The Billionaire’s Curvy Blossom

CHAPTER 13

(Frida’s POV)

The morning began like any other.

At least, that’s what I told myself as I unlocked the bakery door and stepped into the faint warmth left from the night before. The scent of yeast and sugar clung to the air — comforting, familiar — but it couldn’t quiet the uneven rhythm in my chest.

Outside, the sky was still soft, a pale watercolor spilling over the mountains. The streets of our small Montana town were barely awake — the distant growl of a truck, the whisper of gravel under someone’s boots, the faint bark of a dog. I should have felt peace. But instead, I felt that same quiet ache I’d carried since that night.

Alexander.

Even thinking his name felt dangerous. It didn’t sting the way it used to — it lingered, deep and low, like warmth that refused to fade. I’d tried to bury it, like I did every morning. He belonged to another world, one made of glass and steel and sharp edges. I belonged here, where everything could be held in both hands.

I tied my apron, brushed a stray curl from my cheek, and began to work.

Flour dusted the counter, soft and cool beneath my palms. The rhythm of kneading should have grounded me — push, fold, turn — but my thoughts kept slipping through the cracks. His voice had a way of echoing even in silence. Calm. Measured. Too careful, and somehow still kind.

I pressed harder into the dough. “Stop it,” I whispered to myself. “You’re being ridiculous.”

The first light touched the bakery windows, turning the glass gold. The bell above the door was still. The ovens hummed. Molly wouldn’t arrive for another hour. It was just me, the soft scrape of the radio, and the sound of my own heartbeat.

For a little while, the world blurred into quiet. The rhythm of work steadied me. I could almost believe that I’d moved on.

Almost.

The bell above the door chimed.

I froze. No one came this early. For a moment, I thought it was the delivery driver, or someone lost. I wiped my hands on my apron and turned.

And then I saw him.

Alexander.

He stood framed in the doorway, his dark coat catching the faint shimmer of frost, the pale morning light cutting behind him. He didn’t look out of place, and yet — he didn’t belong here, not really. The polished edge of him against the warmth of the shop made everything else fall still.

But his expression wasn’t cold. It was quiet. Searching.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The sound of the radio filled the space between us — some old song about finding something you weren’t looking for.

“Hi,” I managed. My voice came out softer than I intended.

“Hi.” His voice was lower than I remembered. Steadier. Human.

My pulse picked up. I didn’t move. Neither did he.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” I said. The words came out as both truth and question.

He nodded once. “I didn’t think so either.”

Silence stretched between us — heavy but not uncomfortable. The kind of silence that holds too much meaning to break.

He took a small step forward. His gaze moved briefly to the counter, the trays of pastries cooling there. “You’ve been busy.”

I nodded, finding a smile that didn’t quite hold. “It helps me think.”

“Or not think?”

That made me laugh quietly. “Maybe both.”

Something flickered in his expression — the faintest echo of a smile — then it was gone. “You look well,” he said quietly. “Happy.”

“I’m trying to be.”

The honesty surprised me. It seemed to surprise him, too. His gaze softened, the tightness in his shoulders easing for a moment.

“I didn’t come to interrupt your morning,” he said finally, his voice low, careful. “I just needed to see you.”

The simplicity of it unraveled something inside me. No explanation. No defense. Just truth.

I didn’t know what to do with that kind of honesty. My hands fidgeted against my apron. “Why?” I asked. My voice barely carried.

He looked at me then — really looked — and something in his expression broke open. “Because not seeing you stopped feeling like control,” he said. “It started feeling like loss.”

The words hit like breath against cold glass — quiet but impossible to ignore. I looked away, swallowing hard. “You don’t have to say things like that.”

“I know,” he said. “But they’re true.”

The radio crackled. The sunlight shifted, spilling brighter through the window, painting everything in pale gold. I could feel the warmth of it on my face, the quickening of my pulse.

He stepped closer. The faint scent of his cologne drifted between us — subtle, restrained. My chest tightened.

“You don’t owe me anything, Alexander,” I said, barely above a whisper. “You don’t even know if this—” I gestured between us “—makes sense.”

“I know it doesn’t,” he said quietly. “That’s why I’m here.”

Something about the way he said it — unshaken, certain — made the air feel different.

Neither of us moved. The world outside might have stopped existing for all I knew. There was just the hum of the ovens and the sound of his breathing, measured and close.

I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. He was looking at me like I was something fragile and necessary all at once — something he couldn’t seem to walk away from.

My hands trembled slightly. I folded them together, grounding myself. “I don’t know what you expect me to say.”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just don’t tell me to leave.”

The words were so soft they almost vanished between us. But I heard them. Felt them.

My throat tightened. I took a slow, steadying breath — the scent of sugar, butter, and warmth grounding me again.

“I’m not going to tell you to leave,” I said finally.

For a heartbeat, his shoulders eased — not relief exactly, but something close. The quiet release of a man who’d been holding his breath too long.

Something inside me answered it, a quiet echo.

He stepped closer, close enough that the space between us changed. He didn’t touch me — didn’t need to. The air itself felt alive.

I looked up at him. “You shouldn’t be here,” I whispered.

“I know.”

We stayed there — suspended between everything that made sense and everything that didn’t.

Then the oven timer broke the silence with a sharp, metallic ring. The sound jolted the moment apart. I startled and let out a soft, nervous laugh. He smiled — really smiled — for the first time.

The sight of it hit me harder than I expected.

“I should get that,” I said, turning toward the counter.

“I’ll wait,” he said simply.

I hesitated, glancing back over my shoulder. The way he said it — quiet, certain — settled somewhere deep in my chest.

“Okay,” I whispered.

As I turned back to the oven, the warm rush of air wrapped around me, sweet and familiar. In the reflection of the metal door, I caught a glimpse of him — still there, still watching.

And for the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel alone.