Chapter 13 Sylvie
The Honeybloom Festival was only a few days away, and her head was so crowded with recipes and what-ifs that sleep had become a lost cause.
She had given up on her pillows before the first gray streak of sunrise bled across the sky and headed straight for the bakery.
She tied her hair back.
Made her first coffee.
Set about waking the ovens.
For the wood-fired one, she shoved a couple of oak logs into the firebox until the calming, rhythmic hum of flame filled the space.
While Seth’s interior design choices had been a complete train wreck, the kitchen setup was surprisingly practical.
The equipment wasn’t state-of-the-art, but it was well maintained. The ovens, while not top-tier, were solid. Dependable. More than good enough for her to work with.
The festival menu was ambitious.
Strawberry tartelettes.
Salted caramel chocolate éclairs.
A zesty yuzu cake with glossy citrus glaze.
She rolled out the last batch of pastry with practiced ease, wrapped it tight, and slid it into the fridge to rest. Then she reached for the long wooden paddle and yanked a tray of buns from the wood-fired oven.
In her old life, her ovens had been sleek, digital masterpieces, operating with one-degree precision.
This oven was different.
It was wild.
Untamed.
Entirely unpredictable.
The beast in the bricks and Rhavor clearly shared the same ancestors.
There was a thrill to it—the raw, elemental challenge of fire meeting dough. Of heat licking at flour and transforming it into something golden and fragrant.
She had studied the dragon’s instruction book, layering those ancient techniques over Vera’s original recipe.
She made two batches of rye buns and laid them side by side.
One followed Vera’s recipe to the letter.
The other was her own refined version—softer crumb, lighter crust, a hint of smoked nuts in the aroma.
She had just put the trays out on the counter when Julian strode in.
“What are these?” he asked, halting and pointing a slender finger at the original batch. “Are you mass-producing lethal weapons?”
“No.” Sylvie smiled, wiping a stray smudge of flour from her cheek. “Those are authentic dragon rye buns. Vera’s recipe.”
Julian grimaced at the dense, dark rounds. “Well, no wonder dragons have legendary tempers. Imagine having to start your day by breaking a tooth on one of these.”
“They’re not that bad,” she said with a smirk. “They’re… rustic.”
“You are far too polite, dear,” he replied. “You need to be seven feet tall and breathe fire to digest those.”
“Well, try these instead,” she said, gesturing to the second tray.
Julian leaned in, sniffing the air dramatically.
“Oh-ho. Not sure about dragons, but this is the top score in every faun’s book.”
He paused thoughtfully. “We’ll need a name for them. Something that sticks.”
Sylvie didn’t have time to brainstorm.
She packed the warm buns into a basket and dashed upstairs to change. She chose a light, buttoned shirt, paired it with her favorite jeans, and navy lace lingerie—a secret shot of confidence hidden beneath soft cotton.
When she ran back downstairs, Julian stopped her.
Without a word, he reached out and deftly unbuttoned the top two buttons of her shirt, exposing the delicate curve of her cleavage.
“That’s better,” he said with a wink.
“You really can’t help yourself getting me into trouble, can you?”
“You will thank me later,” he flung back as he shooed her toward the door.
She climbed into her car, imagining Rhavor’s face when he saw his heritage buns—and her own version beside them.
Not a date, she told herself as she drove the narrow country road toward the farm.
Definitely not a date.
But her pulse jumped traitorously at the thought of seeing him.
As she turned onto his long dirt driveway, she spotted a sleek, expensive car with city plates parked near the house.
Her heart tightened before she could stop it.
She pulled off to the side and stepped out slowly, her pulse beginning to pound in her ears. She had never actually been inside Rhavor’s house before.
She stepped onto the porch and froze by the half-open kitchen window.
A woman’s voice drifted out—soft, polished.
Familiar.
“You look great, Rhavi. I missed this place. It reminds me of all the good times we had together. Do you remember?”
Rhavi?
Sylvie blinked.
She recognized that voice. It was the woman from the pub who won the bid.
It was Ronda.
Arla had told her about the ex-fiancée. The one who had cheated. The one who had broken his heart and left him.
It looked like she was back.
And she sounded very much at home.
Was this what the auction bid had been about?
A way to buy herself back into his life?
Sylvie’s hand hovered over the doorbell. Her fingers trembled so badly she couldn’t press it.
You’re an idiot, she told herself.
She and Rhavor weren’t even officially dating.
They had never defined a thing.
They were just two people who had shared some heated moments.
And it didn’t matter that those had been the best moments she had ever shared with anyone in her life.
She had no right to make a scene.
To ask questions.
Her eyes stung. Her throat tightened painfully.
Quietly, she set the basket by the door.
Then she turned.
And bolted back to her car.
He must still love her. You don’t get engaged to someone unless they are your whole world.
She exhaled slowly.
It was just a fling, she told herself, clutching the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white.
A bit of fun while you settled in.
She tried to convince herself.
But she was a terrible liar.
As she backed out of the driveway, the image of Ronda inside Rhavor’s home burned into her mind.
She would have to find a new supplier.
Clearly, Rhavor’s kitchen—
—and perhaps his heart—
was already full up.