Elena barely had time to blink awake before the knock came—three sharp taps on her front door, followed by the unmistakable scent of buttery heaven.
She padded to the door, one of Marco's oversized shirts hanging loose on her shoulders, hair a soft mess of curls from the night before.
Talia stood on the porch with a box of still-warm pastries and a crooked grin that said yes, I know exactly what went down last night.
"Morning, sugar," Talia chirped.
"Figured you'd need carbs after what I assume was a deeply... indulgent evening."
Elena blinked.
"How do you—?"
"Rosehill's small, babe.
And Marco doesn't use the tasting room unless he's fully invested."
Talia winked and breezed past her into the kitchen like she'd been there a dozen times.
"You look flushed. Is that wine glow or a certain chef's hands on your thighs?"
Elena laughed, cheeks heating.
"You really don't hold back, huh?"
"I run a bakery where half my customers flirt using pastry names. You learn to speak boldly."
She opened the pastry box like it was treasure: chocolate croissants, cinnamon twists, something glazed and golden and still steaming.
Elena reached for one, and Talia swatted her hand away.
"Uh uh. First, an invitation."
"Invitation?"
Talia leaned against the counter, expression shifting—just a little more serious now.
"Tonight. Me, Rowan, you.
Private baking lesson.
One that doesn't exactly follow the health code."
Elena raised a brow, biting into the corner of a croissant anyway.
Flaky, rich, divine.
"You're propositioning me with pastries?"
"I'm inviting you," Talia said, her voice lower now, more intimate, "to experience what Honey & Heat really means."
Elena swallowed.
"Is Rowan part of this... lesson?"
"Rowan's always part of it." Talia stepped closer.
"But only if you want him to be."
Elena's heart skipped.
She should have been shocked.
But instead, she found herself leaning in, drawn to the warmth in Talia's gaze, the scent of flour and sugar clinging to her skin.
"I don't know what's in the air here," Elena murmured, "but I'm starting to like the taste of it."
Talia's lips curled into something sinful.
"Then come hungry tonight."
That night would bring more than baking—flour on fingertips, heat rising from the oven, and hands learning her curves the way they'd knead soft dough.
Because in Rosehill, food was only the first course.