Chapter 3 #2
She shouldn't feel victorious, but she did anyway.
They worked through the vendor assignments with businesslike efficiency, trading information in clipped exchanges that never quite crossed into friendly.
He knew more about the island's infrastructure than she'd expected.
Delivery routes, equipment storage, which contractors were reliable and which ones cut corners.
She knew more about hospitality than he'd anticipated, such as timing considerations, crowd flow, and the small touches that turned a functional event into a memorable one.
Grudgingly, inch by inch, respect crept in around the edges of their hostility.
"Security checkpoints here, here, and here." Ryker tapped the rough map she'd sketched. "We need clear sightlines to the water for the Plunge. Tourists get stupid when they're cold and drunk."
Willow leaned over it, studying the placement. "The hot chocolate station should go opposite the alcohol booth, then. Give people a non-stupid option."
"Will they take it?"
"Some of them." She straightened. "The ones with functional self-preservation instincts."
He looked up. "That's optimistic."
"I prefer the term 'aspirational.'"
His mouth did that almost-smile thing again. This time, she looked away before she could read too much into it.
The morning light shifted as they worked, grey giving way to pale gold as the fog began to lift.
Willow found herself leaning over the table to trace routes on the map, pointing out bottlenecks in pedestrian traffic, sketching alternative layouts with quick strokes of her pen.
He countered with security concerns, adjusted her suggestions to account for visibility and access.
Their conversation quickened, the rhythm of it sharpening into something that felt like collaboration.
"The council deadline for all of this is Thursday," she said. "We need the final booth map submitted by then."
"I can have security positions confirmed tonight."
"And I'll lock down the last vendor placement. We can compare notes tomorrow and—" She looked up and realized how close they'd gotten.
He'd shifted forward during their discussion, forearms braced on the table, head bent over the map.
She'd mirrored his position without noticing, leaning in to point at locations, her hand extended across the paper.
Inches separated them. She could see the individual striations in his eyes, slate grey bleeding into deep blue at the edges.
Could feel the heat of his breath and watch the pulse beating at his throat.
The air between them thickened. Charged.
Her mouth went dry. Her body, traitor that it was, flooded with want so sudden and intense that she knew—knew—he could sense it. The way his nostrils suddenly flared was a dead giveaway. But when his jaw tightened, and his eyes dropped to her mouth for one suspended heartbeat...
Neither of them moved. Or breathed.
She saw something flicker in his expression. Something raw and hungry that looked nothing like hostility, or cold professionalism. Something that made her heart slam against her ribs and her fingers ache to close the distance between them.
His gaze lifted back to hers. Held. The moment stretched, elastic and unbearable.
Then he pulled back.
The distance opened between them like a wound. His expression shuttered, walls slamming into place so fast she could practically hear them crash. When he spoke, his voice was flat, almost bored.
"Make sure your notes are accurate. I don't have time to fact-check everything your mother's people taught you."
She went still at his words. Cold spread through her chest where heat had been a moment before, shame and hurt tangling together until she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
He'd done it deliberately. Weaponized the tension between them, used her parentage as a blade because she'd let him see her want him.
She should have expected it. She did expect it. That didn't stop it from cutting.
"My notes are accurate." Her voice came out steady, professional. She was proud of that. "And my mother has nothing to do with my ability to count vendor booths."
"Doesn't she?" He pushed back from the table, rising to his full height in a way that made her feel the difference in their sizes. "You let yourself be brainwashed by a maniac for years and now I'm supposed to just trust your paperwork?"
"You're supposed to trust my work based on what you’ve actually witnessed. Which has been flawless since I started."
"Maybe." He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, shrugging it on without looking at her. "I'll send you the security files tonight. We can finalize the map tomorrow."
"Same time?" she asked through gritted teeth.
"Unless you have somewhere else to be."
He didn't wait for a response. He jerked the door open and walked out into the pale morning light without looking back.
She sat frozen in her chair, hands flat on the table, breathing through the aftermath.
The bakery felt different without him in it. Too empty. The air still carried his scent, that woodsy warmth, the clean soap, and the undertone of darkness that made her stomach clench. She could still feel the ghost of his proximity, the way her body had leaned toward him without permission.
Her hands were shaking. She pressed them harder against the oak until the tremor subsided.
What the hell was that?
The look in his eyes before he'd shut it down. The hunger she'd glimpsed, raw and real, before he'd reached for cruelty instead. He'd wanted her. She was sure of it. For one suspended moment, he'd wanted her the way she wanted him, and then he'd chosen to hurt her rather than let himself have it.
Anger rose, hot and welcome. Better than the ache, better than the confusion, and much better than the persistent burn of wanting someone who would rather hurt her than admit he felt something.
Brainwashed. He could choke on that word. She hoped he did — hoped it stuck in his throat every time he reached for cruelty because he couldn't handle whatever he'd been feeling two minutes ago.
What had he ever risked? What had he ever put on the line? He lurked in corners flipping that stupid poker chip he thought nobody noticed and acted like suspicion was the same thing as bravery.
Every word he'd just said deserved to come back and haunt him, sit heavy on his tongue, and taste like ash for the rest of the day.
The air in the bakery shifted and Willow's magic rose with it, unbidden, warm and prickling against her skin. She barely noticed. She was too busy being furious.
She gathered the scattered papers with sharp, controlled movements. Stacked them neatly. Capped her pen. Rose from the chair and carried his empty coffee mug to the sink, washing it with more force than necessary.
The bakery needed her. Customers would arrive within the hour, and she had prep to finish, orders to box, a business to run. She didn't have time to stand here cataloging the exact shade of grey his eyes turned when he looked at her like he was starving.
She dried her hands on a dish towel and tied her apron tighter. Pulled her hair back into its clip, because half of it had escaped during their meeting. Took one more breath, held it, and released it slowly.
She then pulled the sourdough starter from the refrigerator and began to feed it.
The yeast bubbled under her fingers, alive and demanding.
She'd figure out how to make the burn stop.
Somehow. Eventually. She had weeks of one-on-one meetings ahead of her, sitting across from a man with cutting remarks and hungry eyes that he pretended weren't hungry at all.
She pressed into the dough. Folded. Turned. The rhythm settling her the way it always did, and by the time the first customers pushed through the door, she almost felt steady.
Almost.