The Billionaire’s Curvy Blossom

(Frida’s POV) The aroma of cinnamon and warm bread drifted through the little bakery like an invitation, curling through the air and out into the quiet morning street. Frida Andersson took a deep breath, her chest tightening with both pride and disbelief. Her bakery—her bakery—was finally open. Just two months ago, she’d been packing boxes in her tiny apartment in Gothenburg, saying goodbye to everything familiar: the sharp scent of the sea, the comfort of Swedish rain, the friends she’d known since childhood. Now she was in Portland, Oregon—half a world away—baking the same kanelbullar her grandmother used to make on Sunday mornings. Frida pulled open the oven door and slid out a tray of the golden buns, the scent of cinnamon, cardamom, and butter wrapping around her like a warm hug. “Perfect,” she murmured softly in Swedish. For a moment, the homesickness in her chest eased. Not that this city was unkind. She liked the creative energy that buzzed through Portland’s streets, the mix of old brick buildings and bright murals, the sound of laughter spilling out of cafés even on rainy mornings. But sometimes, late at night when the ovens cooled and the street outside went still, she missed home—the crisp pine-scented air, the way the snow glowed blue under streetlights, the quiet. “Frida!” The shout broke her reverie. Molly Jones burst through the back door, her auburn curls escaping from a messy bun, her black T-shirt dusted with flour like snowfall. “Please tell me those smell as good as they look,” she said, leaning dramatically against the counter and inhaling. Frida laughed, brushing a stray strand of blonde hair from her cheek. “They’re kanelbullar, straight from the oven. But if you touch them before they cool, you’ll burn your fingers.” “Worth it,” Molly said, already reaching for one. “Molly!” Frida swatted her hand away. “What? I’m head of quality control.” Molly grinned, unrepentant. “You’re wasted on this place, you know that? You should be running some fancy patisserie in Paris or Milan, not tucked away in a tiny café on a side street in Portland.” Frida smiled faintly and shook her head. “No, this is what I wanted. Something small. Something mine. Sweet Haven feels… safe.” Molly snorted. “Safe is overrated. You need a little adventure. Or at least someone who can talk to you about something other than dough temperatures.” “Don’t start,” Frida warned, rearranging croissants in the display case to hide her blush. “I’m serious,” Molly teased. “You’re young, gorgeous, and new in town. You can’t spend every night with Netflix and a sourdough starter.” Before Frida could answer, the bell above the door chimed—their first customer of the morning. She straightened her apron and turned toward the entrance. A man stepped inside, and the air seemed to shift. He didn’t look like the kind of person who wandered into cozy bakeries decorated with pastel bunting and chalkboard menus. He looked like he belonged to another world entirely—sharp charcoal suit, dark hair perfectly styled, eyes cool and assessing. The sort of man who probably drank espresso in glass-walled offices high above city skylines. Molly muttered under her breath, “Holy… okay, now that is some excitement.” “Shh,” Frida hissed, but her pulse was already quickening. The man’s gaze swept across the small café, pausing on her. He smiled slightly—just enough to make her stomach twist. “Good morning,” he said, his voice smooth, with a faint accent she couldn’t quite place. “Good morning,” she managed. “What can I get you?” He studied the display case. The silence stretched long enough for Frida to feel every heartbeat. “I’ll take whatever’s fresh,” he said at last. Molly coughed to hide a laugh. Frida lifted the tray of warm cinnamon buns. “These just came out of the oven.” “Perfect,” he said, the corner of his mouth curving. “And coffee. Black.” Of course. Black. No sugar, no milk—no softness. He looked like the type who planned his days by the minute. She poured the coffee, trying not to notice the way his eyes followed every movement she made. When she slid the cup across the counter, their fingers brushed—just for an instant—but it sent a spark up her arm. “Frida Andersson,” he said suddenly. She froze. “Do I know you?” That faint, knowing smile. “Not yet.” Her heart stumbled. Then she saw his gaze flick toward her apron—her name stitched neatly on the front—and she laughed, cheeks warm. “Right. Of course.” He lifted his cup, watching her. “You own this place?” “I do,” she said, proud despite herself. “Sweet Haven. Just opened two weeks ago.” “Impressive,” he said softly. “Starting something new in a new country. Not many people have that kind of courage.” Something in his tone made her throat tighten. “Thank you.” Molly leaned in, her grin mischievous. “And you are…?” “Alexander Knight,” he said, his voice smooth as polished glass. Frida blinked. The name tugged at her memory—something she’d seen in a business article or on a glossy magazine cover—but she couldn’t quite place it. “Well, Mr. Knight,” Molly said brightly, “welcome to Sweet Haven. Don’t be a stranger.” Alexander’s eyes lingered on Frida. “I won’t be,” he said, setting his cup down gently. “Thank you, Miss Andersson. I’ll be seeing you again.” And then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft chime, leaving only the faint trace of his cologne in the air—clean, sharp, expensive. For a long moment, Frida stood motionless, staring at the empty doorway. Molly let out a low whistle. “Well. If that isn’t trouble wrapped in a designer suit, I don’t know what is.” Frida turned back to the counter, pretending to tidy the plates though her hands trembled slightly. “He’s just a customer.” “Sure,” Molly said, smirking. “A customer who looked at you like he’d just found something he wasn’t expecting.” Frida smiled faintly, though her heart was still fluttering. Outside, the morning light spilled across the sign that hung above the door—Sweet Haven. Her little dream in a foreign city. And for the first time since she’d arrived in America, Frida felt that maybe—just maybe—change wasn’t something to fear. But as she glanced toward the empty doorway, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Alexander Knight wasn’t finished with Sweet Haven. Or with her.