar.” He held up the jar, his voice carefully neutral. Too neutral. The voice of a man fighting for control. “You have more of this than I expected. It’s not as dependent on bear territory, is it?”
“No. I can source that from the coven. Narla helps with the enchantment.” Dahlia busied herself with inventory sheets, grateful for the occupation. Something to focus on besides the lingering sensation on her arm. “The honey is the critical component. Everything else is replaceable.”
They worked in silence for a few minutes. The air between them felt charged, heavy with unspoken tension. Dahlia could feel his presence without looking—knew exactly where he was in the small space. Her body tracked him with an awareness that bordered on supernatural.
Marzipan appeared in the doorway. The cat surveyed Cal with narrowed focus, tail swishing in slow, deliberate arcs.
He’s still here.
He’s helping. Dahlia replied silently.
Hmm. Marzipan didn’t sound convinced. But when Cal glanced at the cat’s water bowl—empty, Dahlia noticed with a stab of guilt—and crossed to the sink to refill it without being asked, without making a production of it, Marzipan’s tail stopped swishing.
He set the bowl back down, fresh water glinting in the light, and returned to his inventory without comment.
...Acceptable. The cat’s mental voice was grudging. For now.
Dahlia bit back a smile. High praise, coming from Marzipan.