The new eclairs were selling like hot cakes, I had to thank my new friend, Tom, for giving me the idea. I’d been surprised to find out that he was the manager of the little candy shop across the street that was my direct competition.

His secretive smile and that almost mischievous gleam in his eye had made me wonder why he’d been so happily surprised to find that I was the owner and operator of his competitor.

I’d been able to take a short break to share a cup of espresso with my new friend, and tell him about my plans. He’d had no problem with having a little healthy competition, although I’d felt badly when I’d glanced across the street during our visit and seen that his own shop was standing empty while mine was filled to maximum capacity.

“No worries, Pierre. It’s because you’re the new and shiny place to be. I get it, and so does Milo. This place is actually really nice, not to mention the fact that it smells like gluten-filled heaven up in here.” He’d said this with a friendly smile as he’d passed me a gift bag filled with candy from his shop.

I don’t normally eat sweets, especially since I’d moved to Hollydale this month. I had gained at least 10 pounds recently, and all in my stomach. And the constant heartburn and nausea I’d had from the stress of opening a new business, moving to a new area, and getting my son set up in a new school hadn’t helped matters. Eating sugar was pretty much the last thing on my mind, even though my income was based on feeding it to others.

Just to be polite, I had pulled out one of the balls, intrigued by its hard dark chocolate shell with a sprinkling of pink Himalayan sea salt. When I bit into it though? Fucking angels sang. The interior was a caramel infused cake with a dash of that sea salt flavor. It was a unique play on the popular salted caramel trend.

“If you honestly don’t mind a little friendly competition, would you mind if I translated this recipe into an eclair? My mind is already tasting this in eclair form,” I’d said to Tom.

Tom had giggled, and immediately given his permission. “Honestly? I can’t wait to see it. Although, my candy maker might be a little fucking pissed, he tends to get a little bit territorial over his creations.”

“Well, it’s not like I’ll be stealing his recipe. More like, using it to inspire my own creativity. The dark chocolate and pink sea salt are just such a nice twist, you know?” I’d said excitedly, my mind already drifting through different ideas.

“I don’t care if you do it, I promise. At any rate, I’m just gonna grab some popcorn and watch the show.” Tom had winked. I’d been confused by that comment at the time, but hadn’t really thought about it too much.

My brain had been too busy wondering which of my vendors carried the pink Himalayan sea salt, because with Valentine’s Day coming up, pink was a must.

A few days after that, with my recipe perfected—I decided to take Tom at his word and amp up the competition. I’d wondered if I was pushing it too hard by naming their Ballz on my flyers, but I’d decided to go for it.

Whether it was viewed as an innuendo or sports pun, either way you took it, comparing Stix and Ballz was funny as hell. Not to mention the fact that I’d made these particular eclairs long and skinny, to more closely embrace the whole Stix thing.

I’d been standing at the counter for hours, rubbing my sore back and trying to ignore the awful nausea that swept over me about this time every night, when I’d heard the sound of a harp strumming outside the shop door. Sitting out there in the early evening light was the hippie from the park.

Without stopping to second-guess myself, I filled a bag with some of the days leftover croissants. The rest would be bagged and picked up in the morning by Helping Hands, a local food ministry to which I’d recently begun donating my day-old pastries. I walked over and unlocked the door, motioning for him to come in.

Normally I would never be so free to invite a strange man into my space when I was alone and vulnerable, but this guy just felt safe. He was like the goofy brother that most people referred to affectionately and shook their heads about, but didn’t expect big things from.

“I don’t believe that we were properly introduced when we met at the park, but I’m Pierre Duchamp,” I said with a smile as I motioned at one of the small tables for him to have a seat.

“Thank you for inviting me into your place of business, Pierre. I am Amor, and I wish to thank you for your hospitality.” He’d said this almost formally, in a direct contradiction to his whole hippie vibe. He’d then looked around my small bakery with an approving nod. “This place has great vibes, Pierre. My heart is happy here.”

And there it was, I smiled to myself, as he spoke that language of hippie gibberish. Aloud though, I’d merely thanked him as I handed the bag of pastries over. He wandered over to the counter a few minutes later, when I went to make us both a cup of green tea, hoping it would calm my stomach. When I saw him looking at the pile of flyers, the idea of offering him a way to make some extra money was suddenly appealing.

“Amor,” I’d said. “If you’re free tomorrow, I’d like to offer you the job of distributing those around town for me.”

He’d looked down at the flyers, then back over at me. “That sounds like a cool offer, Pierre. What exactly would this job that you’re offering entail?”

“Just pass those out, that’s all. Stick them under some windshield wipers, hand them out to people on the street, hell, whatever feels right. I just need to get those passed out around Hollydale. You might even consider asking some of my neighbors around here if they would be willing to let you leave a few in their establishments. Most will probably say no, but it doesn’t hurt to ask.” I shrugged then, at a loss for more suggestions.

To be honest, most of my marketing was being done online. The old-school flyer thing had just been a random idea that had hit me in the shower. Now that the idea had been executed, I gave zero fucks as to where the flyers went now. As long as they went into the hands of potential customers anyway.

And just like that, I’d found myself a temporary, cash only employee. What I hadn’t expected was to have him show up the following morning when I opened and again that night when I closed. It was as if he had appointed himself to be my guardian, and wanted to look out for me as I came and went. Although, I had to admit that I was a little disturbed that he always seemed to know just when to show up.

It was a little bit touching, although I had no idea how this kooky character thought that he would possibly be able to protect me. It was far more likely that I’d be the one doing any ass kicking, but I guess at least he could maybe serve as a witness? I mean, as long as he wasn’t stoned or anything. He didn’t seem the type to do hardcore drugs, but I wasn’t holding my breath that he wasn’t either.

Three days after I’d given the flyers to Amor, the bells over the door to my shop had jangled discordantly as the door was yanked open. I looked up with surprise from where I stood totaling the sales from the day, now the last customer had finally left. I just hadn’t gotten around to locking the door yet.

Kent came stalking in the door, his normally placid expression twisted with rage. He held up a crumpled hot pink paper that I knew without question was one of mine.

He froze for a hot second when he realized that it was me standing there. And the fact that I was wearing my white chef’s coat and hat didn’t hide the fact that I worked here, even if I hadn’t been behind the counter.

“Pierre?” Kent asked in shock. “Wha—what are you doing here? I don’t understand. Wait. You said that you were opening a new business here in town.”

He was obviously thinking aloud as the pieces slowly came together in his brain. Dumbfounded, he looked up at me then, his expression warring between disillusionment and horror.

“Was there something that I can help you with, Kent?” I asked with a suppressed sigh.

“This is your shop? You mean that you’re the one that’s been actively trying to put us out of business? Why, Pierre? Why would you do that?” he asked plaintively, as though perplexed by the entire concept of capitalism.

I rolled my eyes. “Kent, I’m not trying to put anyone out of business. I’m simply trying to put food on the table for my son. I just moved to a new town in another country, and opened a business doing the only thing that I know how to do… Bake. It’s nothing personal, I assure you. How exactly are you connected with my competition anyway? I’ve met Milo, the owner. He had no problem with my business. Our sons are friends now, in fact.”

“I’m the candy maker at Sweet Ballz.” Kent spoke in a voice laced with betrayal. “That’s why I was in Vegas that night we first met, I was in town that week for the chocolatier’s convention. I take my job seriously, it’s more than a job—it’s my life.”

“While I’m sorry if you feel like I’m stepping all over your life, you need to understand that I have my own life to worry about. A life that concerns raising a child. Forgive me if my kid trumps your need to play with candy, Kent.”

“Seriously? You don’t have to be snarky, Pierre. Can’t we just talk about this like adults? Beginning with this low-budget flyer that pretty much declared war on my place of business?”

Kent’s normally calm voice was all but vibrating with anger. It was interesting to see him alpha up and show some backbone, though. Hmm. Obviously, my previous assessment of him being a fluffy doormat or a naïve boy was incorrect. Interesting.

Kent happened to glance over at my display case then, and saw the hand printed sign for my Salty Caramel Stix. He bent to look in the glass at the lone eclair that was left on the rack. He looked at it for several long seconds, his teeth worrying at his lip. When he stood again, his eyes were flashing with rage.

“You know what? What you said to me that night is correct. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Because the thieving prick that I see in front of me is a completely separate person than the sexy omega that I met in Vegas. I can’t believe that you took that gift from Tom, and then stole my fucking idea. Right down to the pink Himalayan sea salt? Are you fucking kidding me with that, Pierre?”

I jolted as his fists came down on my counter. Even though I knew instinctively that he would never lay a hand on me in anger, it was still disconcerting—to say the least. His words however; those fucking stung.

“Merde. I’m not here for drama. And I’m not getting involved in any fucking war, although I’m here to tell you that a little dose of competition is good for you. And I’m not a thief, because I didn’t steal your recipe. Was I inspired by it? Hell, yeah. But I didn’t steal it, so you can go fuck yourself with that accusation. And you don’t hold the trademark on the use of pink Himalayan sea salt either. Take your attitude, shove it in your pocket, and walk your ass out my fucking door.”

“Gladly,” Kent said as he headed for the door. He looked back over his shoulder as he opened the door with a regretful look in his eye. “It’s too bad you turned out to be such a douche, I really did like fucking you that night, and wouldn’t have minded a repeat.”

As he disappeared into the gathering dusk, I quickly finished closing and put him out of my mind. As sad as I was that things had gone the way they had, it wasn’t like I’d ever expected a future with the naïve alpha anyway. If I had, I wouldn’t have ghosted him the morning after a one-night stand. No, my life was best the way it was. Just me and my son. Fuck alphas and their entitlement issues.

I didn’t see my buddy Amor as I exited the shop and locked the door behind me. But what I did see was another one of those sharp, golden arrows laying on the sidewalk within a few feet of my door. I picked it up and tucked it into my satchel as I made my way to my car.

Somewhere in the back of my head I had the random thought that someone needed to find out who the idiot was that was running around shooting these arrows around town before somebody got hurt.

Weird ass town, it always had been. Where else would you find some freak shooting 24k gold arrows that were sharp as hell? And yeah, I knew it was 24k because I’d been curious enough that I’d had the last one checked out at the jewelry store next door.

But for the moment, I was mostly focused on my confrontation with Kent. I didn’t understand why it had affected me so badly, but my normal evening nausea had ratcheted up to about triple its normal strength. I was sick to my stomach by his low opinion of me now, and sadder than I wanted to admit by the fact that I’d hurt him.