“Sir, with respect, you’ve postponed three meetings and cancelled two client dinners. The partners are concerned.”
Alessandro leaned against the brick wall, salt air filling his lungs. Two weeks ago, those meetings would have been the center of his universe. The firm was his legacy, his proof that the Draven name still meant something despite the curse.
Now they felt like interruptions.
“Tell them I’m handling a personal matter.”
“I’ve been telling them that. They want to know when you’re coming back.”
When. The question Alessandro had been avoiding.
“Soon,” he said, and ended the call before David could press further.
Inside, Marina was waiting with a mixing bowl and an expression that suggested she knew exactly what that conversation had been about.
“Your Manhattan life is calling?”
“My Manhattan life can wait.”
She studied him. He could tell she was reading him (the stress, the guilt, the strange relief at having an excuse to stay) all of it plain on his face, or somewhere deeper.
“I’m making honey cakes today,” she said. “My grandmother’s recipe. If you want to help.”
It wasn’t a question. It was an offering.
Alessandro had learned, over ten days, that Marina communicated through baking. Stress meant cinnamon rolls. Happiness meant elaborate decorated cookies. And grief, the grief she still carried for her grandmother, meant honey cakes.
“I’m a terrible baker.”
“I know. I’ve seen you with fondant. And with croissant dough. And with that unfortunate incident involving the mixer and the meringue.” She handed him an apron, the simple blue one she kept for guests, not her grandmother’s embroidered one. “But honey cakes don’t require delicacy. They require patience.”
“I don’t have patience.”
“I noticed.” She smiled, and his dragon rumbled approval before he could stop it. “I’ll teach you.”
Two hours later, Alessandro understood why dragons historically avoided kitchens.
“You’re over-mixing again,” Marina said, gently removing the bowl from his grip. “Honey cake batter needs a light hand. You’re attacking it like a hostile acquisition.”
“I’m stirring.”
“You’re murdering.” She demonstrated the proper technique: slow, circular motions that incorporated air into the batter. “Like this. Pretend you actually like the batter.”
“I have complicated feelings about the batter.”
She laughed. That sound again, the one that made his dragon stir with something other than the usual restlessness. Her amusement wrapped around him like warm honey.
“Here.” She moved behind him, reaching around to guide his hands on the wooden spoon. The contact sent a jolt through him: her warmth against his back, her hands over his, the scent of vanilla and sea salt that was uniquely Marina.
He stopped breathing.
“Slowly,” she said, her voice closer to his ear than it needed to be. “Let the batter do the work.”
He focused on the bowl. On the movement. On anything except the heat building in his chest.
“Why honey cakes?” he asked, his voice rougher than intended.
Her hands stilled on his.
