CHAPTER 3
1443 Words
(Frida’s POV)
The mornings at Sweet Haven always started the same.
Frida unlocked the door at six sharp, her breath forming faint clouds in the cool Portland dawn. The sky was still painted in shades of indigo and pale gold, and the city outside felt half-asleep—just the whisper of a tram in the distance, the soft rhythm of footsteps on damp pavement, a dog barking somewhere down the street.
Inside, warmth wrapped around her like an old friend. The ovens hummed softly, radiating a heat that sank into her bones. The air smelled of yeast, sugar, and cinnamon—the scent that had followed her from Sweden to America, the scent that made this place feel like home.
This was her sanctuary. Her fresh start. Her little piece of courage.
Molly arrived half an hour later, as always—clutching a paper cup of coffee from the shop across the street, muttering about traffic, rain, and people who couldn’t use turn signals. But despite her complaints, she was always there, hair up, music playing, laughter filling the room.
By seven, the display cases gleamed with rows of perfect pastries—golden croissants, lemon tarts, blueberry muffins, and the cinnamon buns that had already become Sweet Haven’s quiet signature.
It had been only three weeks since they’d opened, but the rhythm was already comforting. Predictable. Safe.
Until Alexander Knight.
Now, that rhythm was broken.
It had been four days—four mornings of him walking through the door like he belonged there. Four mornings of ordering the same thing, sitting at the same table near the window, and somehow managing to make the entire café feel smaller when he was in it.
Four mornings of Frida pretending she didn’t feel it every time his eyes met hers.
“Face it,” Molly said, polishing a row of cups behind the counter. “You’re obsessed.”
Frida looked up from where she was arranging éclairs, frowning. “I am not.”
“You’re folding napkins like they personally insulted you,” Molly said dryly. “You only do that when you’re nervous. And the only thing you’re nervous about these days is tall, dark, and definitely loaded.”
Frida shot her a warning glare. “Molly, he’s just a customer.”
Molly arched an eyebrow. “Customers don’t come here four mornings in a row, sit in the corner like a brooding novel hero, and stare at you like you’re the only thing worth noticing.”
Frida opened her mouth to argue—then closed it again. Because she couldn’t deny it.
Alexander Knight didn’t just look at her; he studied her, as though every movement mattered. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear. The way she leaned over the counter. It should’ve been unnerving, but somehow, it wasn’t. It was… magnetic.
The bell above the door chimed.
Her heart reacted before her mind caught up.
And there he was.
Alexander Knight stepped into Sweet Haven like he owned it—dark coat draped over one arm, charcoal suit perfectly pressed, a watch glinting at his wrist. He moved with quiet certainty, unhurried but commanding. And when his gaze found hers, the rest of the room blurred into insignificance.
Molly muttered under her breath, “If he gets any hotter, we’re going to have to install air conditioning.”
Frida elbowed her lightly, cheeks burning, then turned to Alexander with a polite smile. “Good morning, Mr. Knight.”
“Good morning, Miss Andersson.” His voice was calm, smooth—polished. But there was something in it that always made her pulse stumble. “The usual,” he said. “And one of those.” He nodded toward the tray of fresh kanelbullar cooling on the counter.
Frida tried to act unfazed, but her hands weren’t as steady as she wanted them to be as she plated the pastry. She could feel his presence like static in the air—close, watchful, quietly intense.
“Here you go,” she said softly, sliding the coffee and bun across the counter.
Their fingers brushed.
Just for a second—but that was all it took. Heat sparked through her skin, quick and sharp. She drew her hand back too fast, knocking the sugar jar slightly askew.
Molly’s barely suppressed laugh broke the silence.
“So,” Molly said, far too brightly, “what brings you here every morning, Mr. Knight? Don’t tell me it’s just the pastries. Though, I’ll admit, they are addictive.”
“Molly—” Frida began, mortified.
But Alexander didn’t seem bothered. If anything, he looked amused. He took a measured sip of his coffee, his gaze sliding briefly to Molly before returning to Frida. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “I appreciate routine.”
“Routine,” Molly repeated with mock seriousness. “Sure. Looks more like an obsession to me.”
Alexander’s mouth curved faintly. “Some obsessions,” he said, “are worth indulging.”
Molly’s eyes widened. “Oh, my God—”
Frida practically dropped the towel she was holding. “Ignore her,” she muttered, her voice tight.
“I don’t mind,” Alexander said easily, his tone warm with amusement. “I’m used to curiosity.”
Frida glanced up despite herself. “Why’s that?”
His eyes glinted. “Because of who I am.”
The way he said it made something twist in her chest. There it was again—the unspoken hint of something larger. Power. Wealth. A world she didn’t belong to. Alexander Knight. She knew she’d seen that name before—but where?
Before she could ask, he leaned slightly closer. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t have to. His presence filled the space between them like gravity.
“I have a proposition for you,” he said quietly.
Molly’s head popped up instantly. “Oh, I love propositions.”
“Molly,” Frida hissed.
Alexander’s expression didn’t change. “Tomorrow evening,” he continued, his tone measured, “I’m hosting a private dinner. A small gathering. I’d like you to prepare the desserts.”
Frida blinked. “Me?”
“Yes. You.” His gaze didn’t waver. “Your pastries are unlike anything else in this city. I want my guests to taste that.”
Frida’s breath caught. Compliment or not, her pulse quickened in something close to panic. She’d only been in Portland a few weeks. She wasn’t ready for this—whatever this was.
“I don’t usually do private events,” she said carefully.
“Then make an exception.” His voice was soft, but there was steel beneath it—quiet authority that didn’t invite refusal. “It would mean a great deal to me.”
Molly slammed her hand on the counter. “She’ll do it.”
Frida gaped. “I will not—Molly!”
“What?” Molly shrugged, grinning. “Exposure, connections—and let’s be honest—” she leaned in and stage-whispered, “—the chance to spend more time with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Distracting.”
Frida groaned, wishing the floor would open up.
But Alexander’s eyes gleamed with restrained amusement. “Your friend is persuasive.”
“She’s impossible,” Frida muttered.
He reached into his wallet and slid a sleek black card across the counter. The address was embossed in silver, minimalist and elegant—clearly exclusive.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Seven o’clock. Bring whatever best represents you.”
Frida stared at the card. She knew that district. Expensive restaurants, private galleries, quiet mansions tucked behind wrought-iron gates. A world far removed from her tiny bakery.
“I’ll… think about it,” she said at last.
Alexander’s eyes softened, but his voice remained certain. “You’ll say yes. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”
And with that, he turned, collected his coat, and walked out. The bell chimed softly behind him, and just like that, he was gone.
The room felt emptier without him—too quiet, too still.
Molly snatched the card from Frida’s hand. “Holy—Frida, do you know what this is?”
Frida stared at the door where he’d vanished. “An invitation into trouble,” she said softly.
Molly grinned. “An invitation into opportunity. Into romance. Into—”
“Disaster,” Frida finished, though her voice lacked conviction.
Because as much as she wanted to deny it, as much as she longed for things to stay safe and simple…
part of her—small, curious, reckless—was already wondering what waited on the other side of that silver-inked address.
- Writer
