14. Cami #2
I flip another tray onto the counter and start humming along to the song blasting through my speaker. It’s a heartbreak ballad, ironic, really, but I don’t care. I sing loudly, off-key, fully committing to my little kitchen concert.
Spinning around, I toss my braid over my shoulder and catch my reflection in the oven door.
I look ridiculous .
There’s flour smudged across my cheek, my braid’s coming undone, and my apron is covered in baking ingredients.
I shrug. Could be worse. Then I feel it. A shift in the air. A presence. The one that has always stopped me in my tracks when I've felt it. I freeze. Slowly, I turn, and there he is. Jack, leaning against the door frame, looking like he’d been there long enough to enjoy the show.
He’s got a cookie in his hand, one of my cookies , and he’s taking a slow, deliberate bite, chewing like he owns the place. My heart skips a beat when I see him, and heat rushes to my face, feeling oddly comforted by his presence.
I cross my arms. “Here for a property inspection? ”
Jack smirks, slow and lazy, and my stomach does an unapproved somersault. “Nah. Just coming home."
I scoff. “Oh, so is this about rent? How official of you.” I gesture to my kitchen, admittedly, a disaster zone of flour, sugar, and cooling racks. “Welcome to my humble bakery. You like what I’ve done with the place?”
Jack’s gaze drifts across the chaos, then back to me. He pops the rest of the cookie into his mouth, chews, and swipes another one off a tray right in front of me.
I gape at him. “Excuse you.”
He lifts a shoulder, biting into the second one like a damn thief. “I can be paid in cookies.”
My eye twitches. “Oh, how generous of you. How much is rent?”
Jack hums like he’s thinking real hard. “Actually… I think these might cover rent.”
“Oh, well then,” I snatch a tray of hand pies from the counter, holding it up. “What’s this worth?”
Jack steps closer, his eyes too warm, too knowing, and I hate the way my stomach reacts like it’s still stuck in the barn, still remembering the way he held me last night.
“I dunno,” he murmurs, reaching out?—
And swiping a bit of flour from my cheek.
His fingers linger for half a second, and my brain short-circuits.
I swallow, suddenly too aware of how close we are. Of how it’s just me and him, standing in the middle of my wrecked kitchen, with nothing but a tray of cookies and some unresolved tension between us.
I clear my throat. “You really came in here just to steal my cookies?”
Jack’s smirk deepens. “Not stealing.”
“Oh, you’re sampling? ”
“More like,” he leans in, voice lower, rougher, “hiding out from the craziness over at the ranch.”
Damn him. Damn the way my pulse jumps at the way he looks at me.
I straighten, feigning nonchalance, even as my fingers tighten around the pie tin.
His gaze flicks over me, flour-streaked, messy, barefoot in my own damn kitchen—then back to my face. And he says, real slow, “Just making sure you’re okay.”
Oh.
I lick my lips. “That’s… oddly nice of you.”
Jack smirks, swiping another cookie. “Get used to it.”
I snap out of whatever spells he cast and shove the pie into his hands. “Here. If you’re gonna steal, you might as well take the good stuff.”
Jack chuckles, shaking his head. He turns to leave but pauses at the door, glancing over his shoulder. His voice is soft, but firm. “You look happy.”
And just like that, he’s gone. Or so I think. A second later, I hear a different sound, one that has nothing to do with baking. The faint creak of a saddle. The soft snort of a horse.
I glance toward the front driveway, and sure enough, Mouse is standing there, saddled up like he’s waiting for me, his reins looped over the hitching post, standing next to Jack's horse, Pesto, also saddled up.
Jack stands beside them, eating his pie and watching me like he knows I can’t resist.
I cross my arms. “You saddled up my horse?”
He nods, utterly unconcerned. “Figured you could use a ride.”
I arch a brow. “Bossy much?”
Jack shrugs. “You’ve been holed up in here for hours. Thought I’d pull you out before you start naming your pies. ”
I huff. “I do not —” I pause, then mutter, “Okay, maybe once.”
Jack smirks. “Come on, Wilder. Get some fresh air. Clear your head.”
I glance back at the kitchen. At the cooling racks, the mess, the last tray I just pulled from the oven.
Then back at Jack. Then at Mouse.
I sigh dramatically. “Well… I did just pull my last tray out of the oven.”
Jack grins, and before I can second-guess myself, I untie my apron, wipe my hands on it and toss it onto the counter, and step out into the night air.
Jack swings into his saddle like he was born there, easy and smooth, and I roll my eyes at how unfairly attractive that is. I mount Mouse, settling into the saddle as he shifts beneath me.
He snorts happily as she stands next to Pesto.
Jack studies me in the moonlight, that same unreadable expression flickering across his face. “Ready?”
I nod. “Lead the way, Jessop.”
And with that, we take off into the quiet night, leaving the warmth of the kitchen behind, the scent of cinnamon and sugar trailing in the cool evening air.
As we ride side by side under the moonlit sky, I tell myself this isn’t a thing . It’s just a ride. Fresh air. A break from the heat of my kitchen. That’s all.
Except… it doesn’t feel like just a ride.
The steady rhythm of Mouse’s hooves echoes in the quiet, Jack and Pesto moving in sync beside us. The world is still, the air cool against my skin, and the only sound, aside from the occasional creak of leather and the soft rustling of grass is my own damn thoughts.
The way Jack saddled Mouse up without asking, like he just knew I needed this. Like he knew I wouldn’t step away unless someone made me. Full of the way he looked at me back in the kitchen, soft, full of intent, like I was something worth watching.
Like he was memorizing me. And the worst part? I didn’t hate it. I should, though. I should hate this.
I should still be furious that he bought my ranch, that he’s everywhere I turn, that he came back to Bridger Falls looking too damn good for his own good and especially for mine.
But instead, I feel this. This warm, fluttery, nerve-wracking thing low in my stomach when he glances at me. This stupid little thrill when he rides just a bit closer, like he’s making sure I don’t fall behind.
This quiet, creeping realization that Jack has wedged himself under my skin in a way I never saw coming. And worse? I don’t think I want him to leave.
I know one thing for sure. Things are heating up, and it's not just in my kitchen.