Chapter 13
Helena
The scent of brine and stone greet me in the morning when the summer sun paints the gently rolling hills of Seamuse as it rises.
I press my face to the sash window, letting in the morning.
My rooms back in the city are surrounded by glass and distant traffic, and the closest you’d get to salt air is the scented candle I hid under my vanity.
Here, it’s actual sea, actual weather, and the only neighbors are rooks, fishermen, and the inevitable tourists.
Which is to say: it is absolutely perfect.
Until I notice Zane, stationed at the bottom of the garden doing an early morning workout. I throw on jeans and a linen top, brush my hair until the black shines, and spritz some honey perfume at my wrists, something to accentuate my omega scent.
I head down the rickety stairs and out the chipped-blue door. Zane’s waiting with his hands in his pockets, clean-shaven and already damp at the collar from the sweat.
“Morning,” I say cheerily.
He pulls me in for a quick kiss. A new but not unwelcome morning tradition. “Morning. Ready to head down for breakfast?”
I nearly kick my feet at the giddiness of how this relationship is now that everything is out there. “Yes, of course.”
My stomach grumbles in agreement. We have a good laugh about the noisy intrusion before setting off down the lane toward the wharf and downtown Seamuse.
“You know, you don’t have to shadow me quite so… dramatically. I’m not planning to get kidnapped by Cornish pirates before breakfast.”
“You’re not likely to get kidnapped by anyone, if I have my say.” Zane walks half a pace behind, scanning hedgerows and rooftops for God-knows-what.
As we round the bend, the town proper yawns open, slate roofs crowding down to the old quay. The bakery squats on a corner, painted a cheerful yellow and already humming with customers lined up under the eaves. The air is thick with sugar, spice, and melting butter.
There’s a small commotion at the window: a girl with pigtails is crying over a dropped cinnamon roll, and her mum is trying to mop up sticky tears.
I sidestep, offer a napkin, and get a grateful smile.
Zane mutters something about “biohazard,” but it’s probably just his alpha way of handling small children.
Inside, the heat is glorious. All the ovens roar at full tilt while the queue snakes to the door. Behind the counter, Cole is not present, which is unusual—he’s typically the one slinging pasties and greeting every old lady by name.
Instead, I spot him through the doorway to the back.
He’s hunched over a scarred butcher block with a notebook open and a pencil furiously working.
His brow is creased, jaw tight. Even from here, I catch the faint spark of cinnamon, but his scent is darker today—overlaid with smoke and something tense, a stormfront scent.
Zane angles his head toward the back room. “Want me to fetch him?”
“I’m not an invalid. Watch this.” I squeeze past the delivery boy and march straight into the kitchen, chin up. Zane follows but pauses at the threshold like he’s afraid to touch anything.
Cole doesn’t notice us until I’m nearly on top of him. “Morning,” I say, loudly enough to compete with the radio, which is playing Cornish folk songs for the morning crew.
He looks up, startled. The sternness melts instantly. Cole has that kind of face that goes from broody to warm in a heartbeat. “Helena. Sorry.” He wipes a floury hand on his apron, which only succeeds in smearing flour up his forearm. “Didn’t expect you so early. Line’s all the way to the street.”
“It’s not my fault you make the world’s best cinnamon twists,” I say, which makes his mouth quirk up. The storm scent relaxes a notch.
Zane, still lurking, asks, “You all right, Cole?”
“Yeah, just…” Cole taps his notebook, a mess of sticky notes and ink scribbles.
“Trying to figure out how to stop my parents’ business from becoming a historical monument.
” He points to the long queue outside. “I know it looks busy now, but that’s just the morning rush.
After ten, this place will clear out and be in need of more customers. ”
“Didn’t you just win ‘Best Bakery’ in the region last year?” I ask. “Or so you said.”
Cole shrugs before closing the notebook.
“That was before the pasty chain opened up in Falmouth. It’s siphoning our big orders.
Unless the summer’s stellar, we’re going to have to cut hours.
Or staff.” He glances at the line of teens and pensioners rolling dough and packing orders, like he already knows whose job he’d have to cut first.
I hate that for him. I hate that for me, if I’m honest—because Cole’s bakery is the only place I’ve ever felt like an actual person, not a decorative omega waiting to be packed off to a nice, stately home.
“What’s in the notebook?” I ask, already reaching for it.
Cole tugs it back. His ears are turning pink. “Nothing good. Just, you know, ideas. They all suck.”
I gently pry it from his hands. The first page reads, in blocky letters: ‘SUMMER SALES STRATEGY,’ which is underlined three times. Underneath are doodles of pasties with sunglasses, a sheep, and something that looks suspiciously like Zane, stick-figured and frowning.
I flip to the next page. “Please tell me you’re launching a line of bikini-clad pasties.”
“You know, if I thought anyone here would buy them…”
“I’d buy them,” I say.
Zane coughs into his fist, which makes Cole’s ears even more pink.
“Most of my ideas are useless.” Cole looks down. “No one cares about coupons or loyalty cards here, and tourists want ‘authentic,’ which means the same thing forever.”
I flip through the rest of the notebook.
There are plenty of ideas, actually, but they’re scattered.
Some about themed bakes (“Viking Week”), some about local delivery.
Some are just wishful thinking (“Hire someone who is not me to handle social media”).
There’s even a whole page about hosting a Cornish bakeoff.
“This is great.” Cole gives me a pointed stare. “I mean it! You’ve got a ton of stuff here.”
“I’m not an expert.” Cole shrugs. “I’m a baker.”
I slide the notebook back to him. “Well, you’re in luck because I’m a marketing expert with a useless degree and an entire summer with nothing to do.”
He stares. “You… have a marketing degree?”
“Omega Finishing School, remember?” I say, but he doesn’t laugh. Zane nearly facepalms. “That’s a joke, obviously. I went to uni, specialized in communications and branding. I did a few internships here and there before returning to do Omega Finishing School, but still.”
Cole’s face splits into a wide, bright smile. “That’s… amazing. But I can’t ask you to work for free—”
“Who said anything about work?” I snatch a cinnamon twist from the tray, break it in half, and offer him the bigger piece. “I’m bored out of my mind, and if I don’t do something with my time, Zane’s going to force me to learn more self-defense or something. So. Let me help.”
Cole looks at Zane, who shrugs. “Helena’s the best.”
I almost choke on the pastry. Zane’s not known for his compliments.
Cole sighs, like he’s giving up a losing battle, but he’s smiling as he does. “If you’re sure.”
I wink at him. “Too late. I’m already crafting ideas for you.”
He groans, but it’s a happy groan. “I’ll set you up at the back table. Best seat in the house.”
“First, I want to try the new pasty you posted about,” I say. “The curry one?”
He lights up, proud. “You got it. One experimental Cornish curry pasty, coming up.”
Zane follows me to the back of the bakery, where the table is scattered with newspapers and empty coffee cups.
I clear a space and open the notebook. Already, my brain is popping off with ideas.
Social media blitz, sure, but also pop-up shops at the quay, branded picnic baskets, and—most importantly—collaborations with local artists.
Maybe even a pasty-eating contest for the tourist crowd.
There’s something about making a business run that feels more satisfying than anything I did in finishing school. It’s the kind of career my father would never let me get into knowing he also wants me to be at home raising children for a pack.
Cole brings me the pasty. It’s golden and piping hot, the crust flaky and delicate as lace. He watches me like I were the first customer he ever served while I take a bite.
It’s incredible. Curry, but not too spicy. Flecked with something sweet and wrapped in the buttery pastry that makes Seamuse famous. “It’s perfect.”
Cole releases a relieved breath. It makes me want to hug him.
“This is going to save the bakery,” I say.
“Only if you help me,” Cole replies, still shy, but there’s a new hope in his voice.
“Deal.” I start scribbling in his notebook, ideas pouring out as fast as I can write them. “Now, let me get to work.”
Cole ducks out of the room while Zane tucks into a corner to pretend to read the issue of newspaper he snagged on the way here. I catch Zane glancing at me every now and then, like he’s actually proud of me for using my degree.
I’m kind of proud of me, too. For a while, I thought I’d simply thrown it away by going to Omega Finishing School after obtaining this degree. But now… Now I dangerously see a worth in which both educations might be equally useful.
So I get right to work.