Chapter 1 #2
I knew that, theoretically. Harper mentions it all the time—how Adam fought for custody, how he rearranged his entire life to make sure Emma had stability, how he's been both mom and dad since the divorce—his ex-wife only bothering to see Emma when it suits her.
But seeing it is different. Watching the way he stops everything just to make sure his daughter feels safe, the way his whole face softens when he looks at her.
It does dangerous things to my already-compromised heart.
Emma says something that makes Adam's lips quirk—almost a smile, but not quite. He's too serious for full smiles most of the time, Harper says. Too weighed down by responsibility and the mess of his marriage ending.
But that almost-smile is there, just for a second, and it transforms his whole face.
I'm cataloging details I have no business cataloging. The tired set of his shoulders, the careful way he moves around Emma like he's constantly aware of her presence. There's tension in him that even I can see from here—like he's wound too tight, carrying too much, barely holding it together.
He needs someone to take care of him, I think, and then immediately want to smack myself.
Not your job, June. Not your place. Definitely not your business.
But I can't stop looking.
Can't stop noticing the way the autumn breeze ruffles his hair, or how he pauses to stretch his back like he's been doing this for hours, or the protective hand he keeps on Emma's shoulder whenever she's near him.
A particularly heavy-looking box makes him pause, roll his shoulders and wince slightly.
I bite my lip.
He looks exhausted. Overwhelmed. Like a man who's been moving his entire life by himself and is running on fumes and determination.
And suddenly, impulsively, terribly, I have an idea.
Welcome cupcakes.
That's what I should do. It's the neighborly thing. The friendly thing. The completely normal thing that has absolutely nothing to do with wanting to see Adam up close or hear his voice or confirm that yes, he still smells like cedar and something warm I can't quite identify.
You're being ridiculous, I tell myself firmly. This is about being a good neighbor. That's all.
Right. Good neighbor. Bringing baked goods to the new people on the street. Totally normal. Not at all transparent.
I spin away from the window and survey my disaster of a kitchen.
Burnt cupcakes on the cooling rack, buttercream splattered across my apron, flour coating nearly every surface.
My test batches are failures, but I have plenty of regular vanilla cupcakes in the bakery's delivery box I brought home yesterday.
Those are good. Those are perfect. Those won't make me look like I'm trying too hard.
I pull out the box and start arranging cupcakes on my vintage cake stand—the pale blue one with the delicate gold rim that makes everything look more elegant. Then I second-guess myself and switch to the simple white one because what if the blue one looks like I'm trying too hard?
"Oh my God, June, they're just cupcakes," I mutter.
Except they're not just cupcakes. They're a statement. A first impression. A "hi, I'm your new neighbor and definitely not someone who's had a bit of a crush on you since she was fifteen" kind of offering.
No pressure.
I count out eleven cupcakes and arrange them carefully.
My apron is a disaster. I grab my blue gingham one—the one with The Sweet Spot logo embroidered on the corner. Professional but friendly.
I catch my reflection in the fridge door again and cringe. There's flour on my left cheek and my hair has completely given up on life. The blonde waves are doing this frizzy thing that's not quite curly, not quite straight, just... a mess.
I try to smooth it down. It doesn't help.
The flour smudge takes three tries to wipe off, and even then I'm not convinced it's actually gone or just smeared around.
My face is still flushed from the oven heat, which at least gives me some color, but also makes me look like I've been running a marathon. Or having a mild panic attack. Which, to be fair, I might be.
"Okay," I tell my reflection. "You're going to walk over there, hand him the cupcakes, say 'Welcome to the neighborhood,' and leave. Simple. Easy. You will not ramble. You will not stare at his arms. You will definitely not mention the wedding."
My reflection looks skeptical.
I practice my greeting under my breath as I pick up the cake stand. "Hey, welcome to the neighborhood!" Too perky.
"Just be normal," I whisper.
Normal. Right. I can do normal.
I take a deep breath, adjust my grip on the cake stand, and head for the door before I can talk myself out of it.
This is fine. This is totally fine.
I'm absolutely not about to make a complete fool of myself in front of the man I find the literal definition of sex-on-legs.
Absolutely not.
***
The September afternoon is perfect—the kind that makes you understand why people write poetry about autumn. Crisp air that smells like woodsmoke and dying leaves, the sun slanting golden through the trees, everything painted in shades of amber and rust.
I'm very aware of all of this because I'm using it to distract myself from the fact that I'm walking toward Adam Lane's house carrying cupcakes like some kind of 1950s housewife welcoming the new neighbors.
My ballet flats crunch through the leaves scattered across my small yard, and I'm concentrating very hard on not tripping, not dropping the cake stand, not doing anything that will make this moment more embarrassing than it already is.
Just be cool, June. Cool and casual and normal.
"Daddy! It's Harper's friend!"
Emma's delighted shout shatters my concentration.
I look up—mistake number one—and my foot catches on something. An uneven paving stone, a stick, my own absolute lack of coordination. Who knows.
What I do know is that suddenly I'm pitching forward, and the laws of physics are very much not in my favor.
Everything happens in slow motion and way too fast at the same time.
The cake stand tilts. The carefully arranged cupcakes slide toward disaster. My arms windmill in a desperate attempt to recover balance I absolutely do not have.
I watch—actually watch—as eleven perfect vanilla cupcakes begin their tragic journey toward certain death.
No no no no—
Then Adam is there.
I don't even see him move. One second he's by the moving truck, the next he's in front of me, hands reaching for the cake stand with those ridiculous firefighter reflexes.
He catches it—most of it—but physics is still physics, and momentum is still momentum.
Buttercream smears across his forearm in a thick stripe. More spatters across that gray t-shirt that was doing fine until I came along and ruined it. A particularly enthusiastic glob lands on his collarbone, bright white against his tan skin.
And I'm still falling forward.
Adam's free hand shoots out and catches me by the elbow, steadying me before I can complete my face-plant into his chest. But my hands are already braced against him—palms flat against solid muscle—and suddenly we're frozen in this collision of disaster and proximity.
So. Close.
Close enough that I can see everything I was cataloging from my kitchen window and more. The flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. The faint scar through his left eyebrow. The way his pupils dilate slightly as he looks at me. His very distracting stubbled jaw.
Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the combination of clean sweat and cedar and moving-day exertion.
Close enough to count his eyelashes if I were the kind of person who lost her mind in moments of crisis.
Which, apparently, I am.
His hand is warm on my elbow—steadying, grounding. His chest is solid under my palms, and I can feel his heartbeat, quick and strong.
Time does something weird and stretchy.
"Oh my God," I hear myself say. The words tumble out in a horrified rush. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—I was just trying to—the cupcakes were supposed to—"
I'm babbling. I'm absolutely babbling, and I can't make myself stop.
His eyes haven't left my face.
There's buttercream on his jaw now, and I have the insane urge to reach up and wipe it off.
Or maybe lick it off.
June, no. Absolutely not. Get a grip.
"I brought you welcome cupcakes," I finish weakly, stating the obvious. "Which you're now wearing. So. Welcome to the neighborhood?"
Emma's delighted laughter breaks through the moment like a bell.
"You're wearing the cupcakes, Daddy!"
Adam's lips twitch. The almost-smile I saw from my window, except now I'm close enough to see exactly how it transforms his face. Softens all those hard edges, makes the gold flecks in his eyes seem brighter.
He glances down at the buttercream disaster coating his shirt, his forearm. When he looks back at me, there's something in his expression I can't quite read. Amusement, maybe. Or patience.
His hand is still on my elbow.
I'm still touching his chest.
Neither of us has moved.
"I'm June," I finally manage. "From next door. Obviously. Since I'm... here. In your yard. Wearing frosting."
Wait.
"I mean, you're wearing it. I'm just—"
"I know who you are, June." There's definitely amusement in his voice now, warm and low. "We've met. Multiple times."
My face flames. "Right. Of course. I just—"
"Adam Lane," he says anyway, that almost-smile playing at his lips. "In case you forgot."
"We met at Aunt Harper's wedding!" Emma announces, bouncing on her toes. "You let me have two pieces of cake!"
"I remember," I tell her, grateful for the distraction from her father's face. "You said the chocolate one was better than the vanilla."
"It was! But these look even prettier!" She's eyeing the salvaged cupcakes still on the cake stand with the kind of laser focus only children can manage.