The next morning, Bellamy's Table smelled like cinnamon and secrets.
Talia pushed through the back entrance, balancing a crate of stone fruit against one hip.
Her heels clicked against the old tile floor, echoing just loud enough to announce herself.
Marco was already in the kitchen—shirtless, again.
A dish towel hung over his shoulder, his dark hair still wet from a shower, and he was humming something low and jazzy.
"You're in early," he said without turning.
"I could say the same to you," Talia quipped, dropping the crate with a soft thud.
"Didn't think you'd survive the storm."
Marco raised a brow.
"I'm more resilient than I look."
She sauntered over, grabbed a cherry from the crate, and popped it into her mouth.
Juice stained her lips a deep red. "So I heard."
He froze for a breath. "From?"
"Elena."
A pause.
Marco continued slicing peaches.
"She talks a lot."
"Only when someone gives her reason to."
Talia stepped closer, voice silk.
"Storm stew?
Apron-only policy?
You're getting creative."
Marco gave a half-smile.
"Isn't that why you hired me?"
"I hired you for your knife skills, not your charm."
"Liar."
Talia narrowed her eyes.
"Careful, Marco."
He turned to face her fully now, eyes unreadable.
"You jealous?"
"Of the girl with sauce on her collarbone?"
she scoffed.
"Hardly."
But the way her fingers curled around the edge of the counter said otherwise.
"Relax, T," he said, stepping in close.
"You and I had our moment."
She tilted her chin, unbothered but burning.
"Maybe I wasn't done tasting."
For a split second, heat surged between them—memories of hands, mouths, whispered curses tangled up in late-night flour fights and wine-drenched promises.
Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone.
Talia stepped back and dusted her hands off.
"Don't burn what you're baking, Marco."
He watched her go, that smile tugging again at the corner of his mouth.
She was fire—always had been.But Elena?She was smoke, scent, spice… the kind you couldn't wash off.