The text message from Chloe was a tactical strike, arriving precisely three minutes before I was due to leave for the tasting.
*Can’t make it. Emergency dress fitting. You and Rhys will have to handle it. Pick something delicious. xoxo*
I stared at the screen, a low-grade hum of fury vibrating behind my teeth. An emergency dress fitting. Of course. Chloe’s emergencies were always swathed in silk and tulle.
This wasn’t an emergency; it was a transparent, G-rated honeypot trap, and I was walking straight into it.
My perfectly color-coded schedule for the day, which had the cake tasting blocked out as a tidy, one-hour solo mission, now had a large, smirking, six-foot-two variable scrawled all over it.
The bakery, *Le Petite Spoon*, was an oasis of pastel perfection. The air was thick with the scent of caramelized sugar and vanilla bean, a sweet, cloying cloud that should have been comforting but only served to put my teeth on edge. Delicate macarons were stacked in rainbow pyramids.
It was a place of order, precision, and beauty. A place Rhys was destined to ruin.
He was already there, leaning against the counter and charming the aproned baker. He turned as the bell above the door chimed, and that easy, infuriating grin spread across his face. It was the same grin from the wine cellar, the one that said, *I know exactly what I do to you, and I enjoy it. *
“Look what the cat dragged in,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Finally decided to grace us with your presence, Miss Planner?”
“I’m on time,” I clipped, setting my leather-bound planner on the small, wrought-iron table. “You’re just living in a different temporal reality than the rest of us. ”
The baker, Penelope, beamed at us. “So lovely. I have a wonderful selection. ”
She set down a platter laden with miniature slices of cake: vanilla bean with raspberry coulis, lemon-lavender, dark chocolate with salted caramel. Beside it, she placed two small bowls of frosting.
“We’ll start with the exteriors,” Penelope said brightly. “On your left, our classic American buttercream. On your right, a rolled marshmallow fondant. ”
I reached for the fondant sample instinctively. It was smooth, pristine, a perfect, unblemished surface. It was a blank canvas for precision, for intricate design, for control.
Rhys snorted, a soft, derisive sound. “Seriously. You’re a fondant person. ” It wasn’t a question. It was a diagnosis.
“It’s clean,” I said, defending my choice. “It’s architectural. It allows for a sharp, flawless finish. A wedding cake should be an elegant statement piece. ”
He dipped his fork into the buttercream, a fluffy, inviting cloud of white. “A wedding cake should be a *cake*,” he countered. “It should taste like heaven. It should be a little messy. It’s a celebration, Ava, not an art installation. Fondant tastes like a sugary bedsheet. ”
“It’s a protective layer,” I argued. “It keeps the cake beneath it moist. ”
“So does an actual, edible frosting that doesn’t have the texture of softened plastic. ” He popped the buttercream into his mouth, his eyes closing in a moment of pure, unadulterated pleasure that was far too intimate to witness in a public bakery.
A shiver, unwelcome and hot, traced its way down my spine.
“They both have their merits…” Penelope began, her smile faltering.
“No,” Rhys said, his eyes locking with mine over the platter. “They don’t. One is about how things *look*. Polished, perfect, untouchable. ” He gestured toward the fondant. “The other is about how things *feel*. Real. Indulgent. Worth making a bit of a mess for. ”
He gestured to the buttercream.
The implication was as sharp and clear as the edge of my planner. He was talking about us.
“Some of us prefer structure to chaos,” I said, my voice tight. “Some of us believe a plan is what separates a successful event from a disaster. ”
“And some of us believe the best parts of life are the disasters,” he shot back, his gaze intense. “The moments you can’t schedule in a color-coded binder. ” He leaned forward, his voice dropping. “Tell me, Ava. When was the last time you did something that wasn’t on your to-do list?”
My breath hitched. The memory of him in the wine cellar, all heat and raw proximity, flashed through my mind.
A dangerous glint entered his eye. Before I could process his intent, he’d scooped a tiny dollop of buttercream onto the tip of his finger and reached across the table. With a feather-light touch, he smeared it on the back of my hand.
I gasped, staring at the white smudge on my skin. It was insolent. It was intimate. It was a declaration of war.
“Rhys,” I warned, my voice a low growl.
“Just wanted you to see what you’re missing,” he said, his grin widening. “It’s not so bad, is it?”