The Billionaire’s Curvy Blossom

CHAPTER 2

(Frida’s POV)

The next morning, Frida told herself she wasn’t watching the door.

She had opened Sweet Haven early, the way she always did—music low, the scent of freshly baked bread mingling with roasted coffee beans. Morning sunlight streamed through the front windows, catching on the pastel bunting that hung above the counter. It was her favorite time of day: quiet, warm, full of promise.

And yet, she couldn’t seem to focus.

She wiped down the counter for the third time. She refilled the sugar jars, polished the espresso machine until she could see her reflection, then rearranged the croissants in the display case again—perfectly aligned, their glossy tops gleaming. Anything to keep her hands busy and her thoughts occupied.

But every time the bell above the door jingled, her heart gave a small, involuntary leap.

Molly noticed, of course. Molly always noticed.

“You know,” Molly said from behind the espresso bar, lazily swirling milk into a cappuccino, “people usually stare at the door like that when they’re waiting for a delivery. Or maybe a date. Not for Mr. Nilsson and his black coffee.”

Frida shot her a look. “I’m not waiting for anyone.”

“Uh-huh.” Molly bit into a blueberry muffin, one eyebrow arched. “You were practically glowing yesterday after tall, dark, and dangerous left. Don’t even try to deny it.”

Frida’s cheeks flushed. “He was just a customer.”

“A customer,” Molly drawled, “who looked at you like you were his next investment. And if that suit wasn’t Armani, I’ll eat one of those day-old scones.”

Frida shook her head, trying not to smile, and busied herself behind the counter. But her mind betrayed her. She couldn’t stop thinking about him—Alexander Knight. The quiet confidence in his voice. The way her name had sounded on his lips. The feeling that he’d seen straight through her when he looked at her.

She’d met plenty of customers in the past two weeks. But none of them had left her feeling like this—restless, uncertain, and a little bit thrilled.

The bell above the door chimed.

Her heart jumped before she could stop it.

And then—there he was.

Alexander Knight stepped into Sweet Haven as though he belonged there, sunlight glancing off his dark hair and the smooth cut of his coat. He carried himself with the same quiet power as before, every movement deliberate, controlled. And his eyes—those sharp, unreadable eyes—found her instantly.

Molly leaned toward Frida and whispered, “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

Frida ignored her and forced herself to stand straighter. “Good morning,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

“Good morning, Miss Andersson.” His tone was smooth, polite—but there was warmth there too, a familiarity that made her pulse quicken. “I’ll have the same as yesterday. And one of those.” He nodded toward the tray of cinnamon buns cooling on the counter.

Frida swallowed, nodding. “Of course.”

As she prepared his order, she could feel his gaze on her—steady, unhurried. It made her suddenly aware of every movement: the way she reached for the cups, the way her fingers brushed the tray. She told herself it was ridiculous. He was just another customer.

But when she handed him the coffee, their fingers touched again—just for a moment. And there it was. That same electric spark.

She pulled back too quickly, nearly tipping a jar of sugar.

Molly snorted behind her, not even trying to hide it.

“So, Mr. Knight,” she said loudly, leaning across the counter with a grin that was pure mischief, “what brings a man like you to our humble little bakery? Business? Pleasure? Or a secret obsession with cinnamon?”

“Molly!” Frida hissed.

But Alexander didn’t seem offended. In fact, he looked amused. He took a slow sip of his coffee before answering. “Let’s just say I enjoy discovering places that are… unique.” His gaze lingered on Frida as he said it.

Molly’s grin widened. “Oh, I see. Very unique.”

Frida wished she could sink into the floor. “Ignore her,” she muttered, sliding his pastry toward him. “She likes to meddle.”

“I don’t mind,” Alexander said, his smile soft but deliberate. “I’m used to curiosity.”

Frida tilted her head, intrigued despite herself. “Why’s that?”

He hesitated for just a fraction of a second, as if weighing his words. “My name tends to invite attention.”

There it was again—that flicker of familiarity. She’d seen his name before. Somewhere. A headline, maybe. A business article. Something about acquisitions or tech investments. But before she could ask, another customer came in, and she had to step away.

When she turned back, Alexander was still at the counter, watching her—not impatiently, but intently, as though he were trying to memorize the way she moved, the sound of her voice.

“You’re Swedish,” he said suddenly, his tone thoughtful rather than curious.

“Yes,” she said, surprised. “How did you—?”

“The accent,” he said, his lips curving faintly. “It’s subtle, but it’s there. I spent some time in Stockholm. Beautiful city.”

Something in his voice softened when he said it, and it caught her off guard. “It is,” she admitted. “I miss it sometimes.”

Their eyes met again. For a heartbeat, the rest of the café disappeared—the hum of the espresso machine, the murmur of other customers, the drizzle tapping against the window.

Then Molly cleared her throat loudly. “So, Mr. Knight,” she said cheerfully, “are you in town long? Or should Frida start baking extra buns while she has the chance?”

“Molly!” Frida said again, mortified.

Alexander chuckled, a low, rich sound that made Frida’s pulse skip. “Long enough,” he said, his gaze never leaving hers.

He finished his coffee, set the cup down neatly, and rose. Even in that small space, he seemed larger than life—commanding without trying.

“Thank you, Miss Andersson,” he said, giving her a small nod. “And Miss Jones.” His attention flicked briefly to Molly before returning to Frida. “I’ll see you soon.”

Then he turned and left, the bell chiming softly behind him, leaving a faint trace of his cologne in the air—clean, expensive, unmistakably him.

For a moment, Frida didn’t move. The room felt a little too quiet, her pulse a little too fast.

Molly fanned herself dramatically. “Okay, I take it back. That man isn’t just some business guy—he’s Batman. The billionaire, broody version. And, Frida, he is so into you.”

Frida tried to laugh, but it came out weakly. “You’re imagining things.”

“Mm-hmm.” Molly gave her a knowing look. “Men like that don’t show up twice for our pastries. They show up for the woman behind the counter.”

Frida shook her head, but her hands trembled as she wiped down the counter again.

Outside, the rain had started to fall—soft, steady, rhythmic. Through the window, she could just make out the faint silhouette of Alexander Knight’s car pulling away from the curb.

She told herself it was nothing. Just a customer.

But deep down, she knew Molly was right.

Because Alexander Knight wasn’t just anyone—and his second visit felt less like coincidence and more like the beginning of something that could change everything.