The next morning, Elena woke to birdsong, sun streaking through gauzy curtains, and the faint smell of something sweet in the air.
It wasn't coming from her kitchen.
No, this was richer—yeasty, warm, with notes of cinnamon and something just barely sinful.
She followed the scent barefoot, stepping outside into the sleepy hum of Rosehill.
The cottage next door had a crooked wooden sign: "Honey & Heat".
Beneath it: Fresh bread, hot buns, and slow rises daily.
Elena laughed softly. Subtle, this town was not.
Inside, the bakery was sunlit and cozy, but already pulsing with life.
Wooden counters were dusted with flour.
Trays of pastries glistened under glass.
And behind it all, two figures moved like clockwork: a woman with short, fiery curls and flour-dusted skin, and a broad-shouldered man with gentle eyes and sleeves rolled to his elbows.
"Morning!" the woman called. "You must be the new neighbor. Elena, right?"
"Yeah—guilty," she replied, grinning. "And starving."
"I'm Talia, this is Rowan," the woman said.
"We own this little slice of heaven. And if you're free, we've got a spot open in today's... hands-on baking session."
"Hands-on?"
Rowan finally looked up, smile slow and knowing. "You'll see."
Fifteen minutes later, Elena stood at a wide marble island with a pink apron tied around her waist.
In front of her: a ball of dough. Behind her: Talia's voice, warm and instructive.
"Good bread isn't rushed," Talia said, pressing into her own dough with rhythmic care.
"It needs coaxing. Like a good lover. You start gentle. Then firm. Then give it time to rise."
Rowan chuckled low. "Some things are better with patience."
Elena's cheeks flushed, but her hands obeyed.
She pressed, turned, stretched.
The texture was soft and yielding, and as she worked, the tension in her shoulders melted.
It was meditative , Sensual , Honest.
Talia stepped behind her, guiding her hands with her own.
"There you go," she murmured, voice close to Elena's ear.
"Feel that give? That means it's waking up."
Elena swallowed hard. "This... is a very passionate town."
Talia winked. "Oh, sweetheart You haven't even scratched the surface."
Rowan brought over a jar of honey, dipping a finger in before offering it to Elena. "Want a taste?"
She met his gaze—steady, inviting—and leaned in.
The honey was thick and floral, the tip of his finger lingering just a second longer than necessary on her lips.
And just like that, something inside her pulsed awake again.
As she left later that morning—arms full of warm bread and still feeling the ghost of flour on her fingertips—Elena paused at the gate.
This town wasn't just charming.
It was tempting.
And slowly, it was pulling her in.