Velvety Black Lace (eBook)

A Contemporary Sweet Romance

Celeste Lorentzen (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2026 | 1. Auflage
355 Seiten
Lofty Dreams Publications (Verlag)
978-0-00-113724-0 (ISBN)

Infos

In the bustling streets of London, artist Leo Harrington is drowning in creative drought, his once-vibrant world reduced to shades of gray. Seeking solace, he stumbles into The Gilded Bun, where baker Elara Thorne crafts confections that warm the soul. Their chance encounter sparks an unexpected connection, but Elara is on the verge of closing her beloved shop to care for her ailing aunt in the sun-drenched hills of Provence.

As Leo follows his muse to the lavender fields of Saint-Julien, fate reunites them as neighbors in a quaint stone cottage. Amid blooming romance and shared dreams, they navigate heartbreak, rediscover passion, and rebuild lives shattered by loss. Leo's blocked canvas comes alive with Elara's gentle encouragement, while she finds strength in his quiet presence to embrace a new beginning.

Perfect for fans of clean, uplifting fiction,  'Velvety Black Lace' weaves a story of healing, hope, and the sweet magic of unexpected bonds. Will they paint a future together, or will old wounds keep them apart? Discover a romance that lingers like the scent of fresh-baked bread.

Textauszug

Prologue

 

Leo

 

The silence in my flat was a physical thing. It pressed against the windows, thick and heavy, swallowing the sounds of the city outside. I stood before the easel, a blank canvas staring back at me with a kind of polite, mocking expectation. My hands, stained with yesterday’s attempt at ochre and umber, hung useless at my sides.

 

This was the third week. Three weeks of this hollow, buzzing quiet where my thoughts used to be. The commission deadline was a smudge on the calendar, growing larger and darker each day, but I couldn’t find the shape of it. I couldn’t find the shape of anything. All the colors in my mind had muted to grey.

 

Marlow, my agent, had called it “block.” A tidy, professional word for the cavern that had opened up inside my chest. It wasn’t just the paintings. It was the way my coffee tasted like ash, the way the morning light fell across the floorboards without warmth. It was the memory of my father’s study, the sharp, disappointed tilt of his head when I’d told him I wouldn’t be joining the firm. A painter? he’d said, as if I’d announced I’d be professional cloud-watcher. That was five years ago, and the echo of it had somehow grown louder in the silence.

 

I needed air that didn’t taste of turpentine and stagnation. Shrugging on a worn jacket, I left the flat, the blank canvas a ghost at my back. I walked without direction, a specter drifting through the lively Saturday streets. Couples brushed past, linked arms, shared laughter that felt like a foreign language. I kept my gaze on the pavement, on the cracks in the concrete.

 

And then I smelled it. Sugar, butter, vanilla, and something richer, spicier—ginger, maybe. It was a warmth that cut through the urban chill. I looked up. A bakery. Not a sleek, minimalist patisserie, but a place that seemed to glow from within. The window was a cascade of golden-brown croissants, plum-dark tarts, and delicate, frosted things that looked like edible lace. A hand-painted sign swung gently above the door: The Gilded Bun.

 

Something about its unapologetic warmth was a rebuke to my grey interior. A tiny, reckless impulse sparked. I would go in. I would buy a bun, something absurdly sweet, and I would eat it on a bench and try to remember what simple pleasure felt like.

 

The bell above the door chimed, a soft, clear sound. The warmth inside was immense, wrapping around me like a blanket. And behind the counter, dusted with a fine shimmer of flour, was her.

 

Elara

 

My fingers trembled as I piped the final swirl of lemon curd into the last éclair. A delicate, practiced motion, one I’d done ten thousand times. Today, it felt like laying a wreath. This was it. The final batch.

 

The familiar weight of the pastry bag in my hand, the sweet, tangy scent of citrus, the soft hum of the oven—it was a symphony I was about to silence. My heart was a frantic bird against my ribs. This bakery was my lungs. How did you breathe without your lungs?

 

I’d built this place from a shell of a shop, every tile, every menu card, every recipe a piece of my soul poured into something solid. It was my sanctuary after the great unraveling of my life two years prior—the ended engagement, the quiet, devastating realization that the future I’d pictured was a house of cards. Here, I had rebuilt myself, measured in grams and degrees, in the smiles of regulars and the quiet satisfaction of a perfectly risen soufflé.

 

And now I was leaving it. To care for my aunt, miles away in a coastal town, whose own hands, once skilled at knitting sea-wrack and wildflowers into beautiful things, now struggled with the kettle. It was the right thing. The only thing. But knowing that didn’t stop the ache, a hollowing-out that started behind my sternum and spread to my fingertips.

 

I looked around, memorizing the way the late afternoon sun hit the honey-toned wood of the tables, the friendly clutter of recipe books by the till, the faint ghost of yesterday’s bread in the air. I was saying goodbye. I just hadn’t told the bakery yet.

 

The door chimed. I painted on my customer-service smile, the one that reached my eyes but never quite touched the quiet place behind them. “Welcome in,” I called, my voice thankfully steady.

 

He looked… lost. Not in the geographical sense, but adrift. Tall, with messy dark hair that spoke of hands running through it in frustration, and eyes the colour of a storm-coming sky. He wore the city’s uniform—dark jeans, a simple jacket—but he carried a stillness that set him apart from the bustling street outside. His gaze swept the room not with a customer’s appraisal, but with an artist’s, noting the light, the shadows, the composition of the space.

 

Our eyes met for a fleeting second. In his, I saw a reflection of my own weariness, a echo of that hollowed-out feeling. It was so unexpected, so stark, that my practiced smile faltered. He looked quickly away, as if he’d been caught seeing something private.

 

Leo

 

Her smile was like the bakery itself—beautiful, warm, and then, for a heartbeat, it fractured. I saw the effort behind it, the slight strain at the corners of her eyes. In that instant, she wasn’t just the baker. She was someone holding something heavy, just like me. The recognition was a jolt, a connection across the quiet space of the shop that felt more intimate than a touch.

 

I cleared my throat, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry,” I mumbled, though I wasn’t sure what for. For intruding? For seeing?

 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” she said, and her voice was softer now, the customer-service tone melting away. It had a low, melodic quality, like the hum of the display fridge. “What can I get for you?”

 

I stared blankly at the array of pastries. My mind, empty of forms and colors moments ago, was now equally empty of words. “I… I don’t know. Something… good?”

 

A genuine, small smile touched her lips, and it transformed her face. “A broad but excellent category. We specialize in ‘good.’” She considered me, her head tilting slightly. “First visit?”

 

“Is it that obvious?”

 

“You have the look of someone who’s been shipwrecked on a very sweet island.” She nodded toward a tray. “The pain au chocolat is a classic life-raft. Or, if you’re feeling brave, the spiced pear and black pepper danish. It’s… surprising.”

 

I was surprised already. By her, by the way her gentle teasing didn’t feel like teasing at all, but like a lifeline thrown. “The danish,” I said. “I could use a surprise.”

 

As she reached for the pastry with a sheet of parchment paper, I noticed her hands. They were capable, strong-looking, but dusted with flour and a tiny freckle of what looked like cinnamon. There was a story in those hands, a history of creation. They were nothing like the meticulously manicured hands I was used to seeing in my other life. These were hands that made real, tangible, beautiful things.

 

Elara

 

My hands, usually so steady, fumbled slightly as I picked up the danish. His gaze was on them, and it wasn’t a casual glance. It was an observation, deep and thoughtful, and it made a flush creep up my neck. Nobody looked at a baker’s hands.

 

When I passed him the paper-wrapped pastry, our fingers brushed. A simple, accidental point of contact. But a current, faint but unmistakable, passed between us. It wasn’t dramatic; it was a whisper. A tiny, silent oh in the quiet of the shop.

 

He felt it too. His stormy eyes snapped back to mine, wide with the same startled awareness.

 

“Thank you,” he said, his voice a bit rough.

 

“I hope it’s the right kind of surprise,” I replied, the words leaving me before I could think.

 

He held my gaze for a moment longer, a silent conversation passing in the space between us. I’m adrift. I’m saying goodbye. I see you. I see you, too.

 

Then, he gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, turned, and left. The bell chimed his exit.

 

I stood there, behind my counter, in the warm, fragrant sanctuary of my life’s work. The emptiness inside me was still there, the ache of impending loss. But into that hollow space, something new had quietly slipped. A spark of curiosity. A feeling I hadn’t felt in years: the faint, thrilling pull of possibility.

 

Who was he? The man with the stormy eyes who looked at pastries—and at me—as if we were works of art?

 

Leo

 

Outside, the city noise rushed back. I unwrapped the danish and took a bite. The flavours exploded—sweet, fragrant pear, a sharp, warm kick of pepper, buttery, flaky layers that melted on my tongue. It was astonishing. It was more than good.

 

I looked back through the window. She was no longer at the counter, perhaps in the back. The bakery glowed, a beacon of warmth and creation against the gathering dusk.

 

For the first time in three weeks, the grey static in my mind receded, just a little. In its place was a single, clear image: her face, the moment her smile became real. And the feel of her hand, brief and electric, against mine.

 

I had come out for air, to escape the silence. I had found a taste of something I didn’t know I was missing, and a pair of eyes that held a reflection of my own solitude. The...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 9.1.2026
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-10: 0-00-113724-7 / 0001137247
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-113724-0 / 9780001137240