Chapter 1 #3
She eyed the glass showcase with the mouthwatering pastries and felt the familiar frustration rise up. She had the gift. That’s what Aunt Rose used to say during those long-ago summer visits.
“You’ve got the gift, Liza girl. Just like me. These hands were meant to create.”
And it was true. Liza could taste a dish and identify every ingredient. Could look at a recipe and know instinctively what would make it better. Her hands seemed to know things her brain didn’t when it came to dough and sugar and heat.
For a woman who’d gone skydiving in New Zealand and rock climbing in Peru, who’d run a marathon and learned to surf, being a baking prodigy felt like a cruel joke.
“I am not getting trapped in this one-horse town,” she said out loud. “I’m selling this place and getting out. I’ve got a life to live.”
Even if she had no idea what that life looked like anymore.
New York was behind her. Had to be. After Richard and the affair and the spectacular implosion of everything she’d thought was her future, she’d needed distance. Three thousand miles of distance.
Driving his Mercedes through his bedroom window probably hadn’t been her finest moment.
Though watching his face when she’d told the police her foot had slipped—that had been pretty satisfying.
And when his lawyer had seen the photos she had of Richard and his girlfriend (who happened to be married to a very high-profile politician), suddenly all the criminal charges had disappeared like magic.
Rich people hated scandals.
So she’d kept the BMW he’d given her, packed her life into three suitcases, and driven west. When the lawyer’s call came about Aunt Rose’s will, Los Angeles had seemed like the right next destination. Warm. Anonymous. Far away from everything.
Laurel Valley was just a pit stop. Settle the estate. Sell the bakery. Move on.
That was the plan.
So why did it feel hollow?
Those summer visits felt like a lifetime ago. Her parents driving down from Vancouver for two weeks every July. Aunt Rose teaching her to bake. The stories about each recipe—whose grandmother had perfected it, which neighbor had shared the secret, how everything made with love tasted better.
The visits had stopped after her parents’ divorce. Just one more casualty of a family that couldn’t hold itself together.
But Aunt Rose had remembered. Had left Liza everything. The bakery. The apartment upstairs. The recipes written in faded ink on index cards.
The weight of expectation.
Movement outside the window caught her eye.
Two men walking down the cobblestone street toward the bakery.
Liza’s heart stuttered.
Blaze O’Hara she recognized. Hard not to in a town where the O’Hara family had been the foundation for generations.
Tall, dark haired, with eyes that could make a woman melt and the kind of presence that commanded attention.
The sheriff’s badge on his chest suited him, though she’d heard stories about his wilder days.
But it was the man beside him who made her forget to breathe.
Tall—easily six four or more. Broad shoulders that filled out his jacket in a way that suggested serious muscle underneath.
Light brown hair that needed a cut, falling into dark eyes that swept the street with the kind of awareness that spoke of training.
The scruff on his jaw said he hadn’t shaved in days, and the way he moved—controlled, purposeful, dangerous—sent heat flooding through her.
“Well, hello, cowboy,” she purred under her breath.
She hadn’t felt this spark since before Richard. Since before she’d learned that attraction was a trap and men were experts at lying.
But looking at this man, she wanted to believe in sparks again.
Liza hurried to shove the remaining boxes behind the counter and ran her fingers through her hair, trying for artfully tousled instead of windswept disaster.
The bell jangled as they entered, bringing cold wind and the scent of pine.
“Hell-o,” she said, barely a whisper.
But the stranger’s mouth curved, and she knew he’d heard her.
His eyes met hers, and the world narrowed to just the two of them. Dark brown eyes that held intelligence and something harder. Pain, maybe. Or anger. Something that said this man had seen things, done things, survived things that left marks.
The scar along his jaw only made him more compelling.
“Hey there,” she said, leaning against the counter. “What can I do for you?”
“A loaded question if I’ve ever heard one,” he said, his voice like whiskey and gravel.
Heat pooled low in her belly. Oh, this was dangerous.
“Oh, for the love of—” Blaze interrupted. “I want a bear claw and a fresh cup of coffee. You make it better than what I can manage at the office.”
“You got it, Sheriff.” But Liza’s eyes never left the stranger as she moved to pour coffee and grab a pastry.
“What about you, cowboy? What do you want?”
His gaze traveled over her slowly, deliberately. “I don’t think you serve it here. And I’ve decided to swear off pastries.”
Blaze snorted, but Liza ignored him. She could feel the electricity crackling between them, the kind of chemistry that made smart women do stupid things.
“That’s a shame,” she said. “I don’t think you’ve ever tasted one of my pastries. They’ll melt in your mouth.”
His eyes darkened. “How can I resist such a temptation?”
“Oh, I’m sure you could manage if you put your mind to it.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“I’m standing right here,” Blaze said, grabbing his coffee and bear claw. “Just waiting. Don’t mind me.”
“I never do,” the stranger said, but his gaze stayed locked on Liza.
She put one of her specialty eclairs in a bag and passed it to him, along with a cup of coffee.
What was she doing? She should stop this. Should remember that she was leaving, that getting involved was the last thing she needed. But looking at him, she wanted to forget every lesson she’d learned.
“You’re not from around here,” she said.
He shrugged and pulled out his wallet. “Neither are you.”
“Canadian.” She reached for the money and their fingers brushed. The contact sent electricity straight through her. “I spent my summers here as a kid. Though I’ve been in New York the past couple years.”
“That’ll do it.” He didn’t pull his hand away. “I enjoy a woman with an attitude.”
“Lucky you. My attitude is pretty much like this all the time. I’ve got it on good authority that I’m a real pain.”
“Good grief,” Blaze muttered, heading for the door. “I’ll be outside.”
Neither of them looked at him.
“You have a name?” Liza asked.
“Grant Boone.” His voice wrapped around her like smoke. “Detroit. Though I spent my summers here as a kid too.”
She nodded slowly. “I figured somewhere Midwest. You’ve got that no-nonsense thing going on.”
“And you’ve got that trouble thing going on.”
“So I’ve been told. What brings you to Laurel Valley? Visiting?”
His expression shuttered. “Something like that. Figuring out what’s next.”
“Sounds familiar.” She leaned forward. “Maybe you could tell me about it over dinner.”
His eyes sparked with surprise and heat. “Are you asking me out?”
“Maybe I am.”
The dimple that appeared in his cheek should have been illegal. “Then yes—”
The roar of a motorcycle engine cut through the morning air, growing rapidly louder. Grant’s head snapped toward the sound—too fast, too close, wrong—
The world exploded.