The town of Maplehollow wasn’t known for drama. The most excitement usually came from a pie contest or a cat stuck in Mrs. Lennox’s fence again. But lately, the townsfolk had a new favorite story:

The billionaire CEO, Azai Hale, had fallen for the bakery girl.

You.

No one could really believe it. One day, Azai was on a magazine cover shaking hands with world leaders; the next, he was standing in Honey Crumb holding two cups of cocoa and asking how your morning was.

He came in every single day. Without fail. Sometimes he’d pretend he was there on “business”—checking his emails, taking calls with a Bluetooth earpiece he never actually used. But most of the time, he just sat by the window, nursing a cup of whatever you made for him and stealing glances your way.

He asked you questions like, “What made you fall in love with baking?” or “What would you do if you weren’t here?” But never the cold, interview-style questions people usually threw at you when they were trying to get somewhere. With Azai, it felt like he wanted to stay.

One morning, as sunlight poured through the windows and you were busy decorating cupcakes with tiny heart-shaped sprinkles, he walked in carrying something behind his back.

“You’re not going to believe this,” he said, his tone a mix of excitement and nerves.

You raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess—your private jet broke down, and the only solution is a chocolate chip muffin?”

He smirked and shook his head before revealing what he held.

A cake.

Homemade, slightly lopsided, but carefully frosted in your bakery’s signature swirl.

You gasped. “You baked this?”

“Watched fifty-two tutorials,” he said proudly. “May have roped your apprentice into coaching me over video call. He was very strict.”

You couldn’t stop laughing. The thought of Azai Hale—heir to a tech empire—standing in a kitchen covered in flour, swearing over uneven layers, made your heart flip in the best way.

Then he cleared his throat, suddenly bashful. “So... I thought maybe tonight... we could share a slice together. At my place. Or yours. I’ll bring whipped cream. The good kind.”

You looked at him, this man who could buy anything and yet showed up with cake in hand and hope in his eyes.

“You baked for me?” you said softly, the warmth in your chest rising like dough in the oven.

“I’d buy every bakery in the country,” he replied, stepping closer, “but I’d still only want you.”

The bell above the door jingled softly with a breeze, rustling the fresh flowers he’d brought earlier. You took the cake from his hands, your fingers brushing.

“Okay,” you said, trying to ignore how fast your heart was racing, “but only if we bake cookies after. I want to see how you handle getting flour in your hair.”

He grinned. “Deal. But no judgment. I take baking very seriously now.”

Later that night, with flour-dusted countertops, warm cookies on cooling racks, and laughter echoing through the kitchen, you realized something simple and sweet:

You didn’t need a fairy tale.

You just needed him—and a little whipped cream.