Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
The pastry case had never been so perfectly arranged.
She stepped back and surveyed her work with the critical eye of someone who'd reorganized the same display several times in the past hour.
Croissants fanned in a golden crescent moon on the top shelf.
Lavender scones formed neat rows below. The honey tarts caught the morning light through the window, their glazed surfaces gleaming like polished amber.
She adjusted one tart a quarter inch to the left. Stepped back. Moved it a quarter inch to the right. All while the bell over the door stayed silent.
Seven forty-five. Fifteen minutes until he arrived, and she'd already wiped down every counter, swept the floor twice, and brewed coffee she wasn't sure she should offer him.
Was coffee too friendly? Too domestic? Would he read something into a simple cup of coffee, or would refusing to offer it make her look petty?
She knew she was overthinking everything. That didn't stop her from untying her apron and re-tying it with more precise knots, and checking the clock again.
Seven forty-six.
The bakery hummed with warmth around her, ovens radiating heat that pressed back against the frost creeping up the window panes.
Maeve's eclectic collection of vintage tables and mismatched chairs scattered across the small space, each one worn smooth by decades of use.
String lights dangled from exposed beams alongside bundles of dried herbs, and the walls held layer upon layer of island photographs in frames that had long since stopped matching.
One frame near the register held a faded sketch of a woman rising from the waves, her hair tangled with kelp, her mouth open in what might have been a scream or a song.
Underneath, in handwriting so old the ink had gone brown it read, The Siren of Devils Point, 1947.
She had asked Maeve about it once and she’d laughed.
“Tourist bait,” she had said, waving her off.
“Some fisherman’s wife drew it to sell postcards. Every coastal island needs a monster.”
This was her territory. Until now.
She'd chosen the corner table deliberately, positioned so her back was to the wall and she could see both the door and the windows. It was only a small advantage, but she'd take what she could get.
Her notes lay spread across the table—vendor lists, timeline drafts, budget projections Mara had helped her compile. Evidence that she was prepared, professional, capable of handling this assignment without letting personal complications derail the work.
Personal complications. That was one way to describe wanting a man who'd spent three months trying to convince the pack to throw her out.
Willow pressed her palms flat against the counter and breathed.
The oak was cool beneath her hands, and offered her grounding.
She focused on that sensation, on the familiar scent of yeast and honey and the herbs drying overhead.
As long as it was anything other than the anticipation coiling tighter in her belly with every passing minute.
She'd read once that attraction faded without encouragement. Starve it of attention and it withered. A comforting theory, except hers seemed to feed on hostility like it was kindling.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Checked the clock. Seven fifty-one.
The coffee pot burbled on the warmer, filling the air with its dark, bitter scent.
She'd made it strong because it was her preference and she didn't know his.
In all honesty, she didn't know much about him at all, really, beyond the surface details everyone observed.
The sandy hair that fell across his forehead in a way that made her fingers itch to push it back.
The blue-grey eyes that crinkled when he laughed with Gray or Cal, warmth she'd only ever glimpsed from a distance.
The easy way he moved through the distillery, all loose-limbed energy that looked relaxed even when it wasn't.
The scar on his forearm. She'd noticed it during pack meetings, a raised line of pale tissue running from elbow to wrist. She didn't know the story. Probably never would.
She glanced at the clock again. Seven fifty-four.
Willow made herself step away from the counter and settle into her chosen seat. She arranged her notes in neat stacks, aligned her pen parallel to the edge of the table, and folded her hands in front of her. Composed. She was officially ready to treat this like any other business meeting.
Her pulse hammered against her throat.
The bell chimed.
Cold air rushed through the open door, carrying fog and the surprisingly comforting briny smell of the harbor. Ryker stepped inside, and Willow's carefully constructed composure shattered before he'd even finished closing the door behind him.
Heat flooded her cheeks. Her breath caught, her skin prickled, and that familiar ache bloomed low in her belly, sudden and devastating. She'd braced for it, told herself she was ready, and her body had ignored every mental preparation and reacted anyway.
He wore a dark henley that stretched across his shoulders, sleeves pushed up to reveal those forearms, that scar.
His hair was damp at the ends, like he'd showered recently, and he hadn't shaved.
Stubble shadowed his jaw, giving him a rougher edge than usual.
He scanned the room before his gaze landed on her, a habit, she'd noticed.
Always checking exits, always cataloging the space before engaging with the people in it.
When his eyes met hers, they were flat. Guarded. The walls fully up.
"You're early," she said.
"Didn't want to give you a reason to claim I wasn't taking this seriously."
Her jaw tightened. Great. He was already on the defensive, and he hadn't even taken his coat off.
He moved toward the table with that easy stride that made her think of predators pretending to be lazy.
The distance between them shrank, and her body responded to every inch of lost space, blood warming, pulse quickening.
She could feel the heat radiating off him, smell something woodsy and clean underneath the coffee and cold air clinging to his clothes.
She gestured to the seat across from her. "Let's get this over with."
One eyebrow lifted. Good. She wasn't going to pretend they were anything other than two people who had to get a job done.
He pulled out the chair and dropped into it, long legs stretching under the table until his boot almost brushed her ankle. She shifted back before contact could happen.
"Coffee?" She nodded toward the pot on the warmer.
He'd already pulled the top sheet from her vendor stack and was scanning it. "Black," he said, without looking up.
She rose to pour it, grateful for the excuse to put distance between them. Her hands stayed steady as she filled one of Maeve's mismatched mugs, blue ceramic with a chip on the rim, and carried it back to the table. She set it in front of him without ceremony and reclaimed her seat.
He wrapped his fingers around the mug but didn't drink. Just watched her over the rim, those warm brown eyes giving nothing away.
"You have notes," he observed.
"I have lists." She pulled one of the sheets toward her. "Vendor coordination first. I've already confirmed twelve local businesses for booth space. Three food trucks are finalized, but the fourth is still negotiating placement. The taco vendor wants to set up near the Plunge site."
"Sounds reasonable."
"Mara disagrees. She thinks cold people want soup, not tacos."
The corner of his mouth twitched toward a smile, but it was gone so fast she wasn't sure she'd seen it. "Mara thinks everything should be soup. She tried to put it on the distillery menu last year."
"What happened?"
"Gray told her whiskey and ales go better with cheese plates. She made him eat soup for a month."
Willow bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. This was dangerous territory, this almost-banter. She couldn't afford to enjoy moments with a man who'd go right back to campaigning against her the moment the festival ended.
"Put him near the main stage. People watch the entertainment, they get hungry, food's right there." Ryker shrugged. "Simple logistics."
She kind of hated that it was a good suggestion. But that was the job she’d signed up for and sabotaging the situation was not the plan. "Fine. I'll tell him."
"You could also tell him to expand his hours. Last year he closed at seven, missed the whole post-Plunge rush."
"I'm not his business consultant."
"No, you're his vendor coordinator. His hours affect foot traffic patterns, which affect every other booth in his radius." He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that made his henley strain across his shoulders. "You want to be good at this job, you think three steps ahead."
Her spine straightened. Chin lifted. The prickle of defensiveness rose before she could tamp it down. "I kept this bakery running through the Christmas rush while Maeve was home with newborn triplets. I can think ahead just fine."
"Running a bakery isn't coordinating a festival."
"No, it's harder. Festivals only happen a few times a year.
Bakeries operate every day." She met his gaze and held it.
"I manage supply chains, staff schedules, inventory, and customer relations while also producing the actual product.
I've handled more logistics in the past week than most people touch in a month.
So unless you have specific expertise in vendor hours that I'm lacking, I'd appreciate you keeping your assumptions about my competence to yourself. "
Silence stretched between them. His expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or perhaps recognition that she'd pushed back harder than he'd expected. It was hard to tell with him.
"Fair enough." He lifted the coffee mug and took a long swallow. "What else is on your list?"