The cupcake box flew through the air like a pink, sugary missile.
There was no time to scream, no time to swerve. One minute, Emilia Torres was cruising down Rosewood Avenue on her battered scooter, late for a delivery. The next, her front wheel snagged a pothole, and the tray of fresh strawberry cupcakes soared out of her hands like a low-budget action stunt.
Time slowed.
Then—splaaat!
Twelve handcrafted cupcakes exploded across the chest of a man in an expensive-looking suit. Pink frosting, gold sprinkles, whipped cream swirls—gone in an instant, now decorating a chest broader than her entire scooter.
Emilia's heart dropped even faster than she did as she skidded sideways and tumbled off her bike, landing flat on her butt.
"Ow," she groaned, rubbing her hip and blinking up at the scene of her accidental crime.
The man—tall, stone-faced, terrifying—was staring down at himself. His navy-blue jacket had taken a direct hit. His shirt was soaked in frosting. And his expression looked like someone had just insulted his ancestors.
"I—I'm so sorry!" Emilia scrambled to her feet, wincing as her knee protested. "Oh my God, are you okay? Is your suit—Oh no, that's Armani, isn't it? Please don't tell me it's Armani—"
He looked up. His eyes were ice.
"Do I look okay to you?" he asked flatly.
No. He looked like a pissed-off James Bond dipped in strawberry milkshake.
Emilia winced. "I can clean that. Or replace it. Or sell a kidney."
His jaw twitched. "And your license. Do you even have one?"
"Technically, yes," she muttered. "Legally... it's complicated."
Before he could reply, a small but commanding voice interrupted.
"Aidan?"
Both heads turned.
An elegant older woman in a pearl-trimmed cream coat was making her way across the sidewalk, cane tapping lightly. She stopped in front of them, blinking through stylish glasses.
"Oh," she said, delighted. "This must be your fiancée."
Emilia blinked. "His what now?"
Aidan didn't skip a beat. "Yes, Grandma. This is her."
"I'm sorry—what? No—wait—" Emilia began, but the woman had already taken her hand warmly.
"Oh, my dear, you're adorable!" the woman beamed. "Just as I imagined. A bit more frosting than expected, but charming nonetheless."
"Thank you?" Emilia said weakly, eyes wide.
"Aidan's been so secretive about you," the woman said, oblivious. "But I knew the moment I saw that spark in your eyes. You're perfect for him."
"I—um—"
"We should go," Aidan cut in quickly. "You're not feeling well, remember, Grandma?"
"Bah, I feel fine. But I won't say no to sitting down." She gave Emilia a warm look. "Will you join us for lunch, dear? I'd love to get to know the woman who finally melted my grandson's heart."
Emilia turned slowly toward Aidan, whispering fiercely, "What the hell is happening?"
"I'll explain," he muttered. "Just go with it. Please."
"Go with what?! I am not your fiancée!"
"Just… pretend. For now."
"I don't even know you."
"But she does. And she matters."
Emilia looked between him and his grandmother, who was beaming like it was Christmas and she'd just been gifted a grandchild on a silver platter.
"Unbelievable," she muttered under her breath.
Still, when the older woman looped her arm around hers, Emilia didn't pull away. Not immediately.
Just until they found a table. Just until she figured out what the actual hell this was.
Fifteen minutes later, Emilia was sitting at a very fancy outdoor café, staring at a menu she couldn't pronounce while her brain tried to reboot.
"I had my doubts," Grandma Beatrice was saying, sipping her tea with grace. "But now that I've met you, Emilia, I see it. The balance. You're the chaos to his calm. The warmth to his... well, to his ice block."
Emilia gave a strangled laugh. "He's... very chill, yes."
Beatrice chuckled, patting her hand. "I'm just so glad he finally found someone who challenges him. Honestly, I was beginning to think I'd never see him smile again."
"He smiles?" Emilia asked under her breath.
Aidan shot her a glare from across the table. She smiled sweetly back at him.
"Anyway," Beatrice continued, "you must come to Sunday brunch. I insist. The family will love you. And I want you to see the gardens."
"I don't think that's—"
"She'll be there," Aidan cut in smoothly. "Right, sweetheart?"
Emilia looked at him, murder in her eyes.
"Oh yes," she said tightly. "I can't wait."
Ten minutes later, outside the café, Emilia shoved her helmet onto her head and turned to Aidan.
"What. Was. That."
He held up a hand. "Before you yell—"
"No, no. I'm not yelling," she said, voice shrill. "Yelling would imply I still have functioning brain cells. Which I don't. Because I just had tea with a stranger's grandmother who thinks I'm engaged to her emotionally constipated grandson!"
Aidan didn't flinch. "Look, it's not ideal, but it's done."
"Oh, it's done all right. I'm done. You're insane."
"I'll make it worth your time."
"I don't care if you buy me a bakery in Paris! I'm not fake-engaging myself to some frosty billionaire just to keep his grandma happy!"
Aidan's gaze softened slightly. "You made her smile."
Emilia paused.
"Don't use that on me."
"I'm just saying. She's lonely. And she liked you."
"I'm still not—"
"I'll be in touch," he said smoothly, already turning toward a sleek black car that had just pulled up. "Think about it."
The car door shut behind him.
Emilia stood on the sidewalk, still covered in frosting, absolutely fuming.
She hadn't agreed to anything. Not yet.
But why, then, was her heart still tugging toward that sweet old woman and the softness in her eyes?
And why, despite everything, did she know she was going to see them again?