Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
WILLOW
B y the time Saturday night rolls around, my nerves are in overdrive. Brock offered to pick me up, but I insisted on meeting him at the restaurant—mostly because I didn’t want to risk him seeing me in full-on meltdown mode if I started second-guessing everything about my outfit.
I settle on a black wrap dress that flatters my curves, paired with my favorite ankle boots. Simple, but I feel good in it. My dark brown hair is pinned up with a few loose strands framing my face, and I’ve kept my makeup light, just enough to highlight my eyes.
“Okay, Frankie,” I say, glancing at my French bulldog lounging on the couch. “Wish me luck.”
He snorts, rolling onto his side as if to say, You’ve got this.
I grab my bag, take a deep breath, and head out the door.
The restaurant is cozy and warm, with soft music playing in the background. When I step inside, I spot Brock immediately. He’s standing near the hostess stand, scanning the room, and when his eyes land on me, his face lights up.
He looks incredible, as usual. A dark green button-down rolled up at the sleeves shows off his muscular forearms, and his dark jeans fit just right. My stomach flips as he walks toward me, his smile easy and genuine.
“Hey,” he says, his deep voice sending a warm shiver through me. “You look amazing.”
“Thanks,” I manage, feeling my cheeks heat. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
He laughs, motioning toward a table near the window. “Come on, I got us a good spot.”
The conversation flows effortlessly as we settle into our seats and start looking over the menu. He tells me about his latest project—some custom furniture for a cabin on the other side of town—and I share a story about a cake order gone hilariously wrong last week.
Somewhere between appetizers and the main course, he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “So, what made you open Sweetly Yours?”
I pause, caught off guard by the question. Most people just assume I’ve always been a baker and leave it at that. But Brock looks genuinely curious, like he actually wants to know.
“Well,” I begin, swirling my fork through my pasta, “it’s something I’ve always loved. Baking makes me happy, and I wanted to create a place where people could come and feel that too. A little slice of comfort, you know?”
He nods, his dark eyes warm and focused. “You definitely pulled it off. Your shop feels like... home.”
His words hit me straight in the chest, and I can’t help but smile. “Thanks you for saying that. It’s what I was going for.”
“What about you?” I ask, shifting the focus. “Why furniture?”
He smiles, leaning back in his chair. “I like working with my hands. There’s something satisfying about taking raw materials and turning them into something useful, something beautiful. My dad taught me a lot when I was a kid, and it just stuck.”
I nod, letting the easy rhythm of our conversation settle over me. He’s so open, so grounded, and I can feel myself relaxing in his presence.
By the time dessert arrives—a slice of chocolate cake to share—I’m laughing at one of his stories about a client who insisted on having a hidden compartment in their coffee table for their “emergency snacks.”
“This has been fun,” I say, leaning back with a happy sigh as the waiter clears our plates.
“It has,” Brock agrees, his eyes holding mine. “We should do it again sometime.”
I feel the butterflies in my stomach flutter, and I nod. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
When the check comes, I barely have time to reach for my wallet before Brock waves me off.
“I told you, dinner’s on me,” he says, his tone firm but teasing.
“Fine,” I relent, holding up my hands in surrender. “But next time, I’m picking up the tab.”
“Not going to happen,” he says, his voice dropping an octave, making my stomach flip.
Before I can argue, he stands and walks around the table, offering me his hand. “Come on, let me walk you to your car.”
The cool night air wraps around us as we step outside. The parking lot is quiet, with only the faint hum of distant traffic breaking the silence. Brock’s hand brushes against mine, and before I know it, his fingers slide between mine, locking us together.
My heart pounds in my chest, but I can’t bring myself to pull away. We walk to my car like that, his warm hand holding mine firmly, his thumb slowly rubbing small, gentle circles over my skin. The simple motion sends a wave of calm through me, even as my chest feels like it might explode.
When we reach my car, I stop, fiddling with my keys as I turn to face him. “Thanks for tonight,” I say softly.
“Anytime,” he says, his dark eyes locking onto mine. He steps closer, and before I can process what’s happening, he reaches out, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair away from my face.
The warmth of his touch lingers as his hand rests near my jaw. His thumb grazes my cheek, and I feel my breath catch in my throat.
“I really like you, Willow,” he says, his voice low and steady, every word sinking into me like a promise.
I lean back slightly against my car, looking up at him, my heart racing. “I really like you too.”
“Good,” he murmurs, a small, satisfied smile curving his lips.
And then he kisses me.
It starts slow, almost hesitant, like he’s testing the waters, but the moment I respond, it deepens. His hand moves to cup my face, his fingers threading through my hair, while his other hand rests on the curve of my hip, anchoring me in place.
His lips are soft but firm, moving with a deliberate, possessive intensity that makes my knees feel weak. He tastes faintly of beer and something warm and woodsy that feels entirely him .
I don’t even realize I’ve dropped my keys until I hear them clatter to the ground, but I don’t care. My hands find their way to his chest, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, and I feel the solid warmth of him beneath my touch.
When he finally pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead against mine, we’re both breathing hard. His thumb brushes against my cheek again, his dark eyes holding mine.
“I’ve been wanting to do that since the day I met you,” he says softly, his voice rough and full of honesty.
I can’t help but smile, my heart still pounding in my chest. “Well, I’m glad you finally did.”
His lips curve into a small, satisfied smirk, and he leans in again, pressing a softer, lingering kiss to my forehead. “Drive safe, Willow,” he says, stepping back but not letting go of my hand until the last possible moment. “See you tomorrow,” He winks.
As I get into my car and watch him walk away, I can still feel the warmth of his kiss, the way he made me feel like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
“ J une, I’m telling you, it was perfect,” I say into my phone, balancing it between my ear and shoulder as I arrange the trays of desserts in the back of my car. “The dinner, the conversation... and that kiss.”
“The kiss?” June’s voice rises, full of excitement. “Don’t leave me hanging! Was it fireworks? Butterflies? A swoon-worthy movie moment?”
“All of the above,” I admit, laughing as I shut the trunk. “It was... incredible. He’s incredible. I didn’t think guys like him actually existed.”
“You deserve this, Willow,” June says, her tone softening. “Seriously. I’ve never heard you sound like this before. You’re glowing through the phone.”
“I don’t know about that,” I mumble, feeling my cheeks heat. “But... yeah. He makes me feel different. Special.”
“As he should. Now, go wow them with your desserts, and don’t let him out of your sight.”
I laugh, thanking her before hanging up and heading into Brock’s new showroom with a cart full of pastries.
The space is stunning. High ceilings, exposed wood beams, and gorgeous handcrafted furniture on display. Brock’s touch is everywhere, from the live-edge tables to the intricate shelving units. It’s warm and inviting, just like him.
I arrive early to set up the dessert table, wanting everything to be perfect for his big event. I arrange the cupcakes, lemon bars, and cookies with precision, making sure everything looks just right.
But as I step back to admire my work, something—or rather, someone —catches my eye.
She’s tall and thin, with sleek blonde hair that falls perfectly around her shoulders, and she’s wearing a dress that probably cost more than my monthly rent. She’s standing close to Brock, her hand resting lightly on his arm as she talks to him, laughing at something he says.
I don’t like it. Not one bit.
The way she looks at him—like he belongs to her. The way she tilts her head and touches his arm, leaning just a little too close.
My stomach twists as I stand frozen, unsure whether to interrupt or stay out of it. Before I can decide, the woman notices me staring. Her bright blue eyes narrow slightly, and she straightens, walking toward me with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Hi,” she says, her tone polite but sharp. “Who are you?”
I blink, scrambling for words. “I’m Willow. I’m just here to set up the desserts for the event.”
Her smile sharpens, and she crosses her arms, her gaze appraising me. “Oh. Desserts. How... quaint.”
I bristle at the condescension in her voice but force myself to stay calm. “Who are you?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest.
“Oh, I’m Tessa,” she says, her smile turning smug. “You know Brock?”
I nod cautiously.
Her eyes light up, and she leans in slightly, her voice dropping to a giddy whisper. “He’s my ex. He invited me here today, told me it was important I was here for his big day. I think he wants us to get back together.”
The words hit me like a punch to the stomach. I stare at her, my mind racing, my heart sinking. What? “Oh,” I manage, my voice tight.
Tessa doesn’t seem to notice—or care—that I’m standing there like someone just pulled the rug out from under me. She glances back at Brock, her expression smug. “It’s just like him to plan something big like this to make a statement. He was always so thoughtful.”
I swallow hard, forcing myself to keep my expression neutral. “Right. Well, I should get back to work.”
Before she can say anything else, I turn back to the dessert table, my heart pounding in my chest.
Brock invited her? And she thinks he wants her back?
I don’t know what to believe, but one thing’s for sure—this day just got a lot more complicated.