The Billionaire’s Curvy Blossom

CHAPTER 14

(Alexander’s POV)

The smell of fresh bread reaches me first.

Warm, alive — it drifts through the air and settles somewhere deep in my chest, grounding me in a place I have no right to feel so at home in.

Frida stands by the counter, her back to me, pulling a tray from the oven. The light catches her hair — pale gold against the morning glow — and for a moment I forget how to breathe. The small movements she makes are steady, deliberate, unselfconscious. There’s no performance here. No pretense. Just her.

I should look away. Give her space. Leave before I ruin what this stillness means.

But I don’t move.

When she sets the tray down and turns slightly, I can tell she knows I’m watching. She doesn’t startle, doesn’t retreat — she just breathes, soft and even, and turns to face me.

“Good morning,” I say quietly. My voice comes out lower than I intended.

“Morning,” she replies. Her eyes meet mine — calm, unreadable, but not cold.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The bakery hums around us: the faint whir of the coffee machine, the hiss of the oven, the gentle tick of the clock on the wall. But it all feels distant, like the world outside the edges of a dream.

She moves first, reaching for a cloth, wiping her hands. “You waited.”

“I said I would.”

Something flickers across her face — surprise, maybe. Or something closer to relief.

“Coffee?” she asks after a pause.

I nod. “Please.”

She pours a cup, her movements smooth, practiced. I watch the steam curl upward, the scent rich and grounding. When she slides the cup toward me, our fingers nearly touch.

“Still black?” she asks, a small, knowing smile ghosting at her lips.

“You remembered.”

“Of course.”

It shouldn’t mean as much as it does. But it does.

I take a sip. It’s strong — darker than what I make at home — and it tastes like something real. Like mornings I’ve never had.

She leans lightly against the counter, watching me. “You’re here early.”

“I didn’t sleep,” I admit before I can stop myself. “Thought a change of scenery might help.”

Her brows lift slightly. “So you came here?”

I could lie. Say I was nearby. Say I needed coffee.

But lies feel pointless in her presence.

“Yes,” I say instead. “I came here.”

For a moment, silence settles again — but it’s not the same silence as before. It’s softer now, something shared.

She smiles, barely. “I suppose that’s flattering.”

“It’s honest.”

Her eyes flicker to the window, where light spills in through the glass, painting her skin in pale gold. “Honest can be dangerous,” she murmurs.

“I’ve noticed.”

The faintest trace of laughter escapes her, and it does something to me — something I can’t name.

“You should laugh more often,” I hear myself say.

She glances at me, surprised. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

The words hang between us. Her cheeks flush slightly, and I realize I’ve been staring too long. I look away, tracing the rim of the coffee cup with my thumb.

“How’s business?” I ask, because it’s safer than saying what I mean.

“Busy,” she says. “Tourists, locals… apparently word got out we make the best cinnamon rolls in town.”

“You do,” I say softly. “You really do.”

That makes her laugh again — quiet, genuine. And just like that, something in me loosens.

She tilts her head, studying me. “You don’t usually come on weekdays. Everything alright?”

I hesitate. The truth feels too raw to name. “Work’s been a lot,” I say finally. “I needed a break.”

Her gaze lingers. “And you came here.”

“Yes.” I meet her eyes this time. “Because it’s the only place that doesn’t feel like work.”

The words come out more exposed than I intended. She doesn’t answer right away — just looks at me, as if trying to decide whether to believe me. Then, quietly, she says, “I’m glad you did.”

The sound of it lands somewhere deep inside me, quiet and precise.

We talk after that — about nothing, about everything. She tells me about a delivery truck that broke down, about trying a new bread recipe. I listen more than I speak. Her voice is soft but sure, full of life in ways I’d forgotten life could be.

At one point, she says something about the weather and laughs at her own joke. The sound catches me off guard. I find myself smiling before I even realize it.

“You should laugh more too,” she teases.

“I’m trying,” I say, and it’s true.

The air between us feels charged again — not the way it was before, sharp and uncertain, but warmer. Real.

“I’ve missed this,” I say finally, quieter than I mean to.

She stills. “This?”

“Talking to you.”

Her hands still on the counter. Her eyes lift, meeting mine. “I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.”

“I wasn’t sure either.”

We stand there, the silence stretching thin but not breaking. The light from the window shifts slightly, touching the edge of her face, catching in her hair.

I could reach for her. I could tell her what’s been haunting me since that night — the way her steadiness feels like air after drowning. But I don’t. Not yet.

Instead, I say, “I’m sorry if I made things awkward last time.”

Her expression softens instantly. “You didn’t. Not really.”

“I think I did,” I admit, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “But I’m glad you’re letting me stay anyway.”

“I don’t hold grudges over coffee,” she says.

That makes me laugh — quietly, unexpectedly. The sound startles both of us.

The bell above the door rings suddenly, and a woman I recognize from before — Molly — appears from the back room, carrying a tray. Her eyes flick between us with a grin that says more than words ever could.

Frida shakes her head. “She’s going to ask questions later.”

“Let her,” I say, without hesitation. “I don’t mind.”

Her gaze lifts to mine again, surprised. And there it is — that quiet, dangerous thing between us.

I reach for my coffee cup, hesitating halfway. “Frida,” I say.

“Yes?”

“I’m glad I came.”

Her breath catches just slightly. Then she smiles — small, real, like sunlight finding its way through glass.

“I’m glad you did too,” she says.

That’s all it takes. A few quiet words. A look that holds.

I finish my coffee, not wanting to leave but knowing I should. When I stand, she reaches for the cup, and our fingers brush — light, fleeting, but enough to set something alive inside me.

“See you soon?” she asks softly.

“Yeah,” I say. “You will.”

The bell above the door chimes as I step out. The morning light catches her face through the window — a soft, golden reflection that stays with me long after I walk away.

And for the first time in years, the world feels lighter.