Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
WILLOW
T he bell jingles as Brock leaves, and I stare at the door for a moment longer than I should, clutching the card with his number written in bold, confident handwriting.
“‘Call me. Anytime,’” June mimics in a deep voice behind me, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
“Stop it,” I hiss, spinning around to glare at her.
Her smile is unapologetic. “What? I’m just saying, Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Gorgeous knows how to lay it on thick.” She props her chin in her hand, her elbow resting on the counter like she’s watching the best rom-com of the year. “And you, my friend, are the leading lady who has no idea how hot she is.”
I roll my eyes and set Brock’s card down on the counter, smoothing the edge with my finger. “He just wanted pastries for his event. It’s business.”
June snorts. “Honey, if that man is thinking about business, I’m the queen of England. Did you not see the way he was looking at you? Like he wanted to toss you over his shoulder and carry you off to his cave.”
Heat creeps up my neck, and I turn toward the tray of cinnamon rolls to avoid her gaze. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m right.”
I grab the piping bag and start frosting the rolls, hoping she’ll drop it, but she’s relentless.
“Okay, let’s review the evidence,” June says, ticking points off on her fingers. “One: he brought you flowers. Sunflowers, which just so happen to be your favorite.”
“That could’ve been a coincidence.”
“Two: he couldn’t take his eyes off you the entire time he was here.”
I shrug, but my cheeks are flaming now.
“Three,” she continues, leaning in like she’s about to deliver a knockout punch. “He gave you his number. On a card. Like some kind of hot businessman who’s secretly pining for the girl next door.”
I glance at the card again, and for a moment, I let myself wonder. What if June’s right? What if Brock Steele—rugged, gorgeous, and clearly capable of building things with those ridiculously large hands—really does see me as more than just the baker who made his muffins last week?
I shake my head, brushing the thought away. “Even if he did… it’s not like it matters. Guys like him don’t go for women like me.”
June’s expression softens, and she walks around the counter to stand beside me. “Willow, you’ve got to stop selling yourself short. You’re beautiful. Gorgeous, even. And if Brock Steele can see it, then maybe it’s time you started seeing it too.”
I blink back the sudden sting in my eyes and offer her a small smile. “Thanks, June.”
“Don’t thank me,” she says, nudging me with her elbow. “Just promise me you’ll call him. Even if it’s just to talk about cupcakes.”
I laugh softly, finishing the last cinnamon roll and setting the piping bag down. “We’ll see.”
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of customers, coffee orders, and Valentine’s cookie inquiries. Every time the bell jingles, I find myself glancing toward the door, half-expecting Brock to come back. He doesn’t, but his card stays tucked into the corner of the counter, a silent reminder that maybe, just maybe, something could be different this time.
Around lunchtime, I finally take a break, sinking into one of the stools behind the counter with a sigh. Frankie is snoozing in his bed near the back, his little body rising and falling with each breath.
I reach down to scratch behind his ears, smiling as he snuffles in his sleep. “You’ve got it all figured out, huh, bud? Nap, eat, repeat.”
He stirs, his tail wagging lazily before he settles back down, and I lean back, letting my gaze drift to the sunflowers on the counter.
The sunflowers catch the afternoon light, their golden petals glowing like little beacons of hope. Brock’s face flashes in my mind—his dark eyes, the way he smiled when he said my name, the softness in his voice when he handed me those flowers.
Maybe… just maybe…
I pick up his card, running my thumb over the embossed lettering. Call me anytime, he’d said.
The card feels heavier in my hand than it should, as though it knows I’ve been staring at it for the last ten minutes, trying to psych myself up to make the call. It’s just a business call. That’s all. Nothing to get worked up about.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself as I glance at Frankie, who’s lounging in his bed and looking completely unbothered. “You think I should call him, don’t you?”
He snorts, then rolls onto his back, his tiny paws stretching in the air.
“Yeah, thought so,” I mutter, grabbing my phone and punching in the number.
It rings twice before his deep, smooth voice comes through the line. “Brock Steele.”
My heart skips. Of course his voice would be as attractive as the rest of him. “Hi, Brock. It’s Willow—uh, Willow Hart, from Sweetly Yours.”
“Oh, hey,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “I was hoping I’d hear from you.”
The butterflies in my stomach take flight, and I force myself to stay focused. “I just wanted to get some details about the pastries for your event. Do you know how many you’ll need? Or what flavors you’re interested in?”
“Right, the important stuff,” he says, his tone teasing but warm. “I’d say enough for about forty people. And as for flavors... I trust your judgment. Everything you make is amazing. Especially your cinnamon rolls.”
The compliment catches me off guard, and I find myself smiling despite the heat creeping up my neck. “Well, thank you. I could do a mix—maybe some chocolate ganache cupcakes, lemon bars, and my strawberry shortcake cookies?”
“That sounds perfect,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice makes my chest tighten. “But let me know if it’s too much. I don’t want to overload you.”
“It’s no trouble,” I assure him. “I’ve got it under control.”
There’s a brief pause, and then his voice softens. “How are you, Willow?”
The question surprises me, and for a moment, I don’t know how to answer. “Oh, I’m good. Busy, as always.”
“I figured. You run the best bakery in town.”
The butterflies are back, fluttering wildly. “Thanks. That means a lot.”
“You’re welcome.” His voice dips lower, almost like he’s leaning closer, even though we’re on the phone. “So, what do you do when you’re not baking? Any hobbies?”
The casual question catches me off guard, but I find myself relaxing into the conversation. “I don’t have a ton of free time, but I love music. I usually have something playing while I’m working. Lately, it’s been a lot of acoustic guitar.”
“Acoustic guitar, huh?” His voice brightens with interest. “That’s a good choice.”
I tilt my head, curious. “Do you play?”
“I do,” he says, and I can practically hear the smile in his voice. “I’ve been playing since I was a kid. Mostly for fun, but I do a set at The Rusty Note on Friday nights when I can.”
“The Rusty Note?”
“It’s the bar over on Main Street,” he explains. “Small place, good vibe. You should come check it out. Bring your friend June, if you want. I’d love to see you there.”
The invitation sends a fresh wave of nerves—and excitement—through me. “Oh, I don’t know...”
“No pressure,” he says quickly. “But if you like acoustic guitar, I think you’ll enjoy it.”
I chew on my bottom lip, the thought of seeing him again making my stomach do flips. “Okay,” I say before I can second-guess myself. “I’ll see if June’s free, and... we’ll stop by.”
“Great,” he says, and there’s no mistaking the happiness in his voice. “I’ll look forward to it.”
“Me too,” I admit, my heart pounding as the words slip out.
After we say goodbye, I set my phone down and let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Frankie stirs in his bed, lifting his head to blink at me lazily.
“Well,” I tell him, my cheeks still warm. “I guess we’re going out on Friday.”
Frankie snorts again, and I laugh, the butterflies in my stomach refusing to settle.