21
F allon’s ringing up a customer when I exit the kitchen, so I hover back and wait until the store clears. Like wildlife, my little sister can be unpredictable when surprised or disturbed.
When she’s done, I hold up a jar of Montana huckleberry jam and ask, “Where does this go? Local goods or bread aisle?”
“Local,” she says, avoiding my gaze. Her discomfort is so obvious it’s painful.
Since our big blow up two weeks ago, we’ve been walking on eggshells. Making polite, stilted conversation. Running The Corner Store in shifts like two divorced parents who meet in the parking garage to trade children.
It’s the way Fallon deals. When she gets mad or sad, she powers down like a robot whose systems are only equipped for wild, never reality. When our mother left, she slept in her closet for two months.
As I move to put away the misplaced item, I graze my belly against the corner of the register. “Oof,” I say, clutching my stomach. My baby rolls inside and I smile. I’m getting used to the tiny squish inside of me. We’re in it together.
“You’re bigger,” Fallon says, coming up beside me.
“Tell me about it.” I huff a lock of hair out of my eyes. “I’m either bumping into everything with my cast or with my belly.”
She gives me her classic droll side-eye. “How long are you planning to keep it a secret?”
“How long do you think I have in this town?”
She snorts. “A month tops.” Her left eyebrow lifts. “Won’t be able to hide it forever.”
“I know,” I reply, stroking a hand over my bump.
I’m sick of hiding. My pregnancy. My heart. My dreams.
If Aiden’s out there, he better hurry it up.
A smile ghosts Fallon’s face. “Or you could just do what I did with my boobs in seventh grade and tape them down.”
I bark a laugh. “Somehow, I don’t think it works that way.”
Fallon’s lips press tight as she scans the store. “Fuck it,” she says and moves to the door. She flips the sign to closed. It’s just after five. “No one’s gonna come, anyway.”
She stares out into the lavender light of the late afternoon at Davis’s truck and taps the glass. “You and Hotshot stop dancing around it?”
My face flushes with heat. An image forms in my mind of Davis kissing me under white moonlight before taking me upstairs to fuck me senseless.
I squeeze my thighs together to drive the image away. “There’s no dancing,” I say. The words stick in my throat. “In fact, we have a moratorium on dancing.”
“Okay, then.” Fallon’s doubtful eyes flicker to me. “You’re not that good of a liar, Dakota.” After a second, she crosses the floor and disappears into the kitchen.
My gaze lands on Davis’s pickup truck.
Friends , Davis said. And maybe that’s the truth.
Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I’m pregnant and horny. And Davis doing sweet things, like buckling my seatbelt over my belly when he drives us into town, sends my hormones into meltdown status.
Maybe all I’ve done is pin my loneliness onto Davis. It’s not love, but sympathy. Friends . Friends fucking.
Maybe all it can be is temporary. And maybe I need that. To know there is someone else out there who isn’t Aiden.
A good man.
The best man I’ve ever known.
Brawn and beast. Cowboy and cool. Whiskey and warrior.
The kind of man who makes you feel like the most important, loved, luckiest, and beautiful woman in the universe.
With Davis, I trust him with every inch of myself. I always have.
A part of me doesn’t care if it’s right or wrong. Doesn’t want to understand or fight it.
Because the truth is, I still love him. I’ve never stopped.
I thought being back here would make me realize we weren’t meant to be.
We changed; we grew apart. That the time we spent together over a year was fleeting, a flash in the pan fling.
But the same old feelings still exist for me.
He’s the same man I loved back then. And it hurts.
He’s so close, but so far out of reach. For so many reasons.
I need to keep my life easy with simple, attainable things. A man? No. An apartment? Definitely.
Besides, I can’t ask a man like Davis Montgomery to take on a hot mess like me, a child that isn’t his. I can’t put that on him. Who’s to say he even wants that?
All I’m taking is his time.
We’ll do whatever we do, and I’ll be content with that.
For once in my life, I need to sidestep the chaos. For so long, every aspect of my life with Aiden was bedlam. Like a raging static that never shut off in my head. Here, in Resurrection, on Runaway Ranch, I will be in the moment. And, more importantly, I will be safe.
A large crash sounds from the kitchen, and Fallon lets out a string of blazing curses.
On a sigh, I turn and join her.
Inside, my sister kneels amid scattered baking trays, pie tins, and loaf pans. All of which have seen better days. The kitchen looks like it’s stuck in 1989. Chaos on multiple fronts—cramped cupboards and never enough counter space.
It has me missing Milk & Honey’s sleek kitchen with its gorgeous wood-topped island and kitchen goods like candy molds and egg beaters. A calm, creative space.
Everything The Corner Store isn’t. This place needs new appliances and a streamlined work system. My eyes rove, and I frown at the boxes of cigarettes sitting next to the rising bread dough. A container of fishing lures perches next to a slow-cooker of pastrami.
There’s a clang as Fallon stacks trays, then shoves them back into a corner cupboard.
I take a step closer to Fallon. “You’re doing too much.”
She looks up. Scowls. “Do you need something? Other than to boss me around like old times?”
“That wasn’t bossing. That was big sistering.” I walk around the kitchen space, glance at the recipe board with five lunch specials. “You’re doing too much here at the store. You cook, you sell food, you sell worms and cigarettes. You need to pick a specialty and stick with it.”
Fallon’s fierce hazel eyes simmer. “I guess that’s something you’d know about.”
“I would.” A flare of excitement soars through my chest. The itch to plan claws beneath my skin. “What’s your best seller?”
“All-day pastrami. You know that.”
“And? You had breakfast.” When I started working here, Fallon stopped serving breakfast. At least five locals a day stop in to ask if it’s back on the menu.
She avoids my gaze, her cheeks pink. “It does okay. Better since the bakery went out of business.”
“Freezer check,” I tell her, wiggling my brows. “Let’s see what you’re hoarding back here.”
“No!” Fallon says, pushing back from the counter. Even though she’s fast, I see she’s limping. “It’s a kitchen, Dakota. Of course, we have tons of old shit.”
“What happened to your leg?” I ask.
She juts her chin and hurries past me. “Practice.”
“With Wyatt?”
Crossing her arms, she sticks her lithe frame in front of the freezer. “Mind your business.”
I bump, more like bulldoze her out of the way with my belly. “Move,” I order, grabbing the freezer latch and lifting it up. A blast of light and cold air hits me in the face.
“Dakota! Stop!”
“Let’s see…ice, ice and more ice.” I move aside a pack of frozen peas. “Spaghetti sauce. Bait?” I arch a brow. “Tell me you don’t keep Dad’s minnows in here.” Groaning, I lean down to move a big brick of ice.
She lunges for the freezer, but I’m the older sister and I win, elbowing her back.
“Personal space,” she growls, her shoulders tensing, her fists pulled tight.
“Don’t make me kick you in the kneecaps,” I say as I scrape back the frost on a baking tray.
“That was fifth grade, and you played dirty,” she hisses.
“Yeah, and those were my jeans you—Oh my god.” Slowly, my head swivels to where Fallon hangs back against the counter, arms crossed, face flaming. “My cinnamon rolls.”
I lift the tray and wipe off the lid. I can see swirls of huckleberry and lemon in the frosting. It’s my recipe.
Tears spring to my eyes. They’re just cinnamon rolls and yet…
They’re everything.
Fallon hates baking. My sister would rather chew a bowl of cardboard and milk than attempt domesticity.
“Damn it, Dakota. Don’t cry,” she orders, eyes darting to my belly.
“You made them,” I choke out.
Fallon looks like she wants to light me on fire. “Yeah, well,” she says with a hitch of her shoulders. “We needed a recipe for breakfast, so I used yours. Sue me.”
“But I never gave you that.”
“I found it in the fall issue of Food & Wine ,” she grudgingly admits.
I remember that interview. It was a year before I met Aiden.
I was in Paris at a minimalist patisserie that served molten hot chocolate with decadently fluffy whipped cream.
I had talked about my new bakery, why croissants are overrated, and the sweet simplicity of the honeybun.
But what I left out of that interview was Resurrection.
Thinking back, I credited my culinary school mentor for my success. But not my little sister for always taste testing all my creations—good or bad. Or my father for giving me the kitchen every Sunday and letting me thrash it with flour and frosting.
Maybe all along I’ve been wrong. Leaving my past behind, when it was my past that made me.
“I want to try one,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes. “Dakota.”
“C’mon.” I move over and preheat the oven. “We’ll let the dough defrost while we clean up.”
And that’s what we do while we wait for them to bake.
We scrape dirty dishes into sudsy hot water, load silverware and coffee mugs into the dishwasher, and wipe down the counters.
I relabel the clear storage containers with neat handwriting, then watch as Fallon, grumbling, pulls the tray of freshly baked cinnamon rolls from the oven.
I sit on a stool while Fallon slathers on the huckleberry frosting like she’s carving up a dead body.
She all but throws the plate at me. “Here. Enjoy,” she says, her upper lip curling in displeasure. “Or bon appétit .”
Eyes locked on her face, I break off a piece of cinnamon roll and pop it in my mouth. Slowly, I chew, savoring the doughy texture, the sweet frosting.
I swallow and say, “It’s good.”