Sweetly Yours (Evergreen Ridge #1)
Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
WILLOW HART
T he scent of cinnamon and vanilla fills the air as I pull the last tray of cinnamon rolls from the oven. The swirls are perfect—golden brown with just the right amount of gooeyness in the center. I set the tray on the cooling rack, wiping my hands on my apron, and glance at the clock. Seven-thirty. The shop opens in half an hour, and I’ve still got to finish frosting these babies and prep the counter display.
“Willow, you’ve really got to stop taking so many custom orders,” I mutter to myself as I grab the piping bag. But who am I kidding? Turning down people in this town is basically a crime. Not to mention, I can’t resist the look on a kid’s face when they see their birthday cake shaped like a rocket ship or a princess castle.
The bell above the door jingles, and my best friend, June, saunters in with her usual morning flair—a bright floral dress, combat boots, and a take-no-prisoners smirk. She holds up two coffees like a hero presenting the spoils of war.
“Morning, sunshine! I brought you the good stuff. Extra caramel because I know you’ve been up since four baking your little heart out.”
I laugh, setting down the piping bag. “You’re a lifesaver. Do you know how many people in this town ordered heart-shaped cookies this week? Valentine’s Day is still a month away, and I’m drowning in sprinkles.”
June slides onto a stool at the counter, resting her elbows on the freshly cleaned surface. “That’s because everyone loves Sweetly Yours. You’ve single-handedly made this town sweeter.” She smiles and then narrows her eyes. “But when was the last time you let someone do something sweet for you ?”
I roll my eyes, but her words remind me of my sad dating history. It’s practically nonexistent. The last time I was in a relationship was back in college, and even then, it wasn’t anything special. It ended and we never saw each other again. Men have never been cruel to me—they just don’t seem to see me. I’ve never been a viable option. Never the special one.
When I was younger, I used to think there was something wrong with me. I would think maybe if I lost weight, or acted differently, or tried harder, someone would look at me and really see me. But eventually, I stopped. I couldn’t live my life chasing someone’s approval.
I glance out the window at Main Street, already bustling with early risers grabbing coffee and waving to their neighbors. I’ve got my bakery, my little corner of Evergreen Ridge, and Frankie, my black-and-white French bulldog. That’s enough. I’ve dreamed about the white picket fence, a husband, and three or four kids running around the backyard. But if this is it—me, my dog, and my bakery—I’ll be okay.
“Earth to Willow.” June’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. She’s leaning on the counter with an annoyingly smug look on her face.
“What?” I ask.
“You totally zoned out, and I’m betting it was because of him. ”
I blink. “Who?”
“The tall, dark, and broody guy who came in last week for muffins,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows. “Don’t even pretend you didn’t notice him. He looked like he walked straight out of a lumberjack calendar.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “You mean Brock Steele? He was just being polite. People like that don’t—” I cut myself off, but the words linger in my head. People like that don’t look at people like me.
June narrows her eyes. “Willow Hart, if you say one more bad thing about yourself, I swear I’ll cover your shop in glitter just to make a point. That man didn’t care about the muffins—he was here for you. ”
I snort, trying to laugh it off, but the memory of Brock does a slow, lazy spin through my mind. Tall, broad shoulders, dark eyes that seemed to see right through me. And that smile—soft and deliberate, like he was savoring the moment.
Before I can dwell on it, the bell jingles again, and I turn toward the door, my practiced “welcome to Sweetly Yours” smile already in place. But when I see who it is, my heart skips a beat.
It’s him. Brock Steele, in all his rugged, flannel-wearing glory. And he’s holding a bouquet of sunflowers that look suspiciously like June’s handiwork.
“Good morning,” he says, his deep voice warm and rich as honey. His eyes lock on mine, and for a second, the world tilts.
Oh no. I’m in trouble.