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His eyes glimmered with something sharp and hungry, but Drift kept the conversation easy. “I’d like to see them try. Anyway, secrets aren’t fun unless you share them. Next lesson.”

He stepped up behind me, trapping me gently between the counter and his body.

I am not going to survive this lesson.

I tried not to react, but my hands trembled a little as Drift leaned forward.

“Okay, you want to go light on the egg wash or the top gets too dark,” Drift explained, his voice a soft purr at the back of my ear. “See this? You just brush it on, barely touching the dough.”

Warm, steady fingers guided my hand. Every cell in my body went tight. I wanted to lean into it, but instead, I focused on the pastry.

“Like this?” I asked, matching Drift’s motion.

“Perfect.” Drift’s chest brushed my shoulder. “See? You’re a natural.”

A natural disaster.

He leaned against the prep counter and gave me a look that was half amusement, half…something else.

“Pay attention to your brush.” He was suddenly closer, leaning so close our lips were inches apart.

I stepped sideways so abruptly I nearly knocked the flour canister off the counter. My hand shot out to steady it, my heart racing.

“Sorry, I just—” I nearly knocked over the canister again. “I’m sorry. I’m not…I wouldn’t…”

Even now, loyalty to a man who beat me. How pathetic was that?

But Drift didn’t stiffen. Didn’t retreat. Didn’t look wounded or annoyed or any of the things I braced for. He simply took a step back and picked up the brush I had abandoned, twirling it between his fingers.

“Nothing to apologize for.” Drift’s voice held the same easy warmth as before, not a single degree cooler. “I’m just teaching you to make croissants. That’s it.” A beat, then that crooked grin. “Though I should warn you, my croissants have been known to cause involuntary moaning. Don’t blame me when it happens.”

A laugh, startled, almost painful, broke free from my throat. “That’s a bold claim.”

“I’m a bold guy.” Drift slid the prepared dough into the fridge and pulled out a tray of already-proofed crescents, golden and puffy, ready for the oven. “Lucky for you, I prepped another batch earlier this morning.”

Within minutes, the oven filled the small kitchen with a smell so buttery and rich that my mouth watered.

Too soon the lesson was over, and I walked out with a bagful of the pastries, already feeling Drift’s absence.

Chapter Four

Drift

I studied the door after Phineas walked out. A bag of warm croissants and the ghost of flour on the counter were the only evidence he’d been here at all.

Something was off.

Not the conversation itself. That had flowed easier than I expected, Phineas matching my humor beat for beat with a quick, dry wit that kept catching me pleasantly off guard. And not the way Phineas had leaned into the baking lesson, fingers sinking into dough like he was starving for something tactile and grounding.

And not the fact that my wolf had chosen Phineas halfway through the lesson.

All of that had been good. Better than good.

It was the other stuff. The flinch when our fingers brushed at the counter. The way Phineas had bolted sideways when I leaned too close, nearly sending the flour canister to its death. That frantic apology—I’m not…I wouldn’t—like proximity itself was a crime he’d be punished for.

And the bruise. Faint but there, hiding just below the left cheekbone under makeup that had started to lose its battle with the kitchen’s heat. I hadn’t said a word. Pushing would’ve sent Phineas running, and my instinct told me the man was already running from enough.

A customer cleared her throat, and I blinked back to the present.