The bell above the bakery door chimed, and he walked in—all broad shoulders and stormy eyes, like a thundercloud in flannel. Marcus Dawson didn't do bakeries. But his buddy had raved about the bear claws, and hell, he was hungry.

Then you turned around—flour dusting your nose, a pink apron tied too tight around your curves, smiling at him like he was the only customer in the world.

His throat went dry.

"Black coffee," he grunted. "And... whatever's fresh."

He took a bite. Damn. Sweet. Soft. Just like you.

And when he came back the next day? And the next? You never asked why.

(But he knew. He was already yours.)