22
A bowl, a bag of flour. I stand at the kitchen lodge counter, searching my body for the thrill that comes from the chase—the knowledge that my hands will soon create something beautiful.
Pastry chef. I am a pastry chef in the deepest part of my heart.
It’s easy to find. It’s in my heart. The flex of my fingers. The breath long held that finally comes in an exhale.
Fallon’s words from last week have woven through me like a siren song. I dream about them. I wake up to them.
Now, it’s time to test them.
I have to bake my little heart out.
The oven chimes in the background. It’s ready for me. Rock and roll pulses on the Sonos speaker. Aerosmith, the Rolling Stones. None of Aiden’s aggressive metal music.
“You ready?” I ask the big, beautiful kitchen. “Because I am.”
I slide the scissors to open the bag of flour. Dip in a measuring cup. Then baking soda. Cocoa powder.
The movements are stiff one-handed, but they’re no longer buried. They are not just motions; they are my heart. And I know them. The recipes spill out, some old, some new, as I flawlessly bake the day away.
Slow but steady. That is the name of my game.
I press a finger down, testing a tray of peppermint bark. The kitchen fills with the sounds of simmering caramel sauce, the soft sighs of cinnamon roll dough. I take a bite of strawberry jam that has me groaning, has the squish in my belly kicking with delight.
I hold my belly and laugh.
Joy.
That’s the word for it.
I feel joy.
Fucking finally.
My breath catches and releases. The color in the bowl is bright yellow.
A rope-the-moon color.
An always and forever hope.
As I bake, I picture the Corner Store. What it is and what it could be.
Yes, I lost my bakery, but I didn’t lose myself. That girl, that woman, that baker, is still in there. She’s deep in my blood, edging out fear, the pain in my arm.
I’m pulling a tray of goodies from the oven when I catch sight of Davis coming through the doorway in full MONSAR gear.
He’s been out on a call to assist in the search for hikers who went missing near Elk Lake.
His navy T-shirt is stretched tight over his biceps, and I want to ingrain the heart-thumping sight to memory.
His heavy gaze scans the kitchen, then looks at me, not bothering to hide his surprise. “You’re baking.”
His rough voice has my stomach doing a full-on swoop.
“I am.” I set the cupcakes on the counter. “I need practice before I make Ruby her cake. I’m rusty.”
He rubs his palm across his jaw. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I want her to have the best cake she’s ever had.”
“It’s just a cake.”
I wag my finger at him. “No, Davis Montgomery. It’s never just a cake. It is a bucket list cake.” I give him a knowing look. “It’s a cake for the girl your brother loves.”
His eyes soften. “You want me to leave? Give you some space?”
I smile. This is Davis. Always here, asking me what I need. A safe, constant presence I can count on.
My brow creases in thought and I tip my head. “Will you help me?”
“What’re we making?”
“Cupcakes. We can frost together. I need another hand.”
He stands beside me, settling back on his boots to watch as I scrape the frosting out of the bowl and into piping bags.
I hand one over. “You squeeze the bag and I’ll pipe.”
“Fuck,” he whispers as one big hand slips, squeezing a ridiculous amount of frosting onto the cupcake.
I laugh. It’s funny watching this stoic, strong man do soft things like frost a cupcake. But I like it.
“It’s okay. Slower,” I instruct. My fingers curl around his. Familiar, steady comfort. Then, with deft strokes, I show him how to pipe a floret.
“Got it.” Davis leans in, and his scent fire and spice, the nearness of him towering over me, has my stomach warming.
“You’re a natural.”
He chuckles. His big hands dwarf the cupcake. “I don’t know about that.”
We lapse into silence, the soft dabs of the frosting and the turn of the plate the only sounds between us. Our movements are easy and sure. When we’ve finished piping the silky frosting into dreamy buttercream rosettes, I walk around the island, surveying the cupcake with a sniper’s eye.
“Final touches,” I tell Davis who’s watching me.
The music switches over to AC/DC.
His mouth hitches up in a grin as he stares down at our creation. “What kind is it?”
“It’s the Cowboy Cupcake.” Pursing my lips, I squint, then pluck a pecan from a nearby bag. I add it to the top of the buttercream for a finishing touch. “It’s an ode to the cookies we used to sell at The Corner Store. Loaded to the max with chocolate chips, coconut, and pecans.”
Davis crosses his arms. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you bake before. I didn’t know your tongue does this little thing…” He sweeps a thumb over my bottom lip, his eyes narrowing on my mouth. “You quirk.”
I arch a brow. “You looking at my lips, Hotshot?”
“Among other things,” he grunts.
I laugh and take a stack of dishes to the sink. “Well, let me tell you. There are many things you don’t know about me,” I tease.
His golden-brown eyes dance in amusement. “Such as?”
“The first time I saw your ass in a pair of Wranglers, I had to take a moment and fan myself.” His gaze turns dark as I lick the spoon and drop it in the sink.
“I believe in aliens,” I say and he groans, breaking into a boom of laughter that has me smiling.
“And,” I palm his brick-like chest, look up into his eyes. “I made these cupcakes for you.”
The muscles in his throat work. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a cupcake.”
I pick up the platter, lift it with fanfare. “I know you don’t eat sweets, so…if you don’t want them, I can give them to your brothers.”
He puts a hand on mine and stops me before I can set down the platter. “I eat your sweets.” His reply is curt, raspy. His nostrils flare and my heart speeds up. “I don’t share you, Koty. Not with anyone.”
His low, possessive rumble curls my stomach.
Davis picks up a cupcake with a delicate clumsiness. With his eyes locked on me, he eats the whole damn thing. He chews thoughtfully, like he wants me to see what it means to him. When he’s finished, he lets out a moan. “Best damn thing I’ve ever had.”
A happy laugh sputters out of me. “I knew you secretly like my cupcakes.” I poke him in the chest. My hand drifts up to his mouth. “And… you are messy,” I say, wiping a crumb from his lips.
“Dakota.”
His voice is rough as he stares at me, that hard jaw of his working over and over, and then he yanks me into him, his mouth finding mine in a hungry, desperate kiss.
I lose myself in the moment, in this man. Every question about what we are melts out of my mind. His kiss burns like high-proof whiskey, caramel and spice, and my entire body shivers.
“Goddammit, I can’t stay away from you, woman,” he husks, his hands tangling in my hair before they cup my face.
“So don’t,” I breathe, pulling back from him. “I’m here. You’re here. We both like it. Let’s just…be friends .”
He growls and nips at my lips as if what I’ve said displeases him.
The place between my legs ache and I step forward into Davis’s arms, shifting my hips against him. “Let’s be us from back then. Just for a little while.” His eyes are dark as they scan my face. “It felt good. It felt right.”
“Too goddamn right,” he says on a deep groan.He drops his forehead to mine. Then, with one quick move, he spins me around and presses me up against the island.
My self-respect, my determination to figure out what we are, takes a back seat the minute Davis spreads his palms over my hips and whispers in my ear, “Hands on the counter, Cupcake.”
“Oh,” I breathe, eyes wide.
His long fingers dip to tease at my waistband before they disappear inside the front of my leggings.
I’m panting now, my good hand curled to a fist.
Two of Davis’s clever fingers dip into me. Warm mouth on my neck, he groans. “Look how fucking gorgeous you are dripping your need for me.”
My breath catches at his words. At the smooth rhythm he creates with his fingers. The gentle thrust and roll has me following it with my hips. His touch reminds me I deserve the brightest light of happiness. Everything good and safe and healthy.
Davis presses himself so tight against me I feel his hardness. His breath tickles my ear as he breathes, “Spread your legs, Dakota.”
Like it’s a natural, gravitational pull, Davis’s free hand moves to my belly. My skin ripples and I hitch a breath. Davis’s fingers fan out like he’s trying to capture the last of the movement before he unzips his jeans. I swivel my hips, urging him along. So needy, so desperate for this man.
As I glance over the kitchen, a laugh bubbles up inside me. Dirty dishes forgotten. Frosting smeared across the counter.
I moan and cover my face. “I’ll never be able to bake cupcakes without thinking of you,” I say, my body pressed down so low I can smell fresh lemon and thyme.
“I know it,” he rumbles in my ear. “I want you to fucking remember that, Cupcake.”
With that, Davis slips into me.
And everything falls away.
We’re those kids from what seems like a lifetime ago. Fucking in the cabin, screwing around under the entire town’s noses, me thinking he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.
And just like I did back then, I go with the flow.
At least until this baby is born.
Until Davis Montgomery breaks my heart all over again.