Chapter 17 Sylvie
Sylvie had been running mostly on espresso, adrenaline, and the kind of manic, white-knuckled determination that made people question their life choices.
By now, her hands ached with a dull, rhythmic throb, her lower back was screaming in a language she didn’t want to translate, and she was fairly certain she had hallucinated an apricot giving her strategic marketing advice at three in the morning.
It was the final day of the festival.
By ten, the grounds were already heaving. By eleven, it felt as though half the county had collectively decided this was their last opportunity on earth to eat a croissant.
She had made a bold decision earlier in the week—a “moment of inspiration.” A new specialty every single day. At the time, it had felt like a great idea. Now, standing in the heat of the stall, it felt entirely unhinged.
Twelve hours at the stall. Then the bakery kitchen until well past midnight, coaxing dough into submission. Then up again before sunrise to start the whole cycle over.
Still.
The orange blossom and blueberry tartlets gleamed like lacquered sunlight under the glass.
The walnut rye buns stood in proud, golden rows, smelling of toasted grain and hard work.
The apricot galettes, with their blistered crusts and caramelized edges, were practically screaming sold out before she could even arrange the napkins.
She exhaled slowly.
Totally worth it.
Julian hovered beside her, producing iced lattes at a rate that bordered on supernatural. All the while, he was shoving Flour it went off like a siren.
Ronda was next in line.
Rhavor’s ex-fiancée stood in front of the stall. Her gaze swept over the display first, lingering on the rye buns with suspicion. Then her eyes snapped up to Sylvie and brushed her face and the Flour he moved with a heavy, predatory grace that commanded the space around him.
His sleeves were rolled high, exposing the powerful, corded muscle of his forearms. His shirt was open at the collar, revealing the broad line of his chest.
The sun caught the sheen of sweat on his golden skin and the sharp, amber glint in his dark eyes.
He looked infuriatingly, devastatingly handsome.
A mountain of a man with the soul of a storm.
“People around here have zero patience for your kind of drama,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
“And that champagne,” he added, a low, wicked smile ghosting across his lips as his eyes found Sylvie’s, pinning her to the spot, “is already chilling in the fridge. I’d hate for it to go to waste.”
Ronda flinched as if he had slapped her.
Sylvie saw the woman swallow hard, the polish finally cracking. She looked like she had just realized exactly what she had thrown away—and exactly who was standing in her place now.
“Dear, you have some serious reflecting to do. Maybe start with a mirror,” Julian added, tossing a tea towel over his shoulder with a flourish.
“Who even are you?” Ronda snapped, her voice trembling.
Julian did not lose his cool. He adjusted his vest, looking down his nose at her.
“I’m the person who makes sure she doesn’t have to deal with trash while she’s working.”
“Thanks, Julian,” Rhavor murmured, his gaze never leaving Sylvie.
Then he stepped closer, his shadow falling over Ronda, heavy and protective.
The air shifted—the scent of smoke and earth intensifying.
“And let’s be very clear,” he said quietly, power humming beneath every syllable. “You are not getting the farm. Not now. Not ever.”
“We’ll see about that,” Ronda hissed, her face contorting into something ugly and small.
She pivoted sharply on her heel, her designer boots clicking aggressively against the hard-packed earth as she disappeared into the thick of the crowd.
Sylvie did not miss the way Rhavor’s eyes followed her for a second. His expression was cold. Final.
Like a door slamming shut for the last time.
But then, almost instinctively, his gaze snapped back to Sylvie.
The coldness vanished instantly, replaced by an intensity that made her knees feel like they were made of her own lemon cream.