Chapter 5
Marigold
My heart starts thundering inside my chest the second he walks into my shop.
It’s like boom-boom-boom, fast as Santa’s reindeer running across the night sky on Christmas Eve.
One second, I’m laughing with a couple of regulars, enjoying the five-minute break I gave myself from sorting dough for that ridiculous gala order, and the next—oh my freaking sex gods, he’s here.
I don’t even need a sign.
No name tag, no app notification.
I know.
I feel it—this spark that starts in my toes and races through me like I’ve just licked a live wire made of hot chocolate and panic.
Then, my gaze collides with his.
Emerald. Deep.
Serious enough to make my stomach somersault.
And bam.
I am officially a goner.
I recognize him from his profile pic, but it really didn’t do him justice.
Because Ebenezer Rogers isn’t just nice looking.
He’s gorgeous.
Refined. Built like temptation in a three-piece suit.
He’s got that buttoned-up energy that just begs to be unraveled.
I want to walk up to him, loosen his tie, mess up his hair—hell, maybe hit him with a handful of flour just to see what he’d do.
Because he looks like he hasn’t smiled in a long time.
And suddenly, I want that.
His smile.
His secrets.
All of it.
Which is so not good.
I don’t fall easy. But when I do, I fall hard—and splat.
Still, the baker in me defaults to autopilot.
“So,” I say brightly after the awkward introductions, as if I’m not internally combusting.
I mean the man says he doesn’t eat sugar. Who does that?
“Are you sure I can’t get you something sweet? Cookie? Scone? Brownie bite?”
His lips twitch—barely—but I’ll take it.
“Actually,” he says, voice like a rich, dark roast, smooth and deep, “are you closing soon? I thought maybe we could talk about this.”
Ah.
There it is.
The polite rejection speech, straight from the grumpy corporate playbook.
“Oh, that.” I nod solemnly, clutching my tongs like a weapon. “The ‘this’ being how you’re here, rejecting me.”
“I—what? No, I didn’t—”
“You are. Don’t sugarcoat it,” I say with a wink. “That’s my job.”
He exhales sharply, like the sound of a man who hasn’t been told “no” since the invention of the stock market. Clearly not used to being interrupted.
“Well, look,” he starts again, all deep voice and CEO calm, “you’re really very beautiful.”
I groan, dragging a flour-dusted hand down my face.
“Oh my God, please don’t tell me I ‘have a pretty face but need to lose fifty pounds to reach my potential.’”
He blinks, startled.
“What? No! Has someone said that to you?”
“Yep,” I reply, popping the p with all the sass of a woman who’s heard that line too many times and lived to tell the tale. “Multiple times, actually. It’s practically a mantra for men with pencil dicks.”
His jaw drops. “You have their names?”
I blink. “What? No! Why would I—wait, are you serious?”
Dead serious, apparently.
His gaze darkens, and for a second, I swear I see something dangerous flicker there.
Something primal. Protective.
“Marigold,” he says my name like it’s something sacred. “Aside from those assholes who clearly don’t deserve you telling you otherwise, I can’t believe you don’t know how hot you are.”
My brain short-circuits.
My throat goes dry.
My ovaries hold a quick emergency meeting to discuss strategy.
“You think I’m hot?” I ask, half teasing, half breathless. “And yet you’re still rejecting me? Wow. I’m not sure what’s worse.”
He runs a hand through his hair, looking pained, like he’s doing battle with his own instincts.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “I’m messing this up.”
I cross my arms, cocking a hip. “You think?”
“It’s just—” He looks at me again, raw and frustrated. “I’m too busy with work for a mate. I don’t do holidays. And no, before you ask, I don’t even date.”
The words sting more than I want to admit.
There it is again—that tight, familiar ache that comes with being too much for someone before they’ve even tried.
So I smile, sweet and brittle as spun sugar.
“Well, good thing I’m not in the business of begging men with scheduling conflicts to love me,” I say lightly.
“Now, would you like a cookie, Mr. Rogers? Sorry, I mean Eb. But to be honest, calling you Mr. Rogers might have just unlocked a kink I didn’t know I had.
Anyway,” I continue despite his startled gasp, “maybe you want I should just pack your emotional baggage to go?”
His mouth opens, then shuts.
And it seems to me that, for once, the big bad CEO has no words.
Me, on the other hand? I feel a little bit like I’ve just won a round against Wall Street.
Even if my heart’s the one paying interest.
“Marigold, I-I’m sorry—”
My chest squeezes a little, but I keep my tone light.
“Got it. No time for romance. Or Christmas. Mr. Scrooge strikes again.”
He flinches, and I might’ve felt bad if my pride wasn’t already packing its bags.
“Look, it’s fine,” I continue breezily. “If you can just click whatever button magically releases me from whatever this mate-of-the-moment nonsense is, I’ll move on to the next guy, and you won’t hear from me again.”
His whole face changes.
“Next guy?” he repeats, sounding offended. “What next guy? Did the app set you up with someone else?”
“Not yet. But from the model, I’m guessing it will,” I reply with a shrug.
“Is there—I mean, who exactly do you want to date?”
I blink at him, then laugh.
“Uh, literally anyone who doesn’t sound like he’s negotiating a business merger while dumping me.”
For a second, something dangerous flashes in his eyes.
Possessive. Primal. Almost animal.
I shake it off, rolling my eyes.
“Look, this app is totally wonky. It claims its users are all supernatural creatures, and I’m just not buying it. I might get visions sometimes, but what are the odds you actually turn into a Badger?”
I snort, waving a hand. “Come on. You? You’re like CEO hot. Not claws-and-fangs hot.”
He doesn’t smile.
Doesn’t flinch.
He just steps closer, his voice dropping an octave that sends shivers racing down my spine.
“You think I’m not really a Badger Shifter?”
I cross my arms, smirking. “Unless you’re about to start digging tunnels or fighting snakes, yeah. I think you’re just a very well-dressed accountant with anger issues.”
His eyes darken.
And suddenly, the air shifts.
It feels charged.
Heavy.
Like the space between us is crackling with static and danger.
“Are we alone?” he asks, and I nod.
The last customer left minutes ago, and sometime while we were chatting, I flipped the “closed sign” in the window and walked back to the kitchen with him on my heels.
“Well,” he says, voice low and rough, “hold on to your apron, Honey.”
Before I can blink, something moves behind his eyes—green flashes of gold—and a rumble vibrates from deep in his chest.
My jaw drops.
That second sight of mine—the one I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to ignore—yeah, it decides now is the perfect time to kick in.
As I stare at him, everything around us blurs.
His outline starts to shimmer, colors flickering like an oil slick in sunlight.
It’s not just light—it's energy.
Him.
And then… he changes.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, stumbling back, my hand flying to my chest. “You’re actually—”
There’s a ripple, like the air itself flexes, and in the space where Eb Rogers—grumpy businessman extraordinaire—was standing a heartbeat ago now crouches something wild and magnificent.
A massive creature, low to the ground and powerful, muscles rippling beneath sleek, jet-black fur.
A white stripe cuts a bold line from the top of his head down his spine, and his claws—holy mother of marshmallows—look like they could tear through concrete.
His fangs glint under the warm light of my bakery, sharp and gleaming.
A low, guttural rumble vibrates through the floorboards, and I feel it travel straight up my legs, settling somewhere entirely inappropriate.
But those eyes? Those beautiful, bright green eyes—they’re the same.
Eb’s eyes.
The sound coming from his beast is feral and warning, but for some reason, I’m not scared.
Not even a little.
I should be running for the hills, calling animal control. Maybe an exorcist.
Instead, I stand there, heartbeat hammering, biting my lower lip as I meet his gaze—and realize that the look in those eyes isn’t hunger—not the I want to shred you with my claws and literally eat you kind, anyway.
It’s interest.
Possession.
Recognition.
“Holy fudge buckets,” I breathe.
He growls again, louder this time, the sound vibrating through the room like thunder.
My mixing bowls rattle on the shelves.
My pulse goes haywire.
Then, as quickly as it happened, his form shimmers again—and suddenly, he’s standing there.
Tall.
Broad.
Completely. Utterly. Heart-stoppingly. Naked.
Yep, he’s just totally NAKED.
My jaw drops.
My brain short-circuits.
Every inappropriate thought I’ve ever had decides now’s the time to stage a comeback tour.
“Oh. My. God.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice low and rich, a dangerous grin curving those unfairly perfect lips. “I told you.”
He steps closer, the air between us thick with heat and honey and something that makes my insides melt like buttercream in July.
“I’m a Honey Badger,” he says, that grin going full sinful. “And I never bluff.”
My mouth opens.
No words come out.
Only one very unholy thought flickers through my head.
I am so screwed.
Well, with any luck, I will be.