Chapter 11 Sylvie
Sylvie wasn’t entirely sure how to handle her new employee. She had managed staff before—temperamental bakers, passive-aggressive dishwashers, and one memorable pastry chef who wept whenever his soufflé didn’t rise.
But she had never—never—managed an extroverted faun with a weaponized smile and a hobby of providing unsolicited life advice.
“Oh, the Honeybloom Festival is simply divine, dear,” Julian cooed, draping himself over the kitchen counter like he was auditioning for a lifestyle magazine spread. “Right by the pier. The crowds are dreadful, of course. An absolute stampede of city folk.”
His eyes sparkled with a brand of mischief that made Sylvie’s neck itch.
“You can meet so many new people,” he added, his tone suggesting this event was the absolute peak of his social calendar.
Sylvie resisted the urge to throw a baguette at him.
“That sounds great,” she said, focusing on the crate of baking supplies she was unpacking. “I was looking to get a stall there, Juju, not a husband.”
Julian studied her the way one studies a particularly na?ve kitten that had just walked into a glass door.
“Arla said most of the vendor spots were booked months ago,” she added, stacking bags of baking powder on the shelf with more force than necessary.
“Oh, they are,” Julian agreed cheerfully. “Terribly exclusive. One must practically sacrifice a goat—and a favorite cousin—to get a spot.”
Since she possessed neither, she simply stared at him, her jaw tightening.
“That’s not helpful, Julian.”
“Well, then you need a different way to get visibility.”
She paused mid-reach, her fingers hovering over a bag of flour.
“What different way?”
“Darling,” he said, as if this were painfully obvious, “you mingle.”
“I… bake. Baking is my mingle.”
“You mingle,” he repeated firmly. “There’s a charity auction tomorrow night at the local pub. Monthly tradition. People donate products, they bid, everyone drinks too much. It’s community bonding disguised as fundraising—and practically mandatory.”
Sylvie blinked. She vaguely remembered an unopened envelope with an invitation sitting on her counter.
“I’ve never done an auction,” she admitted. “And it’s in a pub.”
She realized, with a small stab of self-deprecation, that she hadn’t socialized in a very long time. She simply hadn’t had the time—the space in her head for anything but flour, sugar, and survival.
“Well,” Julian waved a hand breezily, “ask the egg boy to escort you.”
Her heart gave a sudden, traitorous thud against her ribs.
“What?”
He smirked. “Oh, never mind. Your kingdom. Your dragon, dear.”
She now wanted to throw an entire sack of flour at him. Preferably at his immaculate vest.
“If you can’t get a stall at the Honeybloom,” he continued, ignoring her murderous glare, “this is your best chance at a proper introduction. And don’t worry. You’re new. You’ve got a blank slate.”
“What do you mean?”
This conversation felt like she was ten steps behind him, running through deep mud.
“I mean,” he said sweetly, “you haven’t done anything crazy or stupid yet.”
Sylvie wasn’t entirely sure where making out with a seven-foot dragon-man on her kitchen counter ranked on the scale of crazy or stupid, but she suspected it was somewhere near the top.
“At least not in public,” he added with a grin that suggested he knew exactly what her kitchen counters had witnessed.
Now she just wanted to throw him straight into the industrial dough mixer.
“People like it when newcomers show up,” Julian continued. “Shows that you care about more than just your profit margins.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
“Because,” he said plainly, his smile softening for a fraction of a second, “I like working here. And I would very much prefer this place—and my employment—to last.”
Then, with a wide, triumphant smile, he strode to the front door to pick up the morning post.
Sylvie watched him go. She hadn’t just hired a barista; she had acquired a business strategist, a social engineer, and possibly a demon sent specifically to question her life choices.
Her gaze drifted to the invitation lying on the side table.
This town had already offered her more than she’d expected.
It might be time to give something back.
***
The following evening, Sylvie walked toward the pub with the deliberate calm of someone pretending she wasn’t nervous.
The night air carried salt from the sea and the faint, heady sweetness of blooming jasmine.
Laughter spilled through the open doors in warm, boisterous waves as she approached Hearth & Hollow.
Inside, the noise hit her all at once—a wall of communal energy that smelled of craft ale and dusty, ancient wood.
She hesitated until she spotted Arla at a corner table.
The orc waved enthusiastically, flagging her over.
“Hi! Everyone, this is Sylvie. Sylvie, meet Vera and Myrtle.”
“Nice to meet you,” Sylvie said, though she was a little intimidated by Vera’s striking pink skin and emerald-green eyes that looked like they could see through lead.
“I heard you met my nephew,” Vera said, eyes twinkling with unmistakable mischief.
Sylvie’s stomach dropped.
Myrtle, calm and grounded, smiled kindly.
“Don’t look so worried, dear. It’s perfectly fine to fall into a handsome man’s arms first thing in the morning.”
Heat climbed Sylvie’s neck.
“It was an accident.”
“Of course,” Vera replied sweetly. “And if it was an accident, it must have been a very fortunate one.”
“If you need a little something for… extra attraction,” Myrtle leaned closer with a conspiratorial blink and a knowing smile, “just let me know.”
“What she means,” Arla said dryly, “is that she brews potions and then spends the rest of the week fixing the trouble they cause.”
“That’s not true!”
“Tell that to Mr. Tomsten,” Vera said calmly. “He asked for courage to confront his wife about the dishes and ended up confessing to cheating on their honeymoon twenty years ago.”
“I always put small print on my labels!” Myrtle huffed.
She then poured a suspicious, glowing pink liquid into a glass and pushed it toward Sylvie.
“Here, darling. Try this. For extra courage.”
Sylvie eyed the iridescent swirl.
“I think I’m okay, thank you.”
“Myrtle is part of the local witch coven,” Vera explained. “They’re always brewing something.”
“They meet every Thursday,” Arla added. “Don’t bother attending if you plan on wearing clothes.”
“Sylvie just moved in. She’s got other things on her mind than witch covens,” Vera said. “I heard you were getting the old bakery back on its feet.”
“Yes. I was hoping to open this weekend, but I heard there’s a festival.”
“Oh yes, it’s wonderful,” Vera said. “Everyone will be down at the pier. Myrtle and her sisters will make sure the weather is nice. You don’t want to miss it.”
“I tried to get a stall,” Sylvie admitted, the disappointment leaking through. “But everything was booked.”
“Months in advance,” Arla agreed.
Myrtle’s eyes suddenly lit up.
“Actually… one of my clients might be giving up their spot. Unfortunately, orcs don’t do great in figure skating. No tonic can fix a broken leg that quickly,” she added thoughtfully.
“That’s amazing,” Sylvie breathed. “I mean—not the accident, obviously.”
“It’s a shame Rhavor doesn’t do the markets anymore,” Arla added. “His goat cheese alone would make a killing.”
Sylvie suddenly caught a familiar, intoxicating scent of pine smoke and musk.
For a second, she thought she was hallucinating it just because someone mentioned his name.
“Oh my,” Arla murmured. “Look who’s here.”
Sylvie followed the orc’s gaze and saw Rhavor strolling through the crowd.
Her breath caught in her throat.
He wore a royal-blue button-down stretched tight across his massive chest, the fabric straining over the carved muscle of his shoulders.
He looked impossibly handsome—and far too large for the room.
Heat rushed to her cheeks.
She quickly reached out and took a massive swig of the glass Myrtle had poured her earlier.
It tasted delicious—floral and sharp, with a shimmering, iridescent finish.
“He never comes here,” Myrtle added. “He’s practically buried alive on that farm.”
“Such a shame,” Vera added lightly. “A man that handsome going to waste. Most women in this town would trip over their own feet just for a glimpse of his tail.”
Sylvie had the distinct impression the women weren’t exactly concerned about his wasted potential.
It felt more like they were advertising him for her benefit.
Rhavor went straight to the bar and leaned over the wooden counter.
Her gaze drifted lower, despite her best intentions.
The worn denim of his jeans hugged a truly magnificent ass.
A woman sat on the bar stool next to him, openly leaning in to get a better look.
Sylvie felt a sharp, sudden knock of jealousy in her chest.
She barely noticed when Vera slipped away from the table.
Moments later, a minotaur stepped onto a makeshift stage.
He adjusted his glasses on a snout the size of a dinner plate and blew into the microphone.
“All right, settle down!” he roared into the microphone, a sound so loud the glasses at the bar trembled. “We have a cracking night ahead.”
After a couple of items that looked suspiciously similar to Seth’s collection—and a crate of double-distilled moonshine honey that all got decent bids—the minotaur blew into the microphone again.
“And now,” his voice dropped into a register that made the floorboards hum.
He looked at the paper he was holding, then at Vera, and then back at the paper again.
He cleared his throat, a sound like grinding stones.
“Well, we have something a little different.”
The room went deathly quiet.
“The next item up for bid is… a dinner with Vera’s nephew, Rhavor.”
A chair clattered somewhere in the back.
Rhavor froze at the bar, his whiskey glass suspended midair.
He looked ready to either flee the building—or set it on fire.
“Well,” Arla said with wicked delight, “that is new.”
A beam of light found Rhavor, pinning him.
A woman at the bar raised her hand immediately.
Sylvie’s pulse roared in her ears.
Before her brain could intervene, her hand was in the air.
“I’ll bid!”
Arla’s expression lit up with shock and approval.
Myrtle passed her the glass of that delicious pink drink.
“Here, dear. It’s for extra courage.”
The bidding went back and forth, numbers climbing. The other woman eventually dropped out, looking disgruntled. For one triumphant second, Sylvie thought she had him won.
Then a calm female voice rang out from the back of the pub.
“I will bid.”
The number she called was outrageous. A loud murmur rippled through the room.
The hammer fell.
Sold.
Sylvie stood frozen.
Not only had she lost—she had publicly declared her interest in the town’s most intimidating dragon-man and been outclassed by a wallet.
So much for subtle.
Vera turned to her, smiling.
“Never mind, dear. I have something for you.”
She pressed a folded napkin into Sylvie’s hand.
“A traditional dragon recipe,” Vera whispered. “For this to work, it’s like a good romance—it needs fire.”
Before Sylvie could respond, a werewolf stepped forward from the crowd, grinning.
“So,” he puffed his chest, “you bid on the dragon—and you lost.”
He smirked.
“It’s your lucky day, princess, ’cause I’d do much more for far less.”
He reached out, his fingers brushing her arm.
“How about a little walk, sweetheart? It’s a full moon. I can show you the town and maybe find a quiet corner to discuss your… tastes.”
He reached out again to touch her arm.
Suddenly the air shifted.
It went hot and heavy.
A massive shadow stepped between them.
“She’s not going anywhere with you,” Rhavor said, his voice low and lethal. “Touch her again and I’ll turn you into a Pomeranian—with broken legs.”
“Relax,” the werewolf said, raising his hands. “Only offering a lady some local hospitality.”
“Go offer your hospitality to someone else,” Rhavor growled.
The werewolf disappeared into the crowd with a disgruntled whine.
Rhavor gave Sylvie a brief, reassuring smile, his eyes sweeping over her as if checking she was all right.
Then he turned to Vera.
“Come on, Auntie. Enough mischief for one night. I’ll take you home.”
“I’m not going anywhere just yet, my boy,” Vera replied, lifting her chin with a stubborn glint. “But our girl here has had enough excitement for one evening. You walk her home. We don’t want any other moon-stricken fools bothering her.”
“Sure,” Rhavor said.
He turned his gaze back to Sylvie, and the intensity of it made her breath hitch.
“Ready?”
Outside, the moon was magnificent—a silver eye watching the quiet streets of Honeybay.
“So,” he said, glancing at her as they walked, “you bid on me.”
“I did,” she admitted, warmth humming in her veins despite the loss. “But it looks like you’ve got a fan who outbid me.”
“I guess I have,” Rhavor muttered, looking thoughtful.
“Aren’t you curious who won?” Sylvie asked.
His gaze dipped.
He looked like he already knew.
She stepped closer, her fingers brushing the firm muscle of his chest through the tight blue fabric.
His breath hitched.
“Since I lost… can I at least have a consolation prize?”
His brow lifted.
“And what would that be?”
She smiled up at him, feeling bold—she wasn’t sure if it was Myrtle’s drink or the moonlight.
“You could fly me home.”
He didn’t hesitate.
His arms wrapped around her and he pulled her flush against his chest, lifting her effortlessly.
“Hold on,” he commanded, his voice vibrating deliciously against her ear.