Chapter 1

The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of warm pastries and the faint traces of cinnamon and vanilla. Molly sat in the corner of her favorite coffee house, her plump fingers wrapped around a ceramic mug, the heat seeping into her palms as she took a slow sip. The smooth, slightly bitter taste of espresso curled over her tongue, softened by the sweetness of the cream she had stirred in moments before. On a small porcelain plate beside her rested two bagels—one topped with a generous spread of honey butter, the other slathered in rich cream cheese. She had already taken a bite of the latter, savoring its softness, its comforting indulgence.

Molly adored these quiet afternoons, the hours after her morning classes when the world slowed and she could simply exist. Teaching was her greatest passion, and she poured herself into it every day, her voice animated as she led her young students on grand journeys across maps, tracing the winding rivers of South America, the towering peaks of the Himalayas. But now, the lesson plans were tucked away, the chatter of children replaced by the low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of a spoon against porcelain.

She sighed, content, reaching into her tote bag for the novel she had been devouring. There was nothing quite like the comfort of a well-worn book, its pages softened by eager fingers, its words like an old friend whispering secrets meant only for her. She had just found her place again, immersing herself in the romance unfolding before her, when the bell above the café door chimed.

And then—she saw him.

The most absurdly handsome man she had ever laid eyes on stepped inside, shaking snowflakes from his impossibly thick, dark hair. He was broad-shouldered, built like some ancient warrior sculpted from marble, his strong jawline dusted with the shadow of a beard. There was a ruggedness to him, a raw masculinity that was only emphasized by the way his coat clung to his form before he shrugged it off, revealing the thick, corded muscle of his arms beneath a simple, fitted sweater. His chest was wide, his thighs powerful, his presence commanding. And yet, there was a warmth to his face, something in the way his sharp blue eyes scanned the room, not with arrogance, but with quiet confidence.

Molly felt her breath hitch, her fingers tightening around her book. Men like him didn’t exist—not in real life, and certainly not in her world. He looked like something from a dream, a character pulled from the pages of the very novels she adored, the kind of man who stole hearts with a single glance.

She lowered her gaze, her cheeks heating.

Don’t be ridiculous, she chided herself. He wouldn’t even look at you.

Molly had long since accepted her lot when it came to romance. She was beautiful—she knew that, despite what society might claim. Her honey-blonde hair cascaded in thick waves past her shoulders, her warm brown eyes were soft and kind, and her curves… well, they were abundant. Her breasts were full, her hips plush, her stomach round in a way that made her look inviting rather than angular. But men like him—men built of muscle and masculinity—didn’t go for women like her.

No, she was stuck dating either rail-thin intellectuals who made her feel enormous by comparison or men with bellies larger than her own, who saw her as a safe choice, someone who wouldn’t judge. Her friends teased her mercilessly about it, joking that she had two types: twigs or fatties.

So she did what she always did—shrugged off the thought and turned back to her book.

But then, she felt it.

A gaze.

Her heart quickened, and she dared to glance up—and met piercing blue eyes locked onto her.

A shiver danced down her spine, pooling in the pit of her stomach.

The man—this absurdly, devastatingly gorgeous man—was staring at her. And not just staring—studying. As if he had never seen anything quite like her before. His gaze swept over her in an unabashed appraisal, lingering on the soft curve of her figure, the way her sweater stretched over the generous swell of her breasts, the way her lips parted in startled surprise.

And then, before she could look away, he smiled.

Molly barely had time to process it before he moved. With effortless grace, he strode to the counter, placed his order, and—good Lord—glanced at her again before speaking quietly to the barista.

Molly’s pulse thrummed in her ears as she forced herself to return to her book, though the words had long since blurred together. She wouldn’t entertain the fantasy. It was some kind of joke of the universe, a cosmic accident that his eyes had landed on her at all.

Minutes passed. Her coffee had grown lukewarm. She dared another glance toward the counter, only to find him gone.

Had she imagined it?

But then, a shadow fell over her table.

She looked up—and there he was, standing before her, holding a small plate.

“For you,” he said, his voice deep, rich as honey, with a rasp that sent a shiver up her spine.

On the plate sat a cupcake—chocolate, her favorite.

Molly blinked, utterly lost for words.

He smirked, as if amused by her reaction, then slid into the chair across from her. “I hope you don’t mind. I saw you sitting here and… well, I thought you might like something sweet.”

Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “I—thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said easily, resting his forearms on the table. His sleeves pushed up slightly, revealing thick wrists, strong hands dusted with dark hair. “I’m Oliver, by the way.”

Molly, she wanted to say. But her brain had yet to catch up.

He smiled again, tilting his head. “And you are…?”

“Molly,” she breathed.

“Molly.” He tested the name on his tongue, as if savoring it. “Lovely.”

The warmth in her cheeks spread down to her chest.

For the next twenty minutes, they talked—about coffee, about books, about little nothings that felt like somethings. And when he finally leaned forward and asked, “Would it be terribly forward of me to ask for your number?”—Molly thought her heart might just give out.

She gave it to him, hands trembling slightly.

And when she arrived home, slipping into her softest, coziest loungewear, she felt like she was floating. Every giggle that bubbled from her lips, every giddy kick of her feet against the couch cushions—it was all too much, too good, too unbelievable.

But then—her phone buzzed.

Oliver.

She bit her lip, opened the message.

Had a wonderful time talking with you, Molly. Hope you made it home safe. Would love to see you again.

Her heart soared.

And just like that, they talked for hours.

And by the end of the night, she had a date.

Molly curled up on the couch, her fingers still tingling from the excitement of Oliver’s message. Her heart swirled with a giddy warmth, the kind that made her want to press a hand to her chest and sigh dreamily like a heroine in one of her favorite novels. He was so handsome. And charming. And he had noticed her. It was almost too much to believe.

Still, she had work to do. She forced herself to set her phone aside—just for now—and reached for the stack of student assignments sitting on the coffee table. Her third graders had been learning about continents, and she had assigned them each a simple worksheet to color and label. It was hardly taxing work, but grading always took longer than she anticipated.

With a resigned sigh, she picked up her red pen and began flipping through the papers.

Asia is not a country, Nathan, she mused, shaking her head fondly as she corrected a particularly enthusiastic but wildly inaccurate response.

She worked diligently, though her mind kept drifting back to Oliver—the way his voice had wrapped around her name, the heat in his gaze when he had looked at her, as if he had seen something worth looking at. A shiver ran down her spine. It had been a long time since she had felt truly desired.

She needed to focus.

She set her jaw, flipping to the next worksheet, when suddenly—she remembered.

The red velvet cake.

A slow, creeping awareness settled over her.

She had baked it over the weekend, a little indulgence to enjoy after a long week of teaching. The memory of it was vivid: the rich crimson layers, the thick cream cheese frosting, the way it had melted against her tongue in decadent sweetness. She had been so proud of it, of how perfectly moist it had turned out.

She hadn’t thought about it all day.

But now she was.

Molly clenched her jaw, forcing her eyes back to the page in front of her. She did not need cake right now. She was perfectly fine. She had already eaten dinner, had already enjoyed a warm bagel at the café.

But the thought had been planted, and no matter how hard she tried to ignore it, it lingered.

Just a bite, a little voice whispered in the back of her mind.

She swallowed, tapping her pen against the page, then shook her head firmly. No. She was better than this. She was going on a date with Oliver, for heaven’s sake! This had to stop.

But then again…

Would one bite really be so terrible?

She exhaled sharply, rubbing at her temple. Fine. Just a thin slice. The smallest one. A little treat for herself after such an exciting evening.

She set her papers aside, stood, and padded into the kitchen. The moment she opened the fridge, the scent of cream cheese frosting hit her, rich and slightly tangy. The cake sat on its glass stand, practically glowing under the fridge light, the deep red sponge contrasting against the snowy white layers.

Molly licked her lips.

With practiced ease, she took out a knife and cut herself the thinnest possible sliver. Barely anything. Just enough to taste.

She placed it on a small plate, picked up her fork, and took a bite.

Heaven.

The sugar melted over her tongue, the cocoa undertones mingling with the buttery smoothness of the frosting. It was perfect. A masterpiece.

She closed her eyes, savoring it.

Then, before she knew it—her fork was cutting into the cake again.

Just one more bite.

Then another.

And another.

She took her plate back to the couch, telling herself she was done, that this was it. She grabbed her pen, ready to continue grading—except her mind wasn’t on the papers.

It was on the cake.

The lingering taste on her tongue wasn’t enough. She wanted more.

The red pen clattered onto the table as she stood again, moving almost on instinct. Her feet carried her back into the kitchen, and this time, she didn’t bother cutting a dainty slice. She carved out something more substantial, something that would actually satisfy her craving.

She ate it quickly, barely taking the time to enjoy it before she found herself going back again.

Her self-control crumbled like the delicate sponge beneath her fork.

By the time she came back to herself, she was standing over the counter, staring down at an empty cake stand.

No.

Her breath caught, her hands gripping the edges of the counter as she processed what she had done.

The cake was gone.

All of it.

A wave of guilt crashed over her, sinking into her bones.

What was wrong with her?

She had been doing so well. She had been so happy. She had Oliver’s number. He liked her. She had a date. And yet—here she was, stuffing herself full of cake like it was the only joy she had in the world.

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she forced them down, her jaw tightening in determination.

This has to stop.

If she had any chance with Oliver, if she wanted to feel good about herself, to be confident, she had to get this under control. She would.

Because there was no way she was going to let her bad habits ruin something before it had even started.