Page 31 of Knot Baked Out For This
The afternoon light slants through my bakery windows, catching flour motes that dance like snow in a disturbed globe. I'm trying very hard not to watch Rowan's shoulders work as he excavates my oven's internal organs, trying harder not to notice how his white undershirt has gone translucent with sweat in places that make my omega hindbrain whimper.
Stop it. You're not a horny teenager. You're a grown woman with a business and baggage and?—
The bell chimes, salvation in the form of another complication.
"Neighborly milk delivery!"
Levi Maddox shoulders through my door like sunshine had a baby with a golden retriever and taught it to walk upright. He's carrying a wooden crate that would make most people grunt with effort, but he handles it like it weighs nothing, setting it on my counter with a flourish and a wink that should require a permit.
Jesus, they travel in packs now?
"I didn't order—" I start, but he's already unpacking glass bottles that gleam in the afternoon light, their contents so pristinely white they look like liquid innocence.
"Consider it a welcome-back-to-civilization gift," he says, and his honey-butter scent rolls through the bakery like August afternoons and first kisses. "Plus, I heard someone's been making cinnamon rolls that could make angels weep, and I figure those angels deserve quality dairy."
It's easier to breathe around Levi. His presence doesn'tpressthe way Rowan's does—it seeps, warm and coaxing, like butter melting into fresh bread. Where Rowan's cedar smoke makes me want to bare my throat in submission or violence (I can never decide which), Levi's honeyed warmth just makes me want to... relax.
Dangerous. That's even more dangerous.
"The partnership thing," I gesture vaguely toward the window where the banner mocks me with its existence. "Ranch and fire department. That's new."
"Yeah, well." He leans against my counter, and the movement is studied casualness, performed ease. "Turns out rescued ranch animals are great therapy for kids who've been through trauma. Fire department brings the kids, we provide the animals and space. Win-win."
"How altruistic."
"We're regular saints," he agrees, grin widening. "Halo's in the shop, though. Kept catching on doorways."
From under the oven, Rowan snorts. "Your halo caught fire years ago, Maddox."
"That wasone time," Levi protests. "And technically, it was your fault for daring me."
"You lit yourself on fire to prove you could juggle flaming batons."
"And Icould. Just not for very long."
They're comfortable with each other. Easy. The kind of comfortable that comes from years of friendship, shared disasters, mutual survival.
I find myself leaning against the opposite counter, watching their dynamic like it's a nature documentary.Alphas in Their Natural Habitat: Deadly but Occasionally Amusing.
That's when I see him.
Through the window, across the street, standing by the firehouse entrance like a shadow given form—Luca Maddox.
He's perfectly still in the way predators get right before they strike. Dark hair tied back, showcasing those sharp cheekbones that could cut glass and a jaw that belongs in museum exhibits labeled "Weapons of Omega Destruction." His storm-gray eyes are fixed on my bakery with laser focus, and even from here, even through glass and distance, I can feel the weight of that stare.
Why is he watching? What does he want?
My pulse kicks up, that sick-sweet flutter that says my body recognizes a hunter even if my brain wants to pretend otherwise. There's something about Luca's stillness that's more threatening than action—like he's cataloguing everything, filing it away for later use.
I turn away too quickly, my elbow catching the container of cinnamon sticks I keep by the register.
Of course.
They explode across the counter in a cascade of aromatic chaos, rolling every direction like fleeing prey. The scent blast is immediate—spice and heat and the ghost of everything I bake to keep the darkness at bay.
"Shit," I mutter, scrambling to collect them before they escape to the floor.
Levi's there instantly, those ranch-worn hands helping gather the runaway spices. "Nervous?"
