Page 32 of Chasing Stripes

“I need to finish inventory,” Bartek said, the dismissal clear in his tone.

His friends took the hint, rising from their seats with varying degrees of amusement.

“Don’t forget guys’ night tonight,” Rust reminded him. “Your turn to host.”

“And don’t rush over to tell her about the council directive the minute we leave,” Haavi added with a wink. “That might seem eager.”

Bartek’s growl followed them out the door, accompanied by their poorly suppressed laughter.

The moment they disappeared from view, he pulled out his phone. A text to Artemis would be the professional courtesy, after all. Nothing more.

The sun had climbed higheras Bartek paced outside Honeycrisp Bakery, precisely thirteen minutes before their agreed meeting time. He’d messaged Artemis about the council directive, receiving a polite but brief response that they could discuss it after her morning rush.

Now he stood on the sidewalk, debating whether arriving early would seem overeager or merely professionally prudent. He ran a hand through his hair, then immediately regretted messing up the styling he’d spent an uncharacteristic amount of time on that morning.

His gaze caught on his reflection in a storefront window. Dark jeans, boots, and the forest-green Henley that Mimi insisted brought out his eyes. Pure coincidence he’d chosen it today. Definitely not because green happened to be Artemis’s favorite color, according to the offhand comment she’d made to a customer yesterday—which he’d overheard only because shifter hearing was naturally acute, not because he’d been specifically tuned to her voice.

A movement in his peripheral vision disrupted his thoughts. A tall man in an immaculate dark suit lingered across the street, watching the bakery with calculated intensity. Something about his stance—the deliberate stillness, the predatory focus—triggered Bartek’s protective instincts.

Perfect. A legitimate security concern gave him the excuse he needed to enter early.

The bell chimed softly as he pushed open the bakery door. Inside, the scent of fresh pastries mingled with Artemis’s distinctive fragrance, creating a heady combination that momentarily staggered him. Beneath the expected notes of cinnamon and vanilla lay something sweeter, warmer—a hint of arousal that his tiger immediately recognized.

She desired him too.

Artemis emerged from the kitchen, flour dusting one cheek and her golden hair escaping its bun in wispy tendrils. At the sight of him, her eyes widened—hazel shifting toward emerald with flecks of gold. Her pulse jumped, the quickening audible to his sensitive ears.

Every light in the bakery surged brightly, then dimmed.

“You’re early,” she said, her voice carrying a melodious lilt that tightened something in his chest.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Bartek cleared his throat. “I noticed someone watching the bakery. Seemed suspicious.”

Her expression shifted to concern, gaze darting to the windows. “Thaddeus…”

She trailed off, absently touching her waist where his handprints glowed beneath her flour-dusted apron. The gesture drew his gaze, a possessive satisfaction burning through him at the sight of his marks still visible on her. Heat pooled low in his belly at the realization that she hadn’t tried to remove or conceal them.

“Too far away for me to be sure.” He dragged his eyes away, forcing his thoughts toward business. “The council directive,” he began, fighting to keep his voice steady, “do you have time to discuss it now?”

“Of course,” she nodded, a rose-pink flush spreading across her cheeks. “I’ve already started some test combinations. They’re in the kitchen.”

She led him through the swinging door into a warm space filled with copper mixing bowls, marble countertops, and rows of cooling racks. Pastries and small bottles of spirits lined the central island—clearly she’d been preparing for this meeting.

“I thought we could start with flavor profiles,” she explained, moving to the sink to wash her hands. “See which of your signature drinks complement which pastry bases.”

Bartek nodded, trying to focus on her words rather than the graceful movement of her fingers through the water or how the kitchen lights caught golden highlights in her hair. Her scent intensified in the enclosed space—vanilla and cinnamon now laced with a subtle undercurrent of desire that his tiger recognized instantly.

The kitchen should have provided ample room for two people, yet somehow the space had shrunk to nearly nothing. He found himself standing close behind her as she dried her hands, near enough to detect the subtle acceleration of her heartbeat.

“We should try them together,” she continued, turning suddenly and finding herself mere inches from his chest. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating as she looked up at him. “The flavors, I mean.”

The handprints at her waist glowed through her apron, bright enough to cast golden shadows on the countertop. Bartek’s own palms tingled in response, the marks there pulsing in perfect synchronization with hers.

“Right,” he managed, his voice rougher than intended.

She moved to the counter, putting necessary distance between them. “I thought we’d start with these spiced honey cakes. They might pair well with your oak-aged bourbon.”

---