Chapter 6
The next morning, I wake up feeling different. Not anxious. Not tight in my chest. Just light. Maybe a little happy. Like something shifted inside me during the night, and for once, the weight I usually carry has loosened its grip.
I dress slowly, the morning sun sneaking through my curtains in soft gold streaks and make my way downstairs to the café.
Lura is just wrapping up breakfast service, the scent of maple syrup and fresh biscuits lingering in the air like comfort and nostalgia.
Without being asked, I grab a towel and start drying the dishes she’s washing.
This is our rhythm. It’s unspoken but familiar.
As usual, she’s already deep into her morning report of Broken Heart Creek Confidential.
“Sherry and Buck are at it again,” she says, scrubbing a plate like it betrayed her. “Buck told that trollop, Debbie—you know, the one with the French tips and the barely there morals—all about their problems. Right over pancakes.”
I choke on a laugh. “He did what?”
“Oh yes.” Lura’s eyes flash with fire. “Right at table three, like it was a damn therapy session. I should’ve told him he’s not going to disrespect my pancakes that way.”
I snort. “Poor Sherry. Does she know?”
“She came in five minutes later looking for him. Never saw Debbie move that fast in my life.” She sets the plate aside with a clink. “Nearly tripped over a chair trying to flee with her dignity and that knock-off garbage she calls a purse.”
I shake my head, grinning. “This town…”
“Full of sinners and secrets. But I serve them all coffee just the same.”
I glance at her, my smile softening. “You ever think about writing a book?”
She pauses. “I’d have to leave out half the good stuff just to avoid lawsuits.”
We laugh, and it feels good.
“What else?” I ask, rinsing the last plate and sliding it into the drying rack.
“Sam and Charlie came in,” Lura says, rinsing a mug with care. “Charlie’s been craving hash browns with eggs on top. Said she woke up thinking about it, so Sam got here as soon as we opened.”
“That tracks,” I say with a soft smile. “Sam would move the moon for her.”
“And he’d do it before breakfast, with a smile on his face.”
“Was Phern with them?”
Lura’s hands still in the sink. “No. Sam said she was working on a paper, but…” she pauses, voice dipping, “I think it’s because it hurts being around them.”
My brow furrows. “How so?”
“That kind of love?” Lura says quietly. “It stabs you right in the gut when you’re pining over someone. Watching them get everything you dream about while you're still pretending you’re fine with being alone.”
She peeks at me over the rim of her glasses, one eyebrow lifted.
“Speaking of pining,” she says, not bothering with subtlety, “you want to tell me about your date with Liam Stone?”
I exhale through my nose, leaning back against the counter. “It wasn’t a date.”
“Hmm.” She wipes her hands on a dish towel. “Sure looked like a date to me.”
“I mean, I guess it was but not like that.”
I walk her through the situation with Teddy, the fake dating, the gala, the whole plan. She listens without interrupting, but I can feel her watching me. Reading between every carefully chosen word.
“So, I’m just helping him out,” I finish. “That’s all this is.”
Lura nods slowly, folding the towel.
Then she says, in that soft voice she uses when she’s about to tell me the truth I don’t want to hear. “Oh, Olive. Be careful.”
My stomach flips.
“It’d be so easy for your heart to forget that this is just make-believe.”
I look down at my hands. And say nothing. Because I know it’s already forgotten.
But I say, “I promise I’ll be careful, Lura.”
“Good.” She nods, then gives me a look that's half mischief, half memory. “Did I ever tell you I dated his grandfather, Spencer?”
I snort. “You’ve mentioned it. Once or twice.”
Spencer Stone is a bit of legend around these parts, so I guess I don’t blame Lura for bragging about dating him.
She grins, waving the dish towel like a fan. “He was a perfect blend of Sam and Liam. Spencer Stone had a smile that could melt steel and a jawline you could cut peaches on. Lord, help me.” She sighs dramatically. “But then he met Alexandra, and that was that.”
“Ah,” I say. “The Stone curse, as Liam calls it.”
She chuckles softly, but her expression sobers. “Darling, tell him that falling in love isn’t a curse. When those Stones know, they know. And once they do, that’s it.”
I nod, but the lump forming in my throat makes it hard to speak.
Because that’s what hurts the most.
Sam and Charlie? They knew after two weeks. Two weeks, and they were already written in the stars.
Which means if Liam hasn’t figured it out by now, then he never will. And no matter how many almosts pass between us, they’ll never add up to a yes.
“Let’s make that cobbler,” I say with a smile on my face.
Several hours later, I show up at Liam’s house—a sprawling stone lodge that looks like it was carved straight from the mountain it leans against. It’s rugged, beautiful, and intimidating, just like the man who lives inside.
I let myself in, dropping my keys onto the table by the door and kicking off my boots.
“I brought cobbler,” I call out.
“In here,” Liam’s voice echoes from somewhere deeper inside.
I carry the still-warm dish into the kitchen, set it on the counter, and head off in search of him.
He’s not in the massive living room, where the fire is still crackling low.
Not in the library, where the walls are lined with worn leather and dust-sweet books I know he never touches.
But then I hear music. A low thump of bass. And that’s when I find him. In the gym.
Holy.
Mother.
Of.
God.
He’s wearing a sleeveless white shirt that clings to his chest like a second skin, wet with sweat.
His biceps flex as he racks a set of weights, and his hair is damp, curling at the edges like it does when he’s been outside too long or pushed himself too hard.
His jaw is dusted with stubble and tight with focus, lips parted as he exhales.
And those shorts? Perfect view of his ass.
I freeze in the doorway.
There should be a warning sign. Or at least a darker shirt.
He hasn’t noticed me yet, so I take a second to let myself look. Really look.
And that’s when he glances up.
Our eyes lock, and for a second, I swear I forget how to function.
But I blink. Breathe. Recover.
You are a professional, I remind myself. You brought cobbler. This is not a thirst trap. This is work-adjacent baked goods.
I lean casually against the doorframe like my pulse isn’t tripping over itself. “Well,” I say, tilting my head, “clearly I should’ve scheduled this cobbler drop-off between sets.”
Liam grins, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt, which lifts just enough to reveal a flash of abs that probably belong in a museum.
“You could’ve waited until I finished,” he says, voice low and just a little rough. “But then I guess you’d have missed the show.”
My mouth goes dry. I clear my throat and straighten up, pretending to inspect the equipment like I’m here to do a gym audit.
“Nice setup. You ever use that treadmill, or is it just for decoration?”
He chuckles, tossing his towel over his shoulder. “Jealous?”
“Of a treadmill?” I arch a brow. “Hardly. I’ve seen it trip you.”
“That was one time.”
“Sure it was.”
He walks past me, close enough that I catch the scent of him. Who would have guessed that sweat could smell so good?
“You coming, or are you gonna stand there pretending I’m not the best-looking thing you’ve seen all day?”
“Bold of you to assume you outrank a fresh peach cobbler.”
Liam glances over his shoulder with a smirk. “Guess we’ll have to see which leaves a better taste in your mouth.”
I almost choke. But I school my face into something neutral and breezy and follow him like he didn’t just light my brain on fire.
I follow him toward the kitchen, the scent of cinnamon and peaches still lingering in the air, and just because I can’t help myself, I throw out, “There’s no way you taste better than cobbler.”
Liam stops mid-stride and turns, one brow raised, grin slow and sinful. “Wanna bet?”
I breeze past him, chin lifted like I haven’t just tossed gasoline on a smoldering fire.
“Ignoring you,” I sing lightly. Then, without missing a beat, “Me, on the other hand? Well, I’m sweet as pie.”
His breath catches and for once, he doesn’t have a comeback right away.
I keep walking, extra sway in my hips because he deserves it after that gym stunt.
Behind me, his voice is a low rumble. “If you’re sweet as pie, honey, I’m gonna need a bigger spoon.”
I nearly trip over my own feet. But I don’t turn around. I just smirk. Because I might’ve just won this round and it’s about damn time.
I stop at the counter and lift the foil from the cobbler, the warm scent of peaches and sugar filling the space like a hug.
But then I feel him.
Liam steps in behind me, and suddenly his arms are on either side of mine, braced against the counter. Caging me in. The air shifts, heavy and charged, wrapping around us like the storm still rolling outside.
My breath hitches. I should step aside. Or say something casual. Or pretend I don’t feel the heat radiating off his body and bleeding into mine. But I turn.
And instantly regret it.
Because now we’re chest to chest, barely an inch between us, and I can feel the heat of his skin through the damp fabric of his shirt. Sweat-soaked cotton clings to both of us, and when my hands press against his chest to steady myself, he doesn’t move. He just watches me.
And all I can think about is how easy it would be to lean up and kiss him. Right here. Right now. No more pretending.
His eyes flick to my mouth. And mine to his. And damn it, we are so close to crossing that line we keep flirting with.
I should move. But I don’t.
Because Liam is standing there, heat rolling off him, eyes locked on mine like he’s searching for something he’s finally ready to find. And I’m afraid if I so much as breathe, I’ll tip us both over the edge.
His gaze drops to my lips again, but he doesn’t lean in.
Instead, his voice comes low, barely a whisper.
“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything as bad as I want you right now.”
The words hit harder than any touch. Not because they’re bold. But because he says them like they cost him something.
My breath stutters, eyes searching his for the catch, the tease, the joke that never comes. There isn’t one. His expression is raw. Honest. Wide open in a way Liam Stone never is.
So, of course, I say, “Dang. Didn’t know you liked cobbler that much.”
My voice comes out light. Teasing. Like I didn’t just hear the one thing I’ve wanted from him since the day we met.
I side-step him before I can talk myself out of it, slipping past the heat of his body and heading straight for the cabinets. My hands move on autopilot as I pull out two plates and reach for the drawer with the forks.
Behind me, I can feel his eyes on me.
Watching.
Waiting.
But he doesn’t say anything.
I scoop the cobbler in neat, practiced motions. The smell should be comforting, but my chest is tight, and my hands tremble just enough that I have to slow down.
When I finally turn around and meet his gaze, the fire I saw a moment ago is gone. Extinguished. And the part of me that wanted to believe this could be more exhales in silent disappointment. I force a bright, easy smile onto my face and hold out a plate to him like a peace offering.
“So,” I say, voice chipper and thin, “how’s the fencing project going? Still battling it out with the contractors?”
Liam takes the plate, his fingers brushing mine briefly. Too brief to mean anything, too much to mean nothing.
He lets me fill the silence with chatter. Lets me pretend.
For a minute.
“It’s fine,” he says eventually, his voice mild. “They’ll come around once I remind them who owns the land.”
I nod, relief and regret tangling inside me like a knot.
We both sit down at the table, cobbler steaming between us, the soft clink of forks against porcelain the only sound.
I sneak a glance at him from under my lashes. He’s eating like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just almost change everything between us with a handful of words.
Maybe that’s for the best. It’s definitely safer this way.
I take a bite, and the sweetness bursts across my tongue, but it tastes hollow somehow.
And just when I think I’ve successfully steered us back into safe territory, Liam sets down his fork and says quietly, “You know, it wasn’t the cobbler I meant.”
I freeze mid-bite. He looks at me, steady and sure, like he needs me to hear it. To believe it. Then he picks his fork back up, like he didn’t just drop a grenade between us. And I’m left sitting there, heart pounding, the fake normalcy slipping through my fingers faster than I can catch it.
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes against the counter. The sound is jarring and too loud in the thick, stretched silence between us. Liam’s phone chimes, too, which means it’s a group message.
I glance down, grateful for the distraction, even if my hands are still trembling slightly.
Teddy Birmingham
Wanted to confirm that dinner is at 7 tomorrow. Bring your girl. Excited to finally meet her properly now that you two aren’t hiding your relationship.
My stomach drops.
I stare at the message, the words blurring for a second before they settle into brutal clarity.
Bring your girl.
I force a laugh that sounds brittle even to my own ears. “Looks like we’re officially on the clock.”
Liam leans over to glance at my phone, and for a second, his face is unreadable. Then he leans back in his chair, easy and casual again, like we didn’t just almost burn the kitchen down with one look.
“Guess we better make it convincing, huh?” he says lightly, twirling his fork between his fingers.
I nod, shoving another bite of cobbler into my mouth to keep from saying something reckless. Because if I’m not careful I’m going to forget where the pretending ends and the wanting begins.