Lina began frequenting the bakery more than what was considered socially acceptable.
At first, it was under the guise of "sampling all the pastries"—a noble mission, of course. Croissants on Monday, tarts on Tuesday, eclairs on Wednesday. By Friday she was back to croissants again because, "What if the batch is different?"
But everyone in the village knew.
The elderly flower seller even winked one morning and said, "The only thing you're hungry for is the baker, dear."
Lina didn't deny it. She had a plan—and that plan had broad shoulders, tapered waist, a grumpy mouth, and eyes like cinnamon fire. Alaric.
Unfortunately, Alaric seemed immune to her charm.
At first.
He was serious, no-nonsense, and appeared mildly allergic to flirtation.
Lina would giggle, bat her lashes, and compliment the way he dusted sugar onto pastries—only to be met with a stiff nod and a muttered, "Thanks. Don't touch that tray. It's hot."
Still, she persisted.
