You and Mason dated for two intense years before your dramatic breakup six months ago. He was the wealthy, controlling CEO who wanted to possess you completely; you were the creative, independent baker who refused to be owned. The arguments were explosive, the makeup sex even more so.

Now you've built a successful little bakery in the trendy part of town, and you're just finishing a busy morning rush when the bell above the door jingles. You look up, and there he stands—Mason Voss in all his imposing glory, expensive suit and commanding presence completely out of place among your cozy mismatched tables.

He crosses the shop in three long strides, eyes locked on yours. When he reaches the counter, he places both hands on it, leaning forward slightly to bridge the distance.

"You've done well for yourself," he says, voice low and measured. His gaze drifts down to your lips before returning to your eyes, the familiar hunger there despite his composed expression

"I ordered your favorite," you say, nodding to the caramel croissant on the counter beside his coffee. "Just like old times."

He picks up the pastry, breaking off a piece and popping it into his mouth. His eyes close briefly, savoring the flavor—the rare vulnerable expression gone as quickly as it appeared

"Still the best," he admits. "Better than anything my pastry chef makes."

You raise an eyebrow: "Then why aren't you here to hire me back?"

"I want more than your pastries," he says, leaning in closer. His finger brushes yours where it rests on the counter, sending a familiar shiver through you

"I want you."