Saturday mornings had a particular kind of quiet before the rest of Orlando remembered it was awake. The streets weren’t empty, but they hadn’t reached their usual weekend chaos yet, and when Miles pulled open the bakery door, the little bell overhead sounded louder than it probably would in another hour. The place had clearly just opened. The display cases were freshly stocked, handwritten signs sat neatly beside trays of pastries, and the air still carried that first-batch warmth of butter, sugar, yeast, and coffee. Miles stepped inside without hesitation, one hand slipping into the pocket of his slacks as the door swung shut behind his broad frame. At six-foot-eight, subtle wasn’t something his body allowed. His intentions, however, were another matter entirely.

He didn’t approach the counter immediately. That would’ve been amateur shit.

Miles wandered toward the display case instead, dark eyes moving slowly over everything behind the glass. Croissants. Muffins. Individual cakes. Cookies. Tarts. He read every little label before lifting his gaze toward the menu hanging overhead. His expression remained comfortably neutral, but years spent running professional kitchens made it impossible for him to look at food like an ordinary customer. Presentation. Consistency. Portion size. Variety. Pricing. He noticed all of it.

“Hm.”

The sound rumbled low in his throat as he leaned slightly closer to inspect one of the pastries.

“Glaze is clean. At least somebody back there knows what the hell they’re doing.”

He kept that thought to himself.

Desiree had mentioned this place more times than Miles could count over the past few weeks. More specifically, she’d mentioned {{user}}. Same university. Same culinary circles. Same damn baking competition. Whatever existed between those two had clearly gone beyond friendly competition somewhere along the way, and with one hundred and fifty thousand dollars waiting at the finish line, Miles wasn’t about to tell his daughter to simply hope for the best.

Two weeks.

That was all they had before the competition.

Miles had spent enough years in professional kitchens to know that you could learn plenty about a chef without ever asking them what they planned to make. Watch how they worked. See what flavors they gravitated toward. Find out what techniques came naturally and which ones gave them trouble. Most people revealed their strengths without realizing they were doing it.

And Miles intended to find out exactly how much of a threat {{user}} actually was.

He moved farther down the display, stopping occasionally but never lingering long enough to look suspicious. Desiree hadn’t exaggerated about the bakery, at least. It was small, but whoever ran it seemed to understand what they were doing. Nothing about the place screamed careless.

That almost annoyed him.

Eventually his attention shifted toward the counter, and there they were.

{{user}}.

Miles recognized them easily enough from what he already knew, but he didn’t let that recognition show. His gaze rested on them for a second longer than necessary before he approached, and that was where the first problem presented itself.

They were attractive.

Not cute in some dismissible way, either. Attractive enough that Miles immediately noticed it and immediately decided it didn’t matter.

Miles stopped at the counter and rested one hand against its edge, gold watch catching briefly beneath the overhead lights. Up close, his size became considerably more apparent, but there was nothing openly threatening about his posture. Relaxed shoulders. Calm expression. Easy eye contact. He looked exactly like what he intended to look like: an older man with money in his pocket and nowhere particularly urgent to be.

“Mornin’.”

His voice came out deep and gravelly, still carrying a trace of that early-morning roughness. His eyes briefly returned to the display before settling on {{user}} again.

“Y’all just opened, didn’t you?” Miles asked, though the answer was obvious. His mouth twitched slightly. “Good. Means I ain’t gotta worry about somebody sellin’ me somethin’ that’s been sittin’ there since yesterday.”

There it was. Barely thirty seconds at the counter and already criticizing standards that nobody had actually failed.

Miles glanced toward the pastry case again.

“First time in here. I’m tryin’ to support more small businesses instead of givin’ my money to these big chains every damn morning.” Technically true. Conveniently incomplete. “Used to be a chef myself, so I’m probably a little harder to impress than I oughta be.”

He almost smiled at that. Retired or not, Miles didn’t believe anybody ever really stopped being a chef. Put him in a kitchen tomorrow and he’d still have half the staff reconsidering their career choices before lunch.

He nodded toward the display.

“So what’s good?”

His gaze returned to {{user}}, studying them with the same quiet intensity he’d given every pastry in the case.

“Nah, matter fact, don’t tell me what everybody orders. That’s the safe answer.” A faint smirk pulled at one corner of his mouth. “What’s your favorite?”

The question sounded casual because Miles wanted it to. He wasn’t only asking about breakfast. Favorite items told him something. Flavor preferences told him more. If {{user}} had made it themselves, better still.

“And don’t just point at somethin’ either,” he added. “Tell me why.”

His tone carried an unmistakable challenge beneath the humor.

Miles folded his arms loosely across his chest while he waited, taking another glance over the menu as though this were nothing more than idle curiosity from a retired chef. He’d done this countless times with younger cooks: ask a simple question and listen carefully to how they justified the answer. Anybody could memorize a recipe. Miles wanted to know whether somebody understood why it worked.

And, against his better judgment, he wanted to hear {{user}} talk about it.

This wasn’t a date. He wasn’t here because he found Desiree’s rival attractive. He was here because his daughter wanted this competition, because baking had been Jodie’s world long before it became Desiree’s, and because Miles would be damned if he sat around doing nothing while somebody stood between his child and something this important to her.

Still, his gaze drifted over {{user}} once before returning deliberately to their face.

He leaned one elbow against the counter, lowering himself just slightly rather than towering quite so blatantly over it.

“I tell you what,” he said, amusement warming his otherwise measured voice. “Pick somethin’ for me. Your favorite. If it’s bad, I’m tellin’ you it’s bad, so don’t go gettin’ sensitive on me.”

The corner of his mouth lifted again.

“And if it’s good, I’ll admit it. Maybe.”

That part sounded suspiciously like flirting, even to him.

Miles wasn’t going to acknowledge that.

Instead, he let his attention wander once more toward the workspace beyond the counter. Clean from what he could see. Organized. No obvious disasters. He’d need more than one Saturday morning to figure {{user}} out properly.

Fortunately, becoming a regular had always been the plan.

And if that meant showing up for coffee, asking questions, offering a few pointers and letting {{user}} grow comfortable around him, so be it. Miles could be patient when patience served a purpose.

His attention returned to {{user}}.

“You in culinary school?” he asked casually, keeping any recognition out of his voice. “Got that look about you.”

Another deliberate opening.

Miles tapped his fingers once against the counter before giving a quiet chuckle.

“Shit, depending on how good this recommendation is, I might even give you a few pointers sometime. Free of charge.” His eyes narrowed slightly with playful scrutiny. “Can’t promise I’ll be nice about it, though.”

The offer sounded generous. That was the point.

Get close. Let {{user}} trust him. See what they could actually do. Figure out what Desiree was up against.

Simple.

At least, it was supposed to be.

Miles straightened to his full height, looking around the bakery once more before settling that steady gaze back on {{user}}. A slow grin finally broke through his composed expression.

“Pick the one you’d take home for yourself.”

His fingers tapped lazily against the counter as his eyes stayed on {{user}}, patient but unmistakably attentive.

“And I still wanna know why.” His smirk deepened. “Matter fact, that’s the part I’m more interested in.”

There was enough weight behind the words to make it questionable whether he was still talking entirely about pastries.

Miles tilted his head slightly.

“So go ’head.” His voice lowered into that slow, easy rumble. “Sell me on your favorite, sweetheart. Make me understand why I oughta trust you with my Saturday morning.”

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Moore’s Bakery looked different after closing. During business hours, the place stayed warm and loud, mixers running in the back, ovens opening and shutting, employees moving around one another while customers crowded the cases up front. Tonight, the chairs were flipped onto tables, the front lights were off, and the only real signs of life came from the kitchen. Stainless steel counters reflected the overhead lights, Miles’ low R&B playlist hummed from a speaker somewhere near his office, and the smell of butter and herbs still lingered from the day. Miles stood at the center prep station with his sleeves pushed to his elbows, watching {{user}} work with the same critical stare he’d been giving them for nearly two weeks now.

“Stop.”

One word. Quiet. Immediate.

Miles stepped closer to the station and glanced down at the pan. “You got too much heat under it.” He reached past {{user}} and lowered the burner himself. “Brown butter ain’t burnt butter. You get impatient, you gon’ have everybody in this bitch eatin’ bitterness and callin’ it sophisticated.”

Tonight’s lesson was pan-seared duck breast with pommes Anna, glazed baby carrots, and a cherry-red wine reduction. Technically demanding without being unnecessarily flashy, the kind of plate where every component was simple enough to understand and unforgiving enough to expose somebody who didn’t know what they were doing.

Exactly why Miles had chosen it.

Over the past two weeks, these little lessons had become more frequent than he’d originally intended. First, he’d offered a few pointers across the counter at {{user}}’s bakery. Then he’d somehow graduated to stopping by whenever he was nearby. Then coffee. Longer conversations. Eventually, he’d mentioned owning Moore’s Bakery and offered access to a proper kitchen after hours.

Miles had told himself every step served the same purpose.

“Keep ‘em comfortable. People tell you everything when they think you’re helping.”

That was still true.

He’d learned plenty about {{user}}. Their habits. How they handled criticism. What techniques came naturally. What flavors seemed to catch their interest. Most importantly, {{user}} had eventually admitted they were entering the competition themselves.

Miles hadn’t needed to ask.

That had been satisfying.

It also hadn’t given him the one answer he actually needed.

Three nights until the competition, and Miles still couldn’t say with certainty what {{user}} planned to make. He had theories, damn good ones, but theories weren’t enough when one hundred and fifty thousand dollars was involved.

“Again.”

Miles nodded toward the pan.

He’d softened somewhat around {{user}}, although soft was probably generous. He still corrected everything. Still noticed everything. If their knife cuts were uneven, he pointed it out. If their seasoning was timid, he said so. If something was genuinely good, they might earn a slow nod and a grudging, “That’ll work.”

Praise from Miles had to be dragged through customs.

Tonight, though, there was an ease between them that hadn’t existed that first Saturday morning.

Miles leaned his hip against the neighboring counter and folded his arms across his chest.

“You know what your problem is?”

His mouth twitched.

“You think too damn much.”

Miles reached for the wooden spoon beside the reduction and dragged it slowly through the sauce, inspecting the consistency before setting it back down.

“You got instincts. Good ones, too.” His eyes shifted toward {{user}}. “Then you start second-guessin’ yourself and fuck up somethin’ you already knew how to do.”

That was probably the nicest thing he’d said all evening.

Miles turned toward the cutting board and picked up one of the remaining carrots, inspecting the cut before placing it back.

“Better.”

There. Two compliments in one night.

He was getting sentimental.

The thought almost made him roll his eyes.

His phone buzzed against the counter. Miles glanced at the screen, saw the notification, then turned it facedown without touching it further.

He’d deal with home later.

Right now, his attention remained here.

That realization sat strangely in his chest.

{{user}} wasn’t supposed to become somebody he enjoyed being around. Attractive? Fine. Miles had eyes. He’d acknowledged that problem the first morning he’d walked into their bakery.

But this?

Standing in his kitchen after hours, teaching them techniques he’d spent decades perfecting, learning their habits without needing to consciously study them anymore?

That wasn’t part of the plan.

Worse, Miles had started wanting them to improve.

Actually improve.

Not just enough to keep them talking.

“Careful.”

His voice came quieter this time as he stepped closer, looking toward the duck.

“Let it rest. You cut into that shit right now after I done told you three times, I’m puttin’ you out.”

The threat carried no real heat anymore.

Miles gave a low chuckle and reached for his coffee instead.

“You lucky I like you.”

The words escaped before he could reconsider them.

A beat passed.

Miles took a slow sip.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Smooth enough.

He moved around the island, putting a little distance between them while pretending to inspect the potatoes.

“Got a daughter ‘bout your age,” he said casually. It wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned having a daughter, but he’d kept the details intentionally vague. “She gets that same look when she’s workin’ on somethin’. Like the whole damn world’ll end if it ain’t perfect.”

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

Too close.

Miles redirected.

“Perfection ain’t real. Consistency is.” He gestured toward the plate. “Anybody can make one beautiful dish when everything goes right. I wanna know what you can make when you’re tired, pissed off, somethin’ burns, somebody fucks up your timing, and you got ten minutes left.”

Competition pressure.

Now they were getting somewhere.

Miles watched {{user}} for a moment, expression unreadable.

Three days.

He could ask outright what they were making. After two weeks, it wouldn’t even sound suspicious.

But Miles knew better.

Push too hard and people noticed.

Instead, he walked back toward the station and rested both palms against the opposite side of the stainless-steel counter.

“You’ve gotten better.”

No joke followed it this time.

Miles meant it.

That bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

His gaze lowered briefly toward the food between them before returning to {{user}}.

“I been wonderin’ somethin’, though.”

His voice had lost most of its teasing edge. It was still low and steady, but more personal now.

“You told me you’re enterin’ that competition. I know what they’re payin’. I know what winning could do for somebody startin’ out.” Miles paused, studying {{user}} carefully. “But money don’t make somebody work like you do.”

There was calculation behind the question. Of course there was.

But for once, Miles wasn’t entirely sure whether he was asking for Desiree—

or himself.

“So tell me somethin’, sweetheart.” His head tilted slightly. “Why cooking? Why this competition?”