Chapter six
Luke
I give her space the way a man gives a wildfire room to breathe—carefully, respectfully, and with one eye on the flames.
For two days I keep my hands to myself in public.
I flirt in small doses. A wink across the breakfast table, a brush of fingers when I hand her coffee, a low “mornin’, Boss Lady” that makes her cheeks go pink every damn time.
I haul boxes, hang lights, and shovel snow until my shoulders ache, anything to keep from dragging her into the nearest dark corner and reminding her exactly how good we are together.
She’s a whirlwind with her clipboard in one hand, phone in the other, barking orders like a five-star general. But I see the cracks. I see the way she rubs her temples when she thinks no one’s looking, the way she stares at the ruined cake photo on her phone like it personally betrayed her.
The cake.
Yesterday the backup generator in the walk-in freezer hiccupped during a power surge. Twelve hours later, Frankie’s dream wedding cake with three tiers of vanilla bean cake, a champagne soak, and edible gold leaf was a mess of buttercream and crumbs.
Holly stood in the kitchen at 2 a.m., staring at the mess like it was a corpse. I found her there, still in her boots, hair escaping its knot, eyes glassy.
“We can fix it,” I said.
She laughed, bitter and broken. “With what? Magic?”
“With Grandma’s recipe and every egg on this ranch.”
She looked at me then, really looked, and something shifted.
Now it’s day four of wedding week, and the kitchen smells like cake. Grandma’s at the stove, Holly’s elbow-deep in flour, and I’m on egg-cracking duty because apparently I have “strong hands.”
Holly’s in one of my flannels again over her tank top. Her clothes were wedding appropriate, not ranch appropriate. She has the sleeves rolled, the hem brushes her thighs, and every time she reaches for a measuring cup I get a flash of skin that short-circuits my brain.
We’ve been at it since dawn. Three practice cakes are cooling on racks. The fourth, the real one, is in the oven, timer ticking down like a bomb.
Holly wipes her forehead with the back of her wrist, leaving a streak of flour. “If this doesn’t work, I’m driving to Bozeman in a blizzard and kidnapping the original baker.”
I crack another egg one-handed, let the yolk slide into the bowl. “You’d make a hell of a hostage negotiator.”
She snorts. “I once talked a groom out of releasing doves indoors. I’ve got skills.”
The timer dings. She freezes. I pull the cake out. It’s golden, level, and perfect. She stares at it like it’s a unicorn.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers.
Grandma claps flour off her hands. “Told you. Carson women don’t fail at cake.”
Holly’s eyes fill. She blinks hard, turns away to hide it.
I set the cake on the rack, wipe my hands on a towel, and crook a finger at her. “Come here.”
She hesitates, then walks over. I pull her into my arms, flour and all, and just hold her. She buries her face in my chest, hands fisting my shirt.
“You did it,” I murmur into her hair.
“We did it,” she corrects, voice muffled.
Grandma slips out quietly, closing the door behind her. We stand there until the cake cools and Holly’s breathing evens out. When she pulls back, her eyes are clear, determined.
“Thank you,” she says. “For everything.” Then she kisses me.
It’s not like the frantic, desperate kiss from the mistletoe. This one is slow, deliberate, like she’s memorizing the shape of my mouth. Her hands slide up my chest, fingers curling into my hair. I let her lead, let her set the pace, even though every cell in my body is screaming to take over.
She tastes like vanilla. I groan into her mouth, hands settling on her hips, thumbs brushing the strip of bare skin where her tank top ends.
She breaks the kiss, rests her forehead against mine. “I’m still scared.”
“I know.”
“But I’m tired of pretending I don’t want this.”
I pull back just enough to see her face. “And what is this, Holly?”
“You,” she says simply. “Me. Whatever this is when it’s not snowed-in and temporary.”
My heart slams against my ribs. “You mean that?”
She nods.
I kiss her again, deeper this time, backing her up until her hips hit the counter. The cake is forgotten. The world narrows to the heat of her mouth, the way she arches into me, the soft little sounds she makes when I nip her bottom lip.
I lift her onto the counter, step between her thighs. The flannel rides higher. She’s wearing tiny shorts underneath. They’re pale blue, and already damp at the crotch.
“Luke,” she breathes, legs wrapping around my waist.
I slide my hands under the shirt, palms skating up her ribs to cup her breasts. No bra. Her nipples are hard against my thumbs. I roll them gently, then harder when she gasps and rocks against me.
“Been dying to get my mouth on these again,” I mutter, pushing the flannel off her shoulders and her tank top up to her neck. Anyone could walk in at any moment and I couldn’t care less.
I close my lips over one nipple, suck hard. She cries out, fingers digging into my shoulders. I switch to the other side, teasing with my tongue until she’s writhing, hips grinding against the bulge in my jeans.
I drop to my knees, yank the shorts down her legs, and spread her wide on the counter. She’s glistening, pink and perfect. I drag my tongue through her folds in one slow lick.
“Fuck—Luke—”
I do it again, then circle her clit with the flat of my tongue. She’s already close, I can feel it in the way her thighs tremble. I slide two fingers inside her, curl them, and suck her clit hard.
She comes with a sharp cry, back bowing, hands fisted in my hair. I keep going, licking her through it until she’s pushing at my head.
I stand, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and kiss her so she can taste herself. She moans into my mouth, fingers fumbling with my belt.
“Bedroom,” I growl. “Now.”
I carry her down the hall to the room I use when I stay here in the main house, her legs locked around my waist, mouths fused. We don’t make it to the bed.
I pin her against the wall, yank my jeans open, and roll on a condom with shaking hands. She’s clawing at my shirt, trying to get it off. I rip it over my head, then lift her higher, lining up.
“Look at me,” I say.
She does, eyes dark and dazed.
I thrust in to the hilt.
We both groan. She’s tight, hot, clenching around me like she was made for this. I pull back, slam in again, setting a slow, deep rhythm that has her head thumping against the wall.
“Harder,” she pants.
I give it to her, hard, fast, relentless. The hallway echoes with the slap of skin, her moans, my curses. I hook one of her legs over my arm, opening her wider, hitting deeper.
She comes again, nails raking down my back, and I follow her over, burying my face in her neck and coming so hard I see stars.
We slide down the wall in a tangle of limbs, breathing ragged. I’m still inside her, softening slowly. She’s trembling, clinging to me.
I kiss her temple, her cheek, her mouth. “You okay?”
She laughs, shaky and stunned. “I think you broke me.”
“Good broken?”
“The best.”
I carry her to the bed, lay her down gently, and clean us both up with a warm cloth. When I crawl in beside her, she curls into my chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Luke,” she whispers into the dark.
“Yeah?”
“Please don’t break my heart.”
I tighten my arm around her, press a kiss to her hair. “Never.”