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“Fired?”I frown at the Prada-clad dictator standing in front of me and adjust my grip on the muffin-ladened tray in my hands. “Why?”

Grimacing, my boss—or should that beex-boss?—clears her throat, gaze darting around the small café kitchen we’re standing in. “Dad, I mean,Mr. Japher says you’re not performing to his expectations.”

I blink. “To his expectations?” Yeah, hisexpectations. He expected me to let him feel me up every time he came into the kitchen. I slapped his hand off my arse every time he did. Which was damn near every day for the last two months.

“He says the patisserie is going in a different direction.” An awkward scowl replaces Imogen Japher’s grimace, and she shoves her hands on her hips. If I weren’t being sacked, I’d laugh. Imogen didn’t do menacing well. Instead, I frown.

Imogen huffs. “Do I need to repeat myself? You were lucky D—Mr. Japher even gave you a chance, given your lack of credentials. You should consider yourself lucky he doesn’t call the police.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “For what? Since I started here customer numbers have exploded. People need to line up outside the café sometimes.”

“For lying on your resume,” Imogen shoots back. “You said you were a trained pastry chef.”

“No, I said I’m anexceptionalpastry chef.” Elon Japher had spent most of my interview trying to look down my shirt instead of listening to me. “With years of experience.”

No lie there. My father was one of the best pastry chefs in Western Australia. From the time I was old enough to tie my own apron until the time he was killed in a hit-and-run accident five years ago when I was seventeen, he’d taught me everything he knew. Since then, I’ve been alone, bouncing from place to place, picking up jobs wherever I can and looking for… Well, something.

Connection?

Love?

Ha.No chance on that last one. Love is something I don’t even want, let alone being something I’d bother wishing for. Mum abandoned Dad when I was five, and it almost broke him. No way am I going to let the same thing happen to me.

Love is a fairy tale I want no part of.

“If you don’t believe me,” I said, fixing Imogen with a level look, “check my resume. I didn’t lie.”

She snorts and holds out her hand, palm up, and wriggles her fingers. “Mr. Japher says to hand in your apron now.” Does she have any clue how gropey and creepy her father is? Should I tell her the last time he tried to feel me up, I casually mentioned I’d cut his balls off if he tried again? Or should I congratulate her for not calling JapherDadthis time?

“Al?”

Both Imogen and I jump at the excited voice coming from the kitchen’s doorway. Imogen swings her glare at the young man, barely a teenager, standing there.

“Arlo,” she snaps. “We’re in the middle of?—”

Arlo, the café’s waiter-slash-dishwasher ignores her, his grin wide. “He’s back. He’s here, and he’s asking to speak to you.”

I blink. “Who?”

“Who?” Imogen echoes.

Once again, Arlo ignores her. Brave boy. His grin stretches wider. He’s almost bouncing on his toes. “Jackson Maine.”

My breath catches in my throat. “Seriously?”

Arlo nods with such excitement I’d be worried about him hurting his neck if I wasn’t internally freaking out about Jackson Maine being here. Jackson Maine?TheJackson Maine? And he’s been here before?

“Who’s Jackson Maine?” Imogen slides a frown my way.

I gape at her. How does anyone in the pastry/baking business not know who Jackson Maine is? I’m too stunned to laugh.

Arlo does though. God, this kid is awesome. “Only Australia’s most successful and influential patissier,” he explains. “He’s won every award there is to win both here and overseas. He has his own patisserie chain and his own international streaming show. He is the pâtissier version of royalty. Practically a prince.” He points a finger at me. “And he wants to talk to Al.”

A prickling heat rushes over me. Jackson Maine wants to talk to me. Oh God. Oh God. Oh?—

“Why?” Imogen demands.

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