Chapter 2: The Bakery Siege
The lunch rush had finally died, leaving the bakery in that strange, suspended hush that came between waves of customers. Amber leaned against the counter, her back pressed to the cool marble edge, and let out a breath she'd been holding since eleven o'clock. Her feet throbbed. Her shoulders ached. And there was a smear of raspberry filling on her forearm that she couldn't remember getting there.
Three days since the penthouse. Three days since she'd walked away from Kash King and his whiskey and his raw, wounded laugh. She'd replayed the conversation a hundred times—in the shower, in bed, in the quiet moments between orders. The way he'd looked at her. The way he'd said her name. The way his thumb had traced her jaw like he was memorizing the shape of it.
She'd told herself it was nothing. A moment. A blip. A rich man having a bad night and reaching for whoever was closest.
But she couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted in that kitchen. Something she hadn't asked for and didn't know what to do with.
"You're doing that thing again."
Amber looked up. Her cousin, Maya, stood in the doorway that connected the front of the shop to the kitchen, her arms crossed and her eyebrow arched. Maya was two years younger, with the same warm brown skin and the same stubborn streak, but where Amber was soft curves and quiet fire, Maya was sharp angles and loud opinions.
"What thing?" Amber asked.
"That thing where you stare at nothing and look like you're having a whole conversation in your head." Maya walked over and swiped a croissant from the display case. "You've been doing it for three days. Ever since that party."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Liar."
Amber didn't bother denying it. Maya saw through her the same way their mother had—with a kind of ruthless precision that left no room for bullshit.
"It's nothing," Amber said. "Just tired."
"Uh-huh." Maya bit into the croissant, crumbs falling onto her shirt. "So it has nothing to do with the text you got from Sloane asking for your vendor contact info? Or the missed call from a number you didn't recognize yesterday?"
Amber's stomach tightened. She'd deleted the voicemail without listening to it. She'd told herself it was spam. She'd known it wasn't.
"He called?" Maya asked, reading her face.
"I don't know. Maybe. I didn't listen to the message."
"Amber."
"Don't Amber me. I don't have time for whatever this is." She gestured vaguely at the bakery, the pastel walls, the hand-painted murals, the cases full of tarts and cakes and cookies. "I have a wedding cake to finish, two dozen cupcakes for a baby shower, and a standing order for the hotel that's due tomorrow. I don't have time for millionaires with wounded souls and a habit of drinking whiskey straight from the bottle."
Maya's eyes widened. "He was drinking straight from the bottle?"
"It was a two-hundred-dollar bottle of Macallan. He was drinking it like cheap beer."
"And you didn't jump him?"
"Maya!"
"What? You said he was shirtless."
Amber grabbed a dish towel and threw it at her cousin. Maya caught it one-handed, laughing.
"I'm just saying," Maya continued, "if a man who looks like that—shirtless, rich, emotionally complicated—is drinking expensive whiskey in his penthouse after a party, and you're the one he lets stay, that's not nothing. That's a signal."
"It's a signal that he was drunk and sad and I was there."
"Or it's a signal that he saw something in you worth seeing."
Amber turned away and started wiping down the counter, even though it was already clean. She didn't want to talk about this. Didn't want to think about the way Kash had looked at her, like she was a puzzle he wanted to solve, a door he wanted to open.
"He doesn't know anything about me," she said.
"He knows you're not impressed by him. That's something."
"Everyone's impressed by him. He's rich and powerful and—"
"And you're not. That's the point." Maya finished her croissant and brushed the crumbs off her hands. "Look, I'm not saying you should marry the guy. I'm saying you should maybe call him back. See what he wants. You don't have to do anything about it. Just... see."
Amber opened her mouth to argue, but the bell above the front door chimed.
She looked up.
And there he was.
Kash King stood in the doorway of Exquisite Bites Bakery like he'd stepped out of a different dimension. His suit was charcoal gray, perfectly tailored, the kind of suit that cost more than her monthly rent and probably her yearly salary. His shoes were polished to a mirror shine. His beard was trimmed to precision. And his eyes—those deep, knowing eyes—were fixed on her with an intensity that made her forget how to breathe.
He looked around the bakery slowly, taking in the pastel pink walls, the hand-painted murals of fruit baskets and golden loaves, the vintage pendant lights that cast a warm glow over everything. He looked like a panther in a petting zoo. Out of place. Dangerous. Completely unbothered by it.
"Amber," he said, her name rolling off his tongue like he'd been practicing it.
"Kash." She was proud of how steady her voice came out. "What are you doing here?"
"I told you I'd come."
"No, you didn't."
"Didn't I?" He walked toward the counter, his steps slow and measured. Maya had frozen in place, her eyes wide, the dish towel dangling from her fingers. "I must have forgotten. I'm getting old."
"You're thirty-four."
"So you remember." A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I'm flattered."
Amber crossed her arms. She would not be charmed. She would not be flattered. She would not—
"Who's your friend?" Kash glanced at Maya, who was still standing there like a deer caught in headlights.
"I'm Maya," Maya said, finding her voice. "Amber's cousin. Business partner. Chief taste-tester. Huge fan of your clubs, by the way. The Vault is incredible."
"Maya," Amber hissed.
"What? It's true. I went for my birthday last year. The drinks were amazing."
Kash's smile widened. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. First round's on me next time."
"Oh, I'll hold you to that."
"Maya!" Amber grabbed her cousin by the arm and steered her toward the kitchen. "Can you go check on the croissants?"
"We already—"
"Check. The. Croissants."
Maya glanced between Amber and Kash, her eyes sparkling with barely contained glee. "Fine. But we're talking about this later." She disappeared into the kitchen, and Amber could hear her laughing all the way to the back.
Amber turned back to Kash. He was standing in front of the display case now, studying the contents with the kind of focus she usually reserved for cake batter and tempered chocolate.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"One of everything."
"Excuse me?"
"One of everything." He straightened up and met her gaze. "I've heard good things about this place. I want to try it all."
Amber stared at him. "You want to buy one of every single item in the case?"
"Is that a problem?"
"It's—" She shook her head. "It's seven hundred dollars."
"Seven hundred and forty-two," he corrected, reading the handwritten menu board. "Plus tax."
"You're insane."
"Probably." He pulled out his wallet, a sleek black thing that looked like it cost more than her car, and set a platinum card on the counter. "But I'm also hungry."
Amber didn't move. "You're not going to eat all of this."
"No. But I'm going to try." He gestured at the case. "I'll take one of everything, plus whatever you recommend."
"You can't be serious."
"I'm always serious about desserts ."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him to leave, to go back to his penthouse and his whiskey and his wounded soul. But she also knew that look in his eyes—that determined, almost playful glint that said he wasn't going anywhere until he got what he wanted.
"Fine," she said, pulling on a pair of gloves. "One of everything. But you're not eating it here."
"Why not?"
"Because you'll scare off my customers."
He glanced around the empty bakery. "What customers?"
Amber pressed her lips together. He had a point. The lunch rush was over, and the next wave wouldn't hit until after three. They were alone—well, alone except for Maya, who was definitely listening through the kitchen door.
"Start with the croissants," she said, opening the case. "They're fresh out of the oven."
She began boxing the pastries—almond croissants, chocolate croissants, plain croissants with a honey glaze that she'd perfected after three years of trial and error. Kash watched her work, his eyes following her hands as she lifted each item with delicate precision.
"You're good at this," he said.
"I should hope so. I've been doing it for eight years."
"Eight years?"
"Since I was eighteen." She slid a lemon tart into a box. "Started with a pop-up stall at the farmer's market. Worked my way up to this."
"Why did you start so young?"
She paused, a raspberry macaron hovering in midair. "I needed money. My mom was sick, and I was paying for her medical bills. Baking was something I could do from home, something I could sell without needing a storefront."
"And after she passed?"
Amber set the macaron down and looked at him. "I kept going. It was the only thing that felt normal. The kitchen was the only place that didn't feel empty."
Kash was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded slowly. "I understand that."
"Do you?"
"When my mother died, I threw myself into work. My first club, it wasn't just a business. It was a life raft. The only thing keeping me from drowning."
Amber didn't know what to say. She hadn't expected this—this moment of raw honesty, this glimpse behind the curtain. She'd expected him to be charming, demanding, maybe even a little arrogant. She hadn't expected him to understand.
"Who did you lose?" she asked.
The question hung in the air between them. Kash's jaw tightened, just slightly. His eyes flickered, and for a moment, she saw something—a shadow, a ghost—before he blinked and smiled.
"Marcus," he said. "My cousin. My best friend. He stole from me and disappeared three days ago."
Amber's eyes widened. "That's what was in the penthouse. That's what you were drinking about."
"That's what I was drinking about."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." He reached into the case and pulled out a pain au chocolat, biting into it before she could stop him. "I've learned that people will always disappoint you. It's just a matter of when and how."
Amber grabbed the pastry from his hand. "You can't eat that. It hasn't been paid for."
"Add it to the total."
"I will."
"I know."
She stared at him. He stared back.
And then she laughed.
It came out of nowhere, unexpected and bright, and she pressed a hand to her mouth to muffle the sound. Kash's smile widened, genuine this time, not the polished, practiced thing she'd seen on his face before.
"You're impossible," she said.
"I've been told."
"You can't just show up here and—what are you doing?" She watched in disbelief as he reached over the counter and grabbed the pastry she'd taken from him, biting into it again like she hadn't just confiscated it.
"I'm eating the pain au chocolat," he said, his mouth full. "It's very good, by the way. You should be proud."
Amber threw her hands up. "Fine. Fine. Just—sit down. And stop grabbing things."
He held up both hands in mock surrender. "Yes, ma'am."
He walked to the tiny table by the window—the one with the wobbly leg that she'd been meaning to fix for two years—and sat down. The chair creaked under his weight. He looked so absurdly out of place that she almost laughed again.
Maya poked her head out of the kitchen. "Everything okay out here?"
"Fine," Amber said through gritted teeth. "Just fine."
Three hours passed.
Kash didn't leave. He sat at that tiny table, eating his way through an entire box of pastries, and watched her work. Every time she glanced up, his eyes were on her—not in a creepy way, but in a way that felt almost... curious. Like she was a crossword puzzle he was trying to solve.
Customers came and went. Amber served them, answered questions, recommended the lavender honey scones. And all the while, she could feel him there, a warm presence in the corner of the room.
At four o'clock, the rush hit.
A group of six teenagers came in, followed by two moms with strollers, followed by three office workers who all wanted the same drink—the matcha latte with oat milk, which took exactly seven minutes to make, and she only had one blender.
"Amber." Maya appeared at her side, her face panicked. "Callie just called. She's sick. Can't come in."
"What? She's supposed to be here at—" Amber looked at the clock. "Now. She's supposed to be here now."
"I know. But she's puking her guts out, so."
Amber closed her eyes. Breathed. Counted to five. "Okay. Okay. I'll handle the register. You keep making the drinks."
"I'm already doing that."
"Then I'll do the drinks too."
"No." Maya grabbed her arm. "You're doing the register. And the pastries. And the custom order for the hotel that needs to go out by five." She looked at the growing line of customers. "This is a disaster."
"I know."
"This is a disaster, Amber."
"I know!"
A voice came from behind them, low and calm. "I can help."
Amber turned. Kash was standing there, his suit jacket draped over his arm, his sleeves already rolled up to his elbows. His forearms were thick and muscled, dusted with dark hair, and there was a smudge of chocolate on his wrist from where he'd reached into the case earlier.
"You?" Amber said.
"Why not?"
"Because you're—you don't know how to—"
"Box pastries?" He raised an eyebrow. "I ran a restaurant for three years before I opened my first club. I know how to box pastries."
Amber stared at him. "You ran a restaurant?"
"Nobody starts at the top." He moved past her, walking behind the counter like he'd done it a thousand times, and started opening boxes. "Who's taking the register?"
Maya shoved Amber toward the cash register. "She is."
"What are you—"
"Go," Maya said. "I'll make the drinks. He'll box. You handle the money. Go."
Amber went.
For the next hour, they worked like a machine. Amber rang up orders, Kash boxed them, Maya made drinks, and somehow, impossibly, they kept up. Customers smiled and left. The line shrank. The pile of custom order boxes grew.
Amber watched Kash out of the corner of her eye. He was good. Really good. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, folding box tops, sliding pastries into place, handing them over with a smile that made at least three women blush.
Her mind flashed to the night of the party. He'd looked confident then, too. But this was different. This was him in her world, doing her work, and instead of looking like a king slumming it with the peasants, he looked... natural. Like he belonged.
"We make a good team," Maya whispered, appearing at Amber's elbow.
"Shut up."
"I'm just saying. He's rolling up his sleeves and boxing croissants like it's his calling. That's not nothing."
"Go make your drinks."
"I'm done. It's six o'clock. We're closed."
Amber looked up. Maya was right. The bakery was empty, the sign on the door flipped to closed, the register was counted, and the flour on Kash's forearms was doing something unholy to her concentration.
She hadn't noticed any of it.
"Where's the last box?" Kash asked, looking around. "I thought there were two more."
"Custom order. It's in the back." Amber pulled off her gloves and tossed them into the trash. "I'll get it."
She went to the kitchen and grabbed the last box—the wedding cake, wrapped and sealed and ready for delivery. When she came back out, Kash was leaning against the counter, his sleeves still rolled up, his tie loosened, his suit jacket nowhere to be seen.
His arms were covered in flour. His hands smelled like cinnamon. And his eyes, when they found her, were soft in a way she hadn't seen before.
"Satisfied?" she asked, setting the box on the counter.
"Very." He pushed off from the counter and walked toward her. "You were right."
"About what?"
"The bakery. It's special."
Amber felt her face heat. She turned away and started wiping down the display case, even though it was already clean. "Thanks for your help."
"You're welcome."
"I'm serious. We would have been here until midnight without you."
"I know." He was close now. Close enough that she could smell his cologne—something woodsy and expensive—mixed with the flour and sugar that now clung to him. "That's why I stayed."
Amber's hands stilled. She looked at him over her shoulder. "You stayed because you knew Callie was going to call in sick?"
"No. I stayed because I wanted to watch you work." He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face, his fingers grazing her cheek. "I wanted to see you in your element. I wanted to understand why you do this."
"And do you?"
"I'm starting to."
Amber's heart was hammering. She should step back. Should tell him to leave. Should protect herself from whatever this was.
But she didn't move.
"Have dinner with me," he said.
"No."
"Lunch tomorrow?"
"No."
"Coffee?"
"No."
He smiled. That smile—the one that made people want to trust him or run from him. "You're not going to make this easy, are you?"
"I told you I wouldn't."
"I know." He stepped back, giving her space, but his eyes never left hers. "But I'm patient. And I'm stubborn. And I'm very good at getting what I want."
"I'm not a thing to be gotten."
"No. You're not." He picked up his suit jacket and slid it on, buttoning it with quick, efficient movements. "You're something else entirely."
Amber didn't know what to say to that.
Kash walked to the door, then paused, his hand on the frame. "I'll ask again tomorrow."
"And I'll say no again."
"Maybe." He opened the door, letting in the cool evening air. "But one day, Amber Dunn, you're going to say yes. And I'm going to be there when you do."
He stepped out into the street, and the door swung shut behind him.
Amber stood there for a long moment, staring at the spot where he'd been. Her heart was still pounding. Her cheeks were still warm. And the flour on his forearms—the image of his hands moving through the box, the curve of his smile—was burned into her brain.
Maya appeared from the kitchen, a cookie in each hand. "So. That happened."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Sure you don't." Maya handed her a cookie. "But you're going to. Eventually."
Amber took the cookie and bit into it. It was the bacon chocolate chip , one of her favorites. But she barely tasted it.
Because Kash King was gone, and she already missed the warmth of him.
And that scared her more than she was willing to admit.
The bakery was too quiet after he left.
Amber stood in the center of the floor, the cookie still in her hand, the taste of bacon and chocolate barely registering on her tongue. The pendant lights hummed overhead. The display case gleamed. And the chair where Kash had sat for three hours—the wobbly one, the one she'd been meaning to fix—still held the indent of his body.
Maya was watching her. Amber could feel it, the weight of her cousin's stare, the unspoken questions piling up like dirty dishes.
"Don't," Amber said.
"I haven't said anything."
"Your face is saying it."
"My face is just existing." Maya walked over and took the cookie from Amber's hand, snapping off a piece. "But if my face were saying something, it might be saying that you just let a millionaire who looks like a Norse god and boxes pastries like a line cook walk out that door without so much as a maybe."
"I said maybe."
"No, you said no. Multiple times. With increasing conviction."
Amber grabbed the cookie back and finished it in two bites. "I said I'd think about it."
"Did you?"
"Not out loud."
Maya laughed—a sharp, knowing sound that bounced off the pink walls and the fruit murals and the vintage sign that read Fresh Baked Daily in hand-painted script. "You're impossible. You know that?"
"I've been told."
"That's what he said."
Amber didn't answer. She walked to the display case and started wiping it down, even though she'd already wiped it down twice. Her hands needed something to do. Her brain needed something to focus on that wasn't the memory of Kash King's flour-dusted forearms or the way he'd said her name like he was tasting it.
Maya leaned against the counter. "Can I ask you something?"
"You're going to anyway."
"Why are you so scared of him?"
The question landed like a stone in still water. Amber's hand paused mid-swipe. She stared at her reflection in the glass—curls escaping her bun, flour smudged on her cheek, eyes that looked tired and wary and something else she didn't want to name.
"I'm not scared of him," she said.
"You're scared of something."
"I'm scared of getting hurt. There's a difference."
Maya was quiet for a moment. Then she walked over and took the rag from Amber's hand. "I know Mom's story scares you. I know you watched her give everything to someone who left, and I know you swore you'd never do the same thing."
"Don't."
"I'm not trying to psychoanalyze you. I'm just saying—" Maya tossed the rag into the sink. "Not every man is Uncle Robert. Not every relationship ends with someone walking out the door."
"I know that."
"Do you?"
Amber turned away. She grabbed her keys from behind the register, her bag from under the counter, her jacket from the hook by the door. Her movements were quick, mechanical, the kind of efficiency that came from years of closing up alone at night.
"He's not asking you to marry him," Maya called after her. "He's asking you to have dinner. That's it. One meal. You can survive one meal."
"I don't want to survive a meal. I want to avoid the whole thing."
"Why?"
Amber stopped at the door, her hand on the frame. The night air was cool against her face, carrying the scent of rain and exhaust and someone's dinner cooking in an apartment above the bakery.
"Because I liked him," she said. "I didn't want to. I tried not to. But I liked him, and that's terrifying."
Maya didn't say anything. She didn't have to. The silence said enough.
Amber stepped out into the night and let the door swing shut behind her.
The walk home took twelve minutes.
She counted every one of them. Past the taco truck on the corner, past the laundromat with its flickering neon sign, past the park where she used to take her mother on good days when the hospital let her out. The city was alive around her—car horns and laughter and the distant thump of music from some bar she'd never been to.
She climbed the stairs to her apartment, three flights of creaky wooden steps that groaned under her weight. Her door was the last one on the left, painted a faded blue that she'd been meaning to repaint for two years.
Inside was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed against her ears and reminded her that she was alone.
She kicked off her shoes and dropped her bag on the counter. Her apartment was small—a studio with a kitchenette and a window that looked out onto a brick wall. But it was hers. Every scuff on the floor, every chip in the paint, every piece of furniture she'd bought secondhand and hauled up three flights of stairs by herself.
She'd built this life with her own hands. She wasn't about to let someone walk in and tear it down.
Her phone buzzed.
She pulled it out, expecting Maya, maybe a meme or a demand for a full recap. Instead, the screen showed a number she didn't recognize. The same number that had called yesterday. The same number she'd deleted without listening to the message.
She stared at it.
The phone stopped ringing.
She set it on the counter and walked to the fridge, pulling out a container of leftover pasta and a bottle of cheap white wine. She didn't bother heating up the pasta. She just ate it cold, standing over the sink, chasing it with wine straight from the bottle.
The phone buzzed again.
A text this time.
Unknown: You're probably not going to answer this. But I wanted you to know I meant what I said. I'm patient. I'm stubborn. And I'm not going anywhere.
Another buzz.
Unknown: Also, the pain au chocolat was incredible. You should put it on the menu. Call it the Kash Special. I'll take royalties in pastries.
She laughed before she could stop herself. It was a small sound, barely more than a breath, but it was real. She set the wine bottle down and picked up the phone, her thumb hovering over the screen.
She could delete it. Block the number. Pretend like none of this had happened and go back to her life—the bakery, the orders, the quiet apartment and the cold pasta and the loneliness she'd been carrying for so long she'd forgotten what it felt like to put it down.
Or she could do something else.
Something terrifying.
Something her mother had never been brave enough to do.
The phone was in her hand. The number was on the screen. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.
She pressed call.
It rang once. Twice.
He picked up on the third ring.
"Amber."
His voice was low and warm, like whiskey and honey, and it did something to her that she refused to acknowledge.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi."
"I got your texts."
"I figured."
There was a pause. She could hear something in the background—music, maybe, or the city through an open window. She pictured him in his penthouse, surrounded by marble and glass and all that empty space.
"I'm not calling to say yes," she said.
"I know."
"I'm calling to say—" She closed her eyes. Breathed. "I'm calling to say I'll think about it. For real this time. Not because you're wearing me down, but because I want to."
The silence that followed was different from before. It stretched, but it didn't strain. It felt like something was being built in the space between them, brick by brick, word by word.
"Okay," he said.
"That's it? Okay?"
"What else do you want me to say?"
"I don't know. Something smug, probably. Something about how you knew I'd come around."
"I did know." She could hear the smile in his voice. "But I wasn't going to say it. I'm trying to be less insufferable."
"It's not working."
"I know."
She laughed again. She couldn't help it. There was something about him—something disarming, something almost gentle underneath all that confidence and money and power. Something that made her want to trust him, even when every instinct told her not to.
"I have to go," she said. "I need to sleep. And you need to stop texting me like a lovesick teenager."
"I'm not lovesick. I'm strategic."
"There's no strategy in calling me at midnight."
"It's not midnight. It's ten-fifteen."
"Same difference."
Another pause. This one felt heavier. More deliberate.
"Amber."
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for calling."
She didn't know what to say to that. So she said nothing.
"Goodnight," he said.
"Goodnight, Kash."
She hung up and set the phone on the counter. The apartment was still quiet. Still small. Still hers.
But something in it had shifted. Something in her had shifted.
She walked to the window and looked out at the brick wall, at the single square of sky visible above it, at the stars she couldn't see because of the city lights. And for the first time in years, she didn't feel quite so alone.
The next morning came with rain.
Amber woke to the sound of it drumming against the window, a steady rhythm that made her want to stay in bed. But she had a wedding cake to deliver, cupcakes to finish, and a bakery to open by seven.
She dragged herself out of bed and into the shower. By the time she got to Exquisite Bites, she was soaked, her curls frizzing in ways that defied physics, her sneakers squelching with every step.
Maya was already there, apron on, hair tied back, looking annoyingly put-together for someone who'd been up late texting a boy.
"You look like a drowned rat," Maya said.
"Thanks."
"Coffee's in the back."
Amber grabbed the coffee and drank it standing up, letting the heat seep into her bones. The bakery smelled like cinnamon and yeast and sugar. It should have been comforting. It was, mostly.
"So," Maya said, sliding a tray of croissants into the oven. "Did you call him?"
Amber didn't answer. She just took another sip of coffee.
"You called him." Maya spun around, her eyes bright. "You actually called him."
"It's not a big deal."
"It's a huge deal. You never call anyone. You barely answer my calls."
"That's because you call twelve times in a row."
"Only when it's important." Maya grabbed Amber by the shoulders. "What did you say? What did he say? Did you set a date? What are you going to wear?"
"We didn't set a date. I just told him I'd think about it."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
Maya's face fell. "You're hopeless."
"I'm cautious."
"Same thing."
Amber pulled away and started setting up the register. The rain was still coming down, hard enough that she could hear it over the hum of the ovens. It was going to be a slow day. Rain always kept people inside.
The morning passed in a blur of prep work and muscle memory. By ten, the rain had softened to a drizzle, and a few customers had braved the weather for scones and lattes. By noon, the sun was peeking through the clouds, and the bakery was starting to fill up.
Amber was in the back, piping frosting onto a batch of cupcakes, when Maya appeared in the doorway.
"Someone's here to see you."
"If it's another photographer, tell them I said no."
"It's not a photographer."
Amber set down the piping bag and wiped her hands on her apron. She already knew who it was. She could feel it—a shift in the air, a change in the light.
She walked to the front of the bakery, and there he was.
Kash stood by the display case, hands in his pockets, wearing a gray sweater that looked soft enough to sleep in. His beard was freshly trimmed, his skin still damp from the rain, and he was holding a single white peony.
"Good morning," he said.
"It's afternoon."
"Is it?" He glanced at the clock on the wall. "So it is. I brought you this."
He held out the flower.
Amber didn't take it. "What's that for?"
"Because I was in the neighborhood."
"The flower or the flower?"
"You're funny." He set the peony on the counter. "I also came to order lunch."
"We don't serve lunch."
"Then I'll take one of everything. Again."
Amber crossed her arms. She tried to hold onto her irritation, her caution, her carefully constructed walls. But there was something about the way he was standing there, wet from the rain and holding a single flower, that made it impossible.
"You're impossible," she said.
"So I've been told."
She picked up the peony and held it to her nose. It smelled sweet and clean, like spring, like something new.
"One croissant," she said. "And a coffee. That's it."
"For now."
"For now."
He smiled—that same smile from the penthouse, the one that made her want to trust him—and slid into the wobbly chair by the window. Amber watched him for a moment, this man who had shown up in her world twice now, who had boxed pastries and asked for dinner and called her at exactly the right moment.
She still didn't understand him. Still didn't know if she could trust him. But she was starting to think she might want to try.
She grabbed a croissant from the display case and poured him a coffee. When she set them on the table, he looked up at her with those deep, knowing eyes.
"Sit with me," he said.
"I have work to do."
"Five minutes."
She looked around the bakery. It was half-empty. Maya was in the back. No one needed her.
She sat down.
Kash didn't say anything at first. He just bit into his croissant and watched her, like she was the most interesting thing in the room. In the world.
"Why me?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you could have anyone. You know that, right? You could walk into any bar in this city and have women lining up. So why are you here, in my bakery, eating croissants and asking me to dinner?"
Kash set the croissant down. He was quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing the edge of his coffee cup.
"Because you see me," he said.
"I don't—"
"You do. You saw me in the penthouse, when I was at my worst. You saw the mess and the whiskey and the self-pity, and you didn't run. You also didn't try to fix me. You just... saw me. And then you gave me cake."
"That's not a reason."
"It's the only reason that matters." He looked up at her, his eyes steady. "Everyone else sees the money. The clubs. The success. You see the man underneath. Do you know how rare that is?"
Amber didn't answer. She didn't know how.
"I'm not asking you to fall in love with me," he said. "I'm not asking you to trust me. I'm just asking for one dinner. One hour. You can bring your pepper spray if you want."
She laughed despite herself. "I don't own pepper spray."
"You should. You live alone."
"Are you offering to buy me some?"
"I'm offering to walk you home. After dinner. If you say yes."
The rain had stopped. Sunlight was streaming through the window, casting a warm glow over the bakery, over the croissants, over the peony on the counter. Amber looked at Kash King—wealthy, powerful, impossibly persistent—and felt something shift inside her.
Something that felt almost like hope.
"I'll think about it," she said.
"You said that last night."
"And I meant it last night."
He nodded slowly. Then he stood up, buttoning his sweater, stepping back into the role of the man the world saw.
"Okay," he said. "But I'm going to keep showing up. And I'm going to keep bringing flowers. And one day, you're going to say yes."
"How do you know?"
He smiled. "Because I'm patient. And I'm stubborn. And I know what I want."
He walked to the door and paused, one hand on the frame.
"See you tomorrow, Amber."
"See you tomorrow, Kash."
The door swung shut behind him. The bakery was quiet again, filled with the smell of cinnamon and sugar and the faint, sweet scent of the peony on the counter.
Amber sat there for a long time, staring at the flower, at the empty coffee cup, at the rain-washed street outside.
And when she finally got up to go back to work, she was smiling.