“Good.” There’s a smile in his voice. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Zane.”
I fall asleep with his scent curling around me, sweet and dangerous, and dream of a storm breaking just over the horizon.
CHAPTER 8
Cole
The ovens humand the air inside Cornwall’s Best is already thick with warm cinnamon and the promise of a beautiful new day. I’m up to my forearms in dough, pressing it out for morning pasties, when the bell above the door rings with a bright trill. I know I’ve got flour smeared across my cheek, probably in my hair, but I don’t bother to check. Most people who show up before nine are here for food, not a fashion show.
Through the haze of oven steam, I see her—jet hair loose and luminous, blue eyes scanning the chalkboard menu with the intense focus of someone tackling an unfamiliar language. She’s pretty, sure, but it’s the alert, slightly overwhelmed way she moves that draws my attention.
And she’s not alone. There’s an alpha with her, standing so close, I wonder if she’ll ever get a moment to breathe. He’s taller than me by a half inch, built like someone who could bench press a Mini Cooper for a laugh, and his gaze doesn’t rest anywhere. It very obviously moves and tracks every living thing in this bakery. Assessing everything.
And he’s familiar, but I can’t place him yet.
They’re both overdressed for Seamuse in June. She’s in a sundress that looks more expensive than my car, and he’s wearing slacks and a tailored shirt rolled to the elbows.
Out-of-towners, obviously.
“Welcome in.” I wipe away the sweat on my forehead with my wrist. “Don’t be shy—the best smell in Cornwall’s free with every order.”
The woman gives a tiny, startled laugh. “It’s… very inviting. Are you open for breakfast, or is it all—” She gestures toward the case, where rows of sausage rolls, pasties, and sweet buns glisten under the glass.
“Everything’s fair game,” I assure her. “There’s coffee too, if you’re braver than me. The rookie made it this morning. He’s… passionate about caffeine.” I almost say “deranged” but don’t want to scare her off. I don’t think the coffee’s quitethatstrong. “First time in, then?”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “We just arrived last week. Everyone said the bakery was a must.”
I try to listen to her, but a few things hit me all at once. First, she looks insanely cute brushing hair behind her ear like that.
Second, she’s not just a woman. She’s an omega. One whose honey scent is slipping through the air to me as though being dripped from her very skin like honey from a comb. I want to lick it all up and call her mine.
Lickherall up.
Fuck me.
I clamp down on the rising alpha instincts and affix a bright smile to my lips in hopes no one somehow heard my thoughts. Good thing my dark apron’s hanging low enough to cover my fucking cock right now.
Holy hell.A scent-matched omega. Right here, suddenly right before me in my own damned bakery.
I swallow hard and step out from behind the counter. Instantly, the alpha by her side locks on to me, eyes narrowing for a microsecond before he smooths it away.
Iknowthat face. The jawline, the scar across the eyebrow. But the memory’s slippery—high school, a rugby match, something about a bonfire and a fight nobody lost.
I offer my hand. “I’m Cole. Cole Johnson. My family’s run this place since sourdough was invented.”
The alpha studies my hand like I might crush his fingers. Then he grins—unexpected, wide, infectious—and shakes it. “Zane Hawke.”
The name hits with a jolt. Zane Hawke, Seamuse’s own prodigal son, last seen hauling ass to the city with a scholarship and a chip on his shoulder. Rumor said he ended up private security for some important people.
The way he hovers over his companion, I’d guess she’s one of them.
The woman introduces herself, too. “Helena Starling.” Her handshake is firm, like she’s had lessons. “We’re supposed to be on holiday, but…” She glances at Zane with an affectionate exasperation that makes his stoicism look almost cute.
I can’t help but smile. “Some people just can’t switch off. Here, let’s get you sorted.”
We drift toward the case. Helena’s eyes widen at each shelf. There’s a mountain of stick Chelsea buns and a perfect spiral of cinnamon rolls on the top shelf. Beneath that, I’ve got neat rows of golden pasties. The village prides itself on Cornish tradition, but I try to keep things a little interesting.
