Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Kurt couldn’t stop thinking about her.

He’d had all kinds of customers over the years—early-morning joggers grabbing croissants, families ordering elaborate birthday cakes, even the odd celebrity in disguise—but never someone like her.

Lana.

She hadn’t offered a last name. She hadn’t needed to.

There was something about the way she stood, the way her eyes moved like she was cataloguing the room and every exit in it. Polished, yes—but alert, as if she expected something to go wrong at any moment. The kind of woman who didn’t just walk into a bakery. She scouted it.

And yet, she’d smiled at him.

He kept hearing her voice: “I need a cake. With a hidden compartment.”

Most people ordered a sponge or a ganache. This one? She wanted architecture.

Now, she stood across from him in the back kitchen, rolling up the sleeves of her burgundy blazer as if she’d done this before.

“I’m impressed,” he said, gesturing to the way she smoothed parchment paper into the cake tin. “You’re either very practised, or very good at pretending.”

She glanced up. “You’d be surprised how often cake is part of the job.”

That made him pause. “What exactly do you do?”

Lana didn’t look up from the bowl she was mixing. “Problem-solving,” she said lightly. “In unconventional ways.”

He laughed. “Sounds like consulting.”

“In a manner of speaking,” she replied.

That non-answer would have annoyed him coming from anyone else. But with her, it only deepened the mystery. She wasn’t trying to be clever—she was being careful. The difference wasn’t lost on him.

As they worked, the bakery’s usual soundtrack—clinking metal, humming ovens, the quiet tick of the wall clock—took on a new rhythm. Her presence shifted the energy of the space. Focused. Intent. Like they were baking something more than just dessert.

“You said it’s for someone who appreciates mystery,” Kurt said, easing the batter into the tin. “Is this part of a treasure hunt, or are we talking more... cloak-and-dagger?”

Lana shrugged. “Let’s call it a gift with layers.”

“That’s very on-brand,” he said, then added with a grin, “You know, for a cake.”

She smirked, but her eyes flicked to the window for just a second. It was quick—barely noticeable—but Kurt caught it. She was watching for something. Or someone.

He followed her gaze. Nothing outside but pedestrians and delivery vans.

Still, he trusted his instincts. Something about her didn’t line up—and whatever it was, it wasn’t dangerous in the way that frightened him. It was dangerous in the way that intrigued him.

She wasn’t here by accident.

“Do you mind if I ask why you chose my bakery?” he asked.

Lana didn’t answer right away. She reached for the jar of cinnamon, unscrewed the lid, and handed it to him like a peace offering.

“Call it intuition,” she said. “I needed somewhere quiet. Somewhere clean. And... you seemed trustworthy.”

He blinked. “From across the street?”

“From the way you looked up when I walked in. Like you actually saw me.”

That startled him more than it should have. Most people barely looked at him behind the counter, just smiled, paid, and left. She had seen that—somehow.

Before he could think of a reply, the oven timer went off.

Kurt turned, grateful for the interruption. He slid the tray inside, then set the timer again. When he turned back, Lana had already begun measuring fondant, precise and calm.

“Do you always get this involved with your orders?” he asked.

“Only the ones that matter,” she said without hesitation.

They worked in comfortable silence after that. He found himself watching her hands—capable, controlled. She handled a palette knife like someone who knew how to handle much more dangerous things.

After the cake cooled, they began to build the compartment. He’d carved a hidden cavity in the second layer earlier—nothing fancy, but it would hold whatever she needed it to.

When she retrieved a small, flat object from inside her blazer and slipped it into the space, he didn’t ask questions.

He just sealed the top layer back on and smoothed the frosting over like it had never been touched.

Kurt finally asked, “So... when does this get delivered?”

“Tonight,” Lana replied. “But not by me. I’ll need you to make the drop.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You want me to deliver it?”

“It’s just a cake, Kurt,” she said, the faintest edge to her voice. “Nothing suspicious about a baker dropping off a late-night order.”

He tilted his head, meeting her gaze. “And where exactly am I delivering it?”

She hesitated, then pulled a folded note from her pocket and slid it across the counter.

In neat, looping handwriting it read:
47 Rue Marceau
Midnight.
Discretion is everything.

Kurt exhaled slowly. “Okay. I’ll bite.”

Lana looked him over, thoughtful. “You don’t have to say yes.”

“I know.” He tapped the counter gently. “But something tells me you don’t ask unless you’ve already measured the risk.”

She didn’t reply, but that look—that brief flicker of approval in her eyes—was answer enough.

He watched her zip the cake box closed, folding the lid gently like it held more than frosting and sugar.

Maybe it did.

As she walked toward the door, the bell chimed again. Outside, the amber light of the afternoon had shifted to something softer, quieter.

“Lana,” he said before she stepped out.

She turned.

“I’m not sure what you just roped me into,” he said. “But... I’m in.”

Her smile was quick but real. “You might regret that.”

“I regret not doing things more than I regret doing them,” Kurt replied.

She lingered for one second longer. Then the door closed behind her.

And just like that, she was gone.

But something was already different.

In the kitchen, the air still smelled of vanilla and cinnamon. The cake sat on the counter, innocent and unassuming. And Kurt found himself staring at it like it was the beginning of something big.