19. Riley
Riley
The kitchen smells like pure happiness right now, which is exactly what I need because my brain keeps trying to spiral into full panic mode every five seconds.
I have flour on my cheek, chocolate on my fingers, and a ridiculous amount of determination in my heart as I stir the cookie dough with way more enthusiasm than necessary.
The wooden spoon scrapes against the big mixing bowl in a satisfying rhythm, the thick dough resisting at first before giving way with a lovely, sticky pull.
The scent of melting butter, brown sugar, and vanilla rises up in sweet, warm waves that wrap around me like a hug from better days.
I add another handful of chocolate chips, watching them disappear into the dough with little plops, and hum an off-key version of an old love song my dad used to play on the radio.
Baking’s always been my happy place. Right now it’s also my very determined attempt to pretend the world outside this cabin is not closing in.
The Moretti family might be out there somewhere, but in here I have chocolate chip cookies, and that feels like a small victory.
I scoop a generous ball of dough onto the baking sheet, pressing it down gently with my fingers.
The dough is cool and soft, yielding perfectly under my touch.
I smile at the little mound like it’s a personal triumph.
“Take that, scary mafia people,” I mutter under my breath, adding another scoop. “You can’t ruin perfect cookies.”
The oven’s already preheated, radiating steady heat that warms the whole kitchen area.
I slide the first tray in, the metal rack making a soft scrape as I push it inside.
The door closes with a satisfying click, and I set the timer, wiping my hands on the oversized apron I fashioned from one of Mason’s dish towels.
Flour dusts the air every time I move, floating in the sunlight coming through the small window like tiny sparkling stars.
The cabin smells like a bakery now, sweet and comforting, and it makes me feel a little lighter.
I’m just starting on a second batch when the front door opens.
Cold air rushes in. Mason steps inside with a pile of wood, his broad shoulders filling the doorway, snow dusting his dark hair and the shoulders of his flannel shirt.
He sets the chopped wood next to the door.
He looks... worried. Something in his expression has gone hard and distant, his eyes darkened in a way that makes my stomach drop.
I set the spoon down and wipe my hands on the towel again, leaving more flour streaks across the fabric. “Hey, you. You look like you just fought the entire mountain and the mountain won. What’s wrong?”
He closes the door behind him, the latch clicking softly. Snow melts from his boots onto the wooden floor in small dark puddles. He runs a hand through his hair, sending a few flakes drifting down. For a second he just looks at me, like he’s trying to find the right words.
“The Moretti family’s in Montana,” he says finally, his voice dropping to a rough-edged murmur. “Two vehicles crossed the border. Jax and Colt are already heading that way to track them.”
I stiffen instantly, the warm cookie-scented air suddenly feeling too thick to breathe.
My hands grip the edge of the counter, flour still clinging to my fingers.
The cheerful hum of the oven timer feels out of place now, too bright against the cold rush of fear flooding my veins. “Do they... do they know where I am?”
Mason crosses the kitchen in a few long strides, his boots thudding heavily on the floor. He stops right in front of me, towering and solid and so wonderfully warm. “They don’t think so. Not yet. But they’re getting closer. We may need to move you early once the roads clear.”
The words hit me like ice water. I feel my breathing pick up, shallow and fast. My fingers tighten on the counter until my knuckles turn white.
The sweet smell of the baking cookies suddenly feels too strong, almost cloying.
I can picture it again, the man in the alley, the blood, the cold eyes of the killer who saw me.
My legs feel shaky. “How do they know I’m in Montana? ”
Mason doesn’t hesitate. He moves closer and wraps his strong arms around me, pulling me against his chest. His flannel shirt is cool from being outside but his body underneath is warm, radiating heat that chases away the sudden chill racing through me.
One big hand strokes slowly up and down my back, the other cradling the back of my head, fingers threading gently through my hair.
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.
Everything’s going to be okay, Riley,” he murmurs against the top of my head, his voice deep and steady.
“I’ve got you. I’m not letting anything happen to you.
Jax and Colt are the best. They’ll figure out what the Morettis are doing.
And until then, you’re safe right here with me. ”
I press my face into his chest, breathing in the scent of him, pine and snow and that deep masculine warmth that always makes me feel grounded. His heartbeat is strong and steady under my cheek, a reassuring rhythm that slowly helps my own racing heart calm down.
“I’m scared,” I whisper against his shirt, my voice muffled. “I don’t want to leave this cabin. I don’t want to leave you.”
His arms tighten around me, one hand still stroking my back in slow, soothing circles. “I know, little one. I don’t want you to leave either. But we will figure it out. One day at a time. Right now, just breathe. The cookies smell incredible, by the way. You’re turning my cabin into a bakery.”
I let out a watery little laugh, the sound shaky but real. “Stress baking. It’s my specialty. If the mafia does find us, at least they’ll have fresh cookies before they... you know.”
Mason chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through his chest. “They wouldn’t stand a chance. Your cookies could bring world peace.”
We stay like that for a long time, wrapped up together in the warm kitchen while the cookies bake and the storm outside continues to fade.
His hands keep moving over my back, gentle and protective, and I let myself lean into him completely.
The fear is still there, lingering at the edges, but in his arms it feels smaller. Manageable.
The timer on the oven dings brightly, pulling us apart. I wipe at my eyes and give him a small, determined smile. “Cookies are ready. You should try one while they’re still warm.”
Mason looks down at me, his eyes softer than I’ve ever seen them. He reaches out and brushes a streak of flour from my cheek with his thumb. The touch lingers, warm and tender.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” he says again, quieter this time. “I promise.”
I believe him. Even with the Moretti family closing in, even with the uncertainty of what comes next, I believe him. Because when Mason Cole makes a promise, he means it with every rugged, protective inch of himself.
And right now, that’s enough.