9. Chapter 9
Phoenix
Given that I’m staying in a rental house on the quiet end of Maple Street and exactly three people in town have my address, I’m hoping for good news.
I stumble out of bed in boxer shorts, pull on sweatpants, and pad barefoot to the door. Through the peephole, I catch sight of a familiar silhouette clutching a cake container like it’s a life raft.
Gigi.
When I open the door, she’s standing there wild-eyed, flour on her jeans, strands of hair escaping her ponytail like they’re trying to make a run for it.
“Did I wake you?” she blurts, then immediately waves herself off. “Of course I did. Normal people sleep at this hour. I should go—”
“Gigi.” I step aside. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.” She thrusts the plate toward me like it’s a peace offering—or maybe a shield. “I made cake.”
I peel back the plastic wrap and blink. It’s stunning—pink layers, white frosting, golden caramel drizzled in perfect spirals.
“You brought me a midnight snack?”
“I know. It’s insane. I just…” She gestures helplessly. “You said that thing about Hart Health. About wanting something more. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
“So you made cake?”
“I make cake when I think. It’s a process.” Her voice softens. “That’s Red, White, and You .”
Something warm flickers in my chest.
“The red is strawberry,” she continues, her words speeding up like she’s afraid she won’t get them all out. “Safe. Predictable. The white’s cream cheese frosting—classic. Expected. And the you …” Her cheeks flush. “Salted caramel. It shouldn’t work, but it does. It’s the part that surprises you.”
Oh. The you is me.
“Will you stay?” I ask. “Just for a few minutes?”
She meets my eyes, visibly hesitating—and then nods. “Okay. But only because I want your honest opinion on the flavor profile.”
I lead her into the aggressively quaint kitchen, the one the rental company called “cozy cottage with character.” Gigi eyes the floral wallpaper and abundance of ceramic roosters with a raised brow.
“Interesting decor.”
“They’re going for a look,” I say, grabbing two forks. “I just haven’t figured out what it is yet.”
She slides into a chair at the kitchen table. “The wallpaper is kind of pretty. But the roosters are another story.”
I grin at her. “Shhh. They can hear you.”
I hand her a fork, and we sit next to each other at kitchen table. I cut off a bite, being sure to get a nice cake-to-icing ratio, and pop it into my mouth.
It tastes as good as it looks—sweet strawberry, tangy frosting, and that salty caramel tying everything together.
“This is incredible,” I tell her.
“Not too salty?”
“Nope.” I take another bite. “The caramel is salty, but it cuts the sweetness perfectly. I love it.”
“Sometimes you have to push it to the edge to get the good stuff,” she says quietly.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. It’s the kind of silence that feels like a decision instead of an accident.
Then Gigi asks, “What made you come to Honeysuckle Ridge?”
My heartrate kicks up a notch. “What do you mean?”
“You still live in Louisville, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Joe and Ella will be returning for training camp in a couple of weeks, right? So, did you really come just to visit them?”
Now’s the time to tell her that her parents asked me to come.
But even that’s not the whole answer.
I chew slowly, considering. “Honestly? I needed to get away. After the Super Bowl, everything got… loud. Press, endorsements, nonstop interviews. I needed to find some peace, you know? And Joe’s always talking about how wonderful Honeysuckle Ridge is.”
“Did you find it? Peace?”
I look at her, really look at her. Her hair’s a mess, she’s got frosting on her shirt, and she’s never looked more beautiful. “I’m getting closer.”
Our eyes meet, and a faint blush creeps up her cheeks.
She looks away, setting her fork down. “It’s late. I should go.”
“You don’t have to.” My voice comes out low. “Unless you want to.”
She rises from the table, and I stand too. “Phoenix…”
“Yes?”
Her eyes flick to mine once more. “You almost kissed me today.”
My breath catches. “Yeah. I did.”
I take a step closer to her, my heart thudding. Her hand brushes my chest, warm against bare skin, and the air between us shifts—charged, magnetic, impossibly still.
I reach up and tuck a loose curl behind her ear. She leans in.
Our lips are so close. One breath. One heartbeat.
Then the grandfather clock in the hallway chimes. Gigi jumps.
“It’s officially midnight,” I say.
“I should—” she starts.
“Right,” I say quickly. “Of course.”
I step back, pulse still racing, trying to mask the sudden ache in my chest. I can’t kiss her. Not yet.
Not when I’m still collecting checks from her parents. Not when the face of Hart Health—her personal nemesis—is still technically me .
Am I ready to walk away from all that? To leave it all behind?
I’ve only known Gigi for a few days. It’s crazy to turn my whole life upside down for her. But there’s an ache in my heart that I suddenly feel certain only she can fill.
I don’t deserve her.
Not until I’ve cut ties with her parents, at least.
“Thanks for the cake,” I say, my voice rough.
“I’m glad you liked it.” She’s already moving toward the door. When she reaches it, she pauses. “The Fourth of July parade’s today. If you’re not busy…”
“I’ll be there.”
Her smile brightens just a little. “Good. See you then.”
She drives away, and I stand there in the doorway like an idiot with a fork in my hand and caramel on my tongue, wondering how a strawberry cake and yet another near-kiss has completely knocked the wind out of me.
And wondering what exactly I’m going to do about Gigi Hart.