Chapter 5 Sylvie
“You did not nearly climb a grumpy dragon farmer in the middle of a goat pasture.”
Sylvie muttered it to her reflection in the rearview mirror.
The woman staring back looked windswept, faintly disheveled—and entirely too pleased with herself to be trusted.
Her cheeks were still flushed.
It had absolutely nothing to do with the early-summer heat.
The narrow country road curved ahead between hedges and golden fields. The afternoon sun had settled lazily over the valley, warm and fragrant, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass and distant salt.
She squinted at herself.
“Get it together.”
She was a businesswoman. A professional. She had driven out to Rhavor’s farm to secure a supplier—not to accidentally collide with his chest again.
Except suppliers didn’t usually look at you like they were deciding which part of you to devour first.
They did not smell like woodsmoke, sun-warmed skin, and something darker coiled beneath.
And they most certainly did not have amber eyes that glowed when they were turned on.
She exhaled slowly and tightened her grip on the steering wheel.
Keep this professional.
You were vetting produce, she reminded herself sternly.
She had built her entire career on quality—on knowing exactly where her ingredients came from and how they were handled. That had meant trusted distributors and carefully structured contracts. Her suppliers were curated, impeccably vetted, and distant.
There had been no risk of colliding with them in a chicken yard.
Her mouth twitched despite herself.
It had been twenty-four hours.
And she had already ended up in Rhavor’s arms twice.
Twice.
That was not coincidence.
That was a pattern forming.
And it did not encourage professional boundaries.
The worst part?
She didn’t mind it nearly as much as she should have.
Not the first time.
Not the second.
And judging by the very evident, very distracting bulge straining against Rhavor’s denim when she had been pressed against him—he hadn’t exactly hated it either.
Why did his jaw have to be that square and his lips look so sexy when he couldn’t decide whether he was more annoyed or amused?
She had never met anyone so irritating.
So grumpy.
—who also turned her on like that.
She huffed as a strand of hair slipped into her eyes.
She needed a manual. Something titled How to Conduct Business With Hot, Infuriating, Impossible Dragons Without Accidentally Flirting With Them.
She made a mental note to check the local bookstore.
Surely rural communities had practical literature.
The sun was still high when she pulled up in front of the bakery. She cut the engine and sat there for a moment, staring at the dashboard as if it might offer guidance.
Focus.
She stepped out of the car and forcefully shoved the image of that unfair line of muscle down his stomach out of her head.
She turned toward the shop—
—and nearly walked straight into someone leaning casually against the windowsill.
Sylvie blinked.
An impeccably styled man watched her with mild, polite interest.
A faun.
He wore a tailored purple vest and matching shorts that fit his slim frame perfectly. His thick, glossy hair had been swept neatly to one side, and his beard trimmed with ruler-level precision.
“We’re not open yet,” Sylvie said, suddenly very aware of the faint dirt smudges on her pale dress.
Probably from brushing against a certain dragon’s work jeans.
The faun’s gaze flicked to the fabric.
“Soak it in soda water, dear,” he said smoothly. “It will lift right out.”
“Thank you,” she replied, mildly startled at the unsolicited advice.
He gestured lightly toward the Staff Wanted notice taped to the window.
“I’m here for the job, dear.”
His voice was velvet. Smooth. Melodic. Entirely too confident for someone whose hooves were painted with tiny lucky clovers.
“Dear?” Sylvie muttered, arching one brow. “Who calls their future boss dear?”
And yet…
Somehow, it worked.
“Do you have a CV?” she asked.
“Pardon?” He blinked, long lashes fluttering with genuine confusion.
“A résumé. A cover letter,” she clarified flatly.
The faun stared at her as if she had requested he exchange his tailored ensemble for a pair of baggy cargo pants
“I’m afraid,” he said carefully, “that I do not.”
Sylvie sighed. She felt the day finally settle between her shoulders.
“Please come back when you have those,” she said, unlocking the door. “Then we’ll talk.”
He bowed—fluid and graceful—before stepping aside.
It wasn’t until the door clicked shut and the quiet of the shop wrapped around her that she realized she hadn’t asked his name.
Through the glass, she watched him trot down the pavement, hooves striking a neat, rhythmic pattern against stone.
She had the distinct suspicion she had not seen the last of him.
Or of the dragon.
Sylvie pressed her forehead briefly to the cool glass of the door.
This was supposed to be a quiet new start.
So why did it feel like her life was about to become very, very complicated?