22. Cami #2
He steps closer. “So, why are you really here?”
I shrug. “I just had an important question to ask you.”
I inwardly groan because that is a terrible excuse that I just threw out there. Now I have to make something up.
He raises his eyebrows. “What’s the question?”
I say the first thing that comes to mind, digging myself in further. “If I killed someone would you tell on me? ”
His body shakes with laughter, and then he looks serious. “Who’d you kill?”
I shrug. “Well no one. Yet. But if I did, what would you do?”
He looks at me and says, “That’s what you came to ask me?”
I look at him and say with all the seriousness that I can muster, “Answer the question, Jessop.”
He grins and leans in and says, “I wouldn’t tell. But I’d use it against you all the time. I’d be like ‘Are you going to come for a ride with me or do I need to make a call to Sheriff Matthews?’”
I shake my head, grinning. “Just as I suspected.”
“I’m going back to my date,” he says, shaking his head, trying not to laugh. “You three try not to get arrested. Again.”
“Have fun on your date,” I call to him cheerfully.
He looks back at me and winks. “Hate you later.”
Freaking winks.
He walks away, glancing back at me, slow, smug, knowing .
“We did not get arrested,” I mutter, annoyed with myself that I let him get under my skin. And I hate how relaxed he looks. "I hate Jack. He's the worst."
“No, you don’t.” Violet grins. “And we got off with a warning. No arrest.”
“The day is still young. We could get arrested,” Poppy offers.
But it's Jenna that catches my attention when she turns back to us from talking to her assistant. "I have an idea."
I groan. "No, Jenna."
She nods and smiles. "Just wait and see..."
I didn’t come to the lodge to rage bake.Okay, not entirely.
The double oven at the Jessop Lodge is amazing.
The kitchen has way more counter space than the kitchen at the Wilder Ranch, and I may or may not be hiding from Jack.
I know when he's done for the day, he'll go back to Wilder Ranch, and hopefully he won't think to look for me here at the lodge. Plus, I’ve had one of those shitty embarrass yourself in front of Jack kind of evenings, and nothing soothes the soul like chocolate and butter.
So yeah. Maybe this is a little in my feelings kind of baking. But mostly it’s... therapy. With extra chocolate chips.
I’m rolling out pans of cookie dough when the side door creaks open, and two familiar figures wander in like they just smelled dessert through the walls.
“Please tell me those are for public consumption,” Weston says with pleading eyes.
“If by public, you mean you guys, then yes,” I say, scooping out the dough and plopping it on the tray like it did me dirty.
Tucker whistles low and leans against the fridge. “Man, when Jack said this oven was getting used more lately, I didn’t realize it was for... emotional damage control.”
I hold up a dough-covered spoon. “Mock me, and you get nothing.”
Weston grabs a stool and pulls it up to the island. “I’m not mocking. I’m supporting. There’s a difference.”
They watch me work like they’re in the front row at a baking-themed contest.
“You want to test the first batch?” I ask.
Weston practically moans. “That’s the best sentence I’ve heard all week.”
Tucker nods solemnly. “Might propose.”
The kitchen is warm, golden, and full of cookie-scented comfort.
I laugh and slide the tray into the oven.
I’ve always loved spending time with Tucker and Weston.
Honestly, the grown-up versions of the Jessop boys aren’t bad company, surprisingly sweet for grown men who survived growing up with their dad.
They’re like brothers to me, and I’ve really enjoyed spending time with them.
I’m going to miss them when the show is over.
Tucker takes a bite of a test cookie and groans. “This tastes like comfort and childhood. Tessa used to make us cookies like this.”
“Can confirm,” Weston agrees. “If Jack doesn’t marry you, I might.”
I snort. “Wow. You know how to make a girl feel special.”
“We’re just saying,” Tucker adds, “Jack’s an idiot if he doesn’t see what’s right in front of him.”
“I’m literally covered in flour and butter. Your brother is on a date and has no interest in me.”
Weston smirks at Tucker. “Exactly his type.”
Before I can respond, the back door creaks open again, and speak of the devil himself, in strolls Jack.
Hair mussed from the wind, sleeves still rolled up, that permanent what now? look on his face.
He stops in the doorway, eyebrows raised, looking surprised to see me. “What are you doing here?”
I don't even flinch. I just smile too sweetly and say, “How was your date?”
Tucker coughs into his cookie.
Weston stands up so fast he nearly knocks over his stool. “And that’s our cue to head out.”
“Yep,” Tucker says, already backing toward the door with both hands up. “We’re gonna… go check on cows. Or something.”
“Bring a flashlight,” I offer.
“Have fun,” Weston calls, dragging his brother out by the collar, but not before Tucker reaches over and swipes two more cookies off the tray like it’s a hostage negotiation .
“I’m emotionally eating!” Tucker shouts as the door swings shut behind them.
The kitchen door swings shut behind them.
Jack stays where he is for a beat, watching me like he can't quite figure out if he's mad or amused or something in between that I can't read.
“I came for the oven,” I say flatly, scooping more dough with extra aggression. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to, like, sabotage you finding your wife or whatever.”
He walks slowly toward the counter. “Didn’t say you would.”
“Bet you thought it.”
He leans against the island across from me. “You seem mad.”
I smile. “Mad? Me? Noooo. Why would I be mad?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe because you stalked my date, got caught, and then came here to bake out your rage.”
I go back to scooping out dough. “Anyway, don’t worry about me. I’m not your problem.”
He’s quiet for a moment. And then he says, soft but sharp, “You said something the other night.”
I stiffen. “I say a lot of things.”
“You said I definitely wasn’t going to hate fuck you.”
I freeze. Suddenly it feels like it’s a hundred degrees in here.
“You do say a lot of things,” he continues, voice lower and closer now. “But I heard that. Real clear.”
I turn slowly, still dusted in flour, holding a metal scoop like a weapon.
“Okay. And?”
He steps around the counter,getting even closer. I back into the floured counter instinctively.
Big mistake.He boxes me in with both hands, palms flat on the table behind me, trapping me. My heart kicks into overdrive.
“I wasn’t rejecting you,” he says, quietly.
“Oh?”
“I was imagining it. ”
I swallow hard.He leans in, close enough to whisper in my ear. “And I need you to understand something real clear, Wilder…”
My voice shakes. “W...what?”
“When I fuck you? And it’s when . Not if . It’s not going to be because I hate you.”
I stare at him, swallowing the lump in my throat, my brain glitching, forgetting to breathe.
“But if you keep showing up everywhere and driving me crazy? I'm liable to forget my good intentions and act on the bad ones."
My breath hitches. “What are the bad ones?”
He grins. “You don’t want to know.”
My knees nearly give out. Because I do. I really, really do.
And then he leans forward, his hand reaching across the counter as he picks up a cookie and takes a bite, looking me right in the eye as he does it.
I stare up at him, speechless.
“You gonna finish these cookies?” he asks, voice infuriatingly casual.
I blink. “What?”
“The cookies?”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.”
"I'm going to go home and try to score some hot water before you do. I might even take care of myself and think about you while I'm at it," he smirks, throwing back in my face how I gave him hell and told him I took care of myself and thought about him.
He smirks and walks out, leaving a trail of smoldering destruction in his wake.
I stare after him.And then I mutter, to no one in particular, “This man is going to make me lose my mind.”