⁂

The bakery smelled like it always did this time of morning, vanilla, yeast, and just a hint of burnt sugar from the caramel rolls she left in five minutes too long. But nothing felt the same.

Leila Hart wiped her hands on her apron for the third time, even though there was nothing on them. Her heartbeat pounded loud enough to drown out the jazz playing over the speakers.

He said he’d come back.

Roman Vance. With those storm-gray eyes and that voice that sounded like velvet dipped in sin. The man whose ring she had once dreamt of wearing. The man whose child—

She pressed a hand to her chest and breathed in slow. Too late for panic now.

“Mommy, can I have another cookie?” Eli’s voice broke the silence. He peeked up from behind the counter, face smudged with chocolate.

Leila forced a smile. “That’s your second one, baby.”

He grinned. “So I can have three?”

She couldn’t help the laugh. “That’s not how counting works.”

“But you said sharing is kind,” he reasoned. “And I want to share this one with the man with the sad eyes.”

Her blood turned to ice.

“What man?”

Eli’s smile widened. “The tall one from yesterday. The one who looked at me like he knew me.”

She knelt down and gently took his little hand. “You liked him?”

He shrugged. “He smelled like peppermints and looked like you when you think too much.”

A lump rose in her throat. “Eli, if he comes back today, I want you to stay in the kitchen with Aunt Carmen. Okay?”

His brows furrowed. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, baby,” she said softly, kissing the top of his curls. “You did everything right. You’re just… special. And sometimes grown-ups get confused about special things.”

Before he could ask more questions, the front door jingled.

Leila stood up too fast, her breath catching in her throat.

It wasn’t Roman.

It was Nathan, her best friend and legal guardian angel in slim-fit suits and knowing smirks.

“You look like someone waiting for an earthquake,” he said, stepping inside and brushing flour off the counter with dramatic flair.

“Should I evacuate?”

She exhaled. “He’s coming back.”

“Naturally.” Nathan folded his arms. “Did you think a man like that would walk in, see a tiny copy of himself, and just go back to his skyscraper without questions?”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “He doesn’t know for sure.”

“He will. You can’t hide DNA forever, Leila.”

“I didn’t hide him to be cruel,” she snapped. “I did it to protect Eli. To protect him.”

Nathan’s tone softened. “I know. But it won’t stay hidden much longer.”

A loud thud behind them made both of them turn.

Talia stood in the doorway, her makeup smudged from the night before, her stilettos clicking as she stepped further inside.

“Well, well,” she said with a venomous smile. “Isn’t this cozy?”

Leila stiffened. “What are you doing here?”

Talia leaned against the counter. “I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d stop by for a muffin. Or maybe to see if the past is finally catching up with you.”

Nathan stepped in. “Not now, Talia.”

“Oh, I think now is perfect,” she said. Her gaze snapped to Leila. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

Leila said nothing.

Talia’s eyes narrowed. “You think you get to keep everything, don’t you? The bakery. The kid. And him.”

“I didn’t keep anyone,” Leila hissed. “You walked away from everything. You made that choice.”

Talia’s jaw tightened. “And you made yours when you let him go.”

“I let him go for you,” Leila said, her voice breaking. “And you still hate me for it.”

Talia looked like she might spit back something cruel but the door chimed again.

Roman.

Leila’s heart jumped into her throat.

He walked in with quiet, dangerous confidence, dressed in tailored charcoal and ice. His gaze swept the room, freezing when it landed on her, then briefly flickering to Talia before settling on Nathan… and Eli.

Roman’s mouth was a hard line.

Eli looked up at him, blinking. “Hi again, mister.”

Nathan stepped between them. “Roman. You’re early.”

Roman didn’t respond. He looked at Leila instead.

“Start talking.”

⁂

𝗙𝗹𝗮𝘀𝗵𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝘀𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻 𝘆𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘀 𝗮𝗴𝗼:

Roman Vance didn't do small towns.

Not for vacations, not for day trips, and definitely not for bakeries.

He liked skyline views and espresso brewed by machines that cost more than a small car. He liked valet parking and hotel suites with blackout curtains and silence. The kind of silence money could buy.

So how he ended up in a sun-drenched pocket of nowhere, standing in front of a brick-and-ivy building with a crooked wooden sign that read Hart & Hearth, was beyond him.

The GPS on his rental car had glitched. Just one wrong turn off the freeway. A detour he hadn't meant to take.

And yet... he got out.

It smelled like cinnamon. And warm honey. And nostalgia; though he couldn't tell you what exactly he was nostalgic for. The kind of smell that made you want to breathe a little slower. The kind of smell that lingered.

He pushed open the door.

The bell overhead chimed, a sound too cheerful for his mood and sunlight filtered through the tall front windows, casting a warm glow on the checkered floors and wooden countertops. The whole place looked like it had been lifted from a Hallmark movie and set down in the middle of real life. Cozy. Too cozy.

He was about to turn around when he heard a voice.

"Welcome to Hart & Hearth," it lilted, rich and honeyed with just a hint of amusement. "We don't get many men in suits around here. You lost, or just brave?"

Roman turned.

And saw her.

Not Leila.

Not yet.

The first face he saw was Talia.

She leaned against the counter with the kind of ease that came from years of being watched. Her eyes, sharp and outlined in heavy mascara, flicked over him like she was assessing his worth and not just the monetary kind.

She was licking frosting from her finger. Slowly. Deliberately. Her blouse was unbuttoned one too many for modesty, the gold chain at her neck dipping lower than necessary.

"Well, hello there," she said, voice warm and dripping with flirtation. "You're not from around here, are you?"

Roman raised a brow. "Just passing through."

She tilted her head, already smiling. "You sure you don't want to stay a while? We've got cinnamon rolls that could change your life."

He gave a dry chuckle. "That so?"

"Mmm-hmm." She came out from behind the counter with the grace of a cat. "I'm Talia. And you are...?"

He hesitated. He wasn't in the mood for small talk. And yet—

"Roman," he said simply.

Her smile widened. "Roman. That's strong. Sounds expensive."

He smirked. "Only sometimes."

A flicker of something unreadable passed through her expression, and Roman felt the itch to move on. He wasn't here for games. He wasn't even supposed to be here at all.

But before he could excuse himself, another voice floated in from somewhere behind the counter—warmer, gentler, tinged with mild irritation.

"Tal, did you finish icing the carrot loaves or are you still flirting with customers?"

His attention snapped toward the sound.

Another woman appeared from the back kitchen, holding a tray of pastries that looked like something out of a food magazine. Her cheeks were flushed pink, her dark curls tied into a loose, practical bun. She had no makeup on, just flour on her cheek and a streak of cinnamon dust across her apron. Her arms flexed slightly as she set the tray down, revealing the kind of strength that came from doing things the hard way.

She wasn't flashy.

She was real.

And when she looked up... everything stopped.

Leila.

Their eyes met.

And for one breathless moment, the air shifted.

Roman felt it, the tightness in his chest, the inexplicable pause in time. Like walking into a memory he hadn't lived yet.

"Oh," she said softly, clearly surprised. "Um. Hello."

Talia's voice cut through the silence, just a touch sharper than before. "Leila, this is Roman. He's just passing through."

Roman forced himself to nod, dragging his gaze away. "You're the real baker, I take it?"

Leila glanced between them, slightly flustered. "We both bake."

He nodded again, but it was clear who carried the soul of the place. The warmth. The smell of cinnamon and honey. The little hum that hung in the air, it was all her.

And something about that tugged at him, low and unfamiliar.

Talia stepped forward before he could say more and looped her arm through his. Her perfume was stronger up close, vanilla and something artificial.

"He's staying for coffee," she declared with a triumphant smile. "And maybe a tour of town. Aren't you, Roman?"

There was a challenge in her tone. A dare.

Leila's smile faltered just slightly. Her eyes wide, guarded didn't quite meet his.

Roman hesitated.

He should have said no.

He didn't do small towns. Or sisters. Or cinnamon-scented detours that turned him soft.

But something in Leila's stillness held him.

And then he made the first mistake of the day.

He said nothing.

And in that silence, Talia took his silence as agreement.