Relieved to escape the biting December wind, I haul open the door to Gimme Some Sugar and wince as the bakery’s overhead bell clangs loud in the empty space. The place stands dim except for light streaming from the kitchen area behind the counter, chairs already stacked on tables. Nightfall comes early in winter, and I’m cutting this favor for Mom close.

A wave of buttery, sugar-scented warmth hits me as I step inside, making my empty stomach growl. That and nostalgia, as the familiar scent takes me straight back to high school, when I’d stop in before rodeo practice.

I forgot how good coming home could smell.

“Be right out! Just gimme a sec.” The energy behind the female voice makes me smile. Definitely not Mrs. B who’s operated this place as long as I can remember.

I tug off my gloves, stuff them in my jacket pocket, and hold my Stetson against my chest while scanning the place. My years in the Marines means the security sweep’s instinctive. It’s mostly how I remember: deep glass display case, mostly empty this close to closing, beneath the wooden counter that holds the register; the square wooden tables and chairs; chalkboard menu on the back wall. Only now everything’s decorated for the holidays. 

Our quaint little town turns into tourist chaos over the long Thanksgiving and Christmas weekends. But now that both have come and gone, with the New Year just on the horizon, things are starting to settle.

“Sorry about that, just finishing up a batch of dough for—”

The girl who emerges from the back, in the act of wiping her hands on her red-and-green striped apron, stops mid-sentence when she spots me.

And fuck me if she isn’t the prettiest thing I’ve seen since I shipped out after doing the rodeo circuit for a couple years before signing up. Her hair makes me think of Peanut, my first horse as a boy, a sorrel mare whose deep red coat would gleam, practically catch fire when sunlight hit it just right. Would hers? At the strange urge to yank out the clip holding it up, I tighten my hold on my Stetson. “Apologies for showing up so close to closing. Just need to get a couple things to go.”

With her back lit, I can’t tell the color of her eyes, but they’re wide, framed by lashes thick enough to cast shadows as she looks me up and down, no doubt curious who’s just barged in here minutes before closing. She stands about 5’ 6” I’m guessing, and even with the apron, appears slender and full of energy. Hell, she reminds me of a well-bred filly with nowhere to run.

I thought Marine training prepared me for just about everything. So why am I feeling ambushed?

“We’re actually closed already,” she says, but smiles as she continues wiping her fingers. “I just forgot to turn the sign.”

“Oh? Mom told me you were open till six.”

“Not for several years. We close at four now.”

Okay. So maybe I should leave, but that’s the last thing I want to do. I set my hat on the counter between us, crown-side down. “Any chance I can still talk you into selling me some sweets? My mom’s going to be mighty disappointed if I show up tomorrow without anything from her favorite bakery.”

She hasn’t stopped studying me. “You look vaguely familiar, but I can’t place you.”

“Rodney Phillips,” I offer, unclenching my palms to extend one hand. “But most folks around here call me Mustang.”

Her eyebrows lift as she steps forward to clasp my hand, revealing pretty pale green eyes. When her skin slides against mine, I swear I’m swallowing a moan. “Phillips? Part of the shooting-range family?”

“Got it in one.” Reluctantly, I release my hold after a light squeeze that matches her own. “Bull’s-eye Rendezvous has been in our family for decades. Just finished helping Grandpop close up for the night.” I rub my stubbled jaw, covered by several days’ worth of scruff; haven’t touched a razor since leave began last week. “Skipped dinner to get here before you closed. Mom sent me on a mission.”

“Mission accomplished, I guess.”

“Only if you’ll still sell me some goodies?” Yeah, I’m not above begging. “Pretty please?”

I don’t know what it is about her, don’t think I’ve ever seen her before, but I’m not ready to turn tail and retreat.

“Wait, Mustang Phillips? The bronc rider? I think I saw you ride when I was a kid. You scored in the high eighties, broke some record, right?”

I grin. “All lies.”

She laughs, quick and bright. “So you didn’t win that championship? Beat out everyone else in the tri-county area? Get yourself a big trophy, belt buckle and check?”

“Well, the belt buckle sure was big. Not too certain about the check.” I laugh, amazed at her memory. “Eight seconds aboard Flying Dutchman. Still hurts to think about. Where’s Mrs. Berrett? She still run this place?”

“She does. I’m one of her granddaughters, Daphne Baker. My sisters and I all help out now.”

“Daphne Baker who works at a bakery. That’s convenient.”

“Gosh, never heard that one before.” She gives me one of those looks, the kind that tells me I’d better step up my game if I want to have a chance with her.

“Any chance I can still get something to go? Or is it too late for that?” Before she can answer, I add, “Heading to Kerrville with my grandpop tomorrow, and my mom—who lives there now—is the one who insisted we needed sugary supplies.” The hole in my stomach gnaws deeper. “Plus, maybe you’d let me sneak a little something right now? I’m meeting my buddy Jim in a bit, and I’m starving.”

“Jim Burton? You’re friends? Or did I guess wrong?”

And then I can’t help but smile at her because some things in small towns never change. “Bull’s-eye. We’ve been best buds as long as I can remember, only when I rodeoed and then enlisted, he went to college for a degree in education. Now he teaches at the very high school we used to terrorize.”

“Did he rodeo too?”

“Not after he took a tumble, off one of our horses”—I wince at the memory—“when we were twelve and broke his leg when Beauregard fell on him after being spooked by a rattlesnake.”

“Yikes.” Her face gets so expressive I can’t help but laugh.

“So how do you know Jim?” Is she already claimed?

“He’s a regular. Stops in most mornings on his way to work. Grabs breakfast to go.”

Not discerning any romantic interest in her tone or answer, I drop the subject of my buddy and step forward to tap the glass case with the back of one knuckle. “So maybe you’ll take pity on me? What’ve you got left? I won’t be picky, although I’m supposed to get one of those molasses pumpkin pies my mom’s been craving all fall. Have you got at least a slice or two I can buy?”

Daphne’s face lights up. “You’re in luck. I’ve got a whole one in the refrigerator. What else?”

“Dad wants some of your triple chunk chocolate chip cookies, if you’ve got any to spare.”

“We always have those. Hang tight.” She disappears into the back, returning moments later with a pie box she sets on the counter. “How many cookies?”

“As many as you’ll sell me. And whatever that is.” I point to a tray with one lone remaining cupcake. It’s got swirled white icing with red and green sprinkles. “It looks amazing.”

She pulls out the cupcake. “Something new I tried earlier. Here, see what you think.” She slides it across the counter. “I need your honest opinion, so it’s on the house.”

I peel back the zigzagged wrapper and take a bite. Flavors explode on my tongue like a bronc bolting out of the gate. It’s a sugary explosion of pure bliss, a combination of vanilla, cool mint, and sweet buttery frosting. “I think I’m in love,” I mutter around the creamiest mouthful in memory. “I’ll take every single one you’ve got left. And wait while you make more.”

A blush spreads across her cheeks. “That’s a lot of sugar. Where exactly are you planning to pack all those calories? You don’t look like someone who indulges much.” She stares at my torso, where my jacket’s open, and I straighten reflexively. Stupidly wish I could strip off my coat and shirt, do a little muscle flexing and deepen the appreciation in her gaze.

“Like I said, mission for my mom. Though Grandpop and I will definitely sample the goods on the drive.” I finish the cupcake in two more bites. “But for something this good? I’m happy to do my part. Military training burns a lot of fuel.”

“Military?” She studies me more carefully. “Which branch?”

“Marines.”

“I can see it.” Before she starts prepping another box for the requested treats, she circles my head and then aims her finger up and down my form. “The haircut’s growing out, but still recognizable. Plus you got awesome posture.” 

“Sounds like I’m at a disadvantage. You’re figuring me all out, but I know nothing about you except you make the best damn cupcakes I’ve ever tasted.”

“That’s all you need to know,” she says with a hint of mischief that makes my stomach tighten in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.

I watch her as she packs up the order, scooting in between the front display case, plasticware containers on the counter beneath the menu, and whatever else they’ve got stashed back in the kitchen. She’s everywhere at once and I can’t look away, in awe at how fast and efficiently she’s packing up things, yet a little saddened by it too. Because the sooner she finishes, the sooner I’ve got no reason to stay. 

“So, Mustang,” she says, glancing up. “Interesting nickname. Suits you, though, what with the bronc riding and all.”

If she only knew how much you want to run wild right now. With her.

“Been horse-crazy since I could walk,” I explain after shaking my head, trying to banish that image. “Between that and Dad’s favorite book being Mustang Man by Louis L’Amour, I haven’t gone by Rodney in years.”

“I’ve always wanted to learn to ride,” she admits, sealing the cookie box after putting in close to three dozen which will thrill Dad. “Other than a few sedate trail rides, never had much of an opportunity.”

“Even living out here? Why, that’s a crying shame.” What’s also a crying shame is that I’m leaving town again tomorrow and won’t be back for a couple of years, maybe longer. “You could come out to our place, the shooting range between here and Crystal Springs. Grandpop still keeps horses. He’d love to work with you, I’m sure.”

Although I’d rather be the one to work with her.

What the hell are you doing? Inviting a girl you just met to the homestead? When you don’t even live there anymore?

Maybe not full-time, but it’ll always be home.

She pauses in the act of arranging the cupcakes she brought out from the kitchen in a third box, this one smaller than the other two. “Is that an invitation?”

“Just being neighborly.” I keep my tone light, even as I note the way her lips curve when she smiles. I’ve spent the past eight years fighting in hellholes across the world, but right now, all I can think about is how much I want to kiss that smile. “How old are you, Daphne?”

“Eighteen last week,” she answers without hesitation. “Why?”

Eighteen? Last week?  Shit. Definitely too young. Way, way too young. Hold up, Marine.

“Just curious. You seem older.” A lot older; or maybe it’s not so much age as simply maturity. Must’ve graduated early and already be in college or working full-time.

“Responsibility does that to you,” she says, adding up my total on the register, mumbling beneath her breath as she does so. I catch one pie, thirty-three triple chocolate cookies, tax… Then she announces my total.

I frown at her. “You didn’t charge me for the cupcakes.”

“That’s because they’re a gift. A thank-you, from me to you. I appreciate your service helping to protect our country.”

More than a little taken aback by how solemnly she says that, I hand her cash to cover the total, plus a little more. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks.” She pushes the boxes toward me. “So are you home for good, or…?”

“Just on leave. Back to base next week, then probably another deployment.” I stack the boxes, still watching her. Still wondering over her statement about responsibility. “It’s been just me and Grandpop this week. My brothers couldn’t make it home this time.”

She nods, a wistful expression crossing her face. “Family’s important.”

“Yours around here too?” I ask, curious about the shadows behind her eyes.

She hesitates, suddenly looking much younger. “My sisters and I live with our grandparents. Have for a while now.”

I sense there’s more to the story but don’t push. Instead, I glance at the darkness beyond the big front windows. “You closing up by yourself?”

She plants one fist on her hip and arches an eyebrow. “I’m eminently capable of turning a lock and walking to my car.”

“It’s dark out. Streets are pretty quiet. Danger can lurk anywhere, even in a small town.” The warning comes out before I can stop it.

Great job, Phillips. Scare the pretty girl with your war stories without actually telling them.

“Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine?” She shoots me a confident look. “I’ve been doing this since I was fourteen. Nothing bad has happened yet.”

“Yet being the operative word.” I gesture to the door. “Your sign still says Open, and you didn’t lock up behind me.” Or before me, but I don’t think the reminder would go over well. “Anyone could walk in.”

“Crap.” She darts to the door, flips the sign, and turns the deadbolt. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” I deadpan, but find myself watching her, trying to commit everything she does to memory.

She catches me staring. “What?”

“Nothing.” I clear my throat. “Just thinking it’s a shame I waited until my last night in town to stop by.”

Real smooth, Phillips. Why not just tell her you’re wondering what she tastes like? Imagining taking one of those precious four cupcakes out of the box and swiping that frosting against her lips just so you can lick it off?

Finished with the door and lock, she comes back, but instead of going behind the counter, she leans against the front of it. Close enough to touch. “That is a shame.” Then she stares at me, and I’m sensing a challenge even before she speaks. “We have fresh cinnamon rolls in the morning. Best this side of the Pecos.”

I abandon my common sense and step closer. “That an invitation?” I ask, just as she did when I mentioned Grandpop and the horses.

“Just being neighborly,” she echoes my words back at me with a grin.

I can’t stop staring at her mouth. It’s been so long since I wanted to kiss someone this badly. The craving hammers through me like a second heartbeat.

This is crazy. You just met her. She’s too young. You’re shipping out. Abort mission, Marine.

But I can’t seem to back away.

Chapter 2 - DAPHNE

What is wrong with me? I can’t stop staring at his mouth.

Thirty minutes ago, I didn’t remember Mustang Phillips even existed. He was nothing but a blip on my kid radar, an impressive cowboy I’d cheered on along with a stadium full of others.

But now?

My last night in town.

He’s leaving tomorrow and nothing can explain how disappointed I am at the thought of missing out on what might have been…

Are you insane? He’s too old for you.

No, not really. With last week’s birthday, I’ve now gained the label of adult, the legal status finally catching up with how I’ve felt and behaved for years.

“That is a shame.” Could I nudge him to come back tomorrow? “We have fresh cinnamon rolls in the morning. Best this side of the Pecos.”

As though the air between us is evaporating, he glides closer. “That an invitation?”

Heck yeah, but I can’t appear too eager, no matter that I’m feeling that way. “Just being neighborly.”

“The kind of neighborly that might get me arrested?” The words barely leave his lips before he’s cupping my face in his calloused palm. “You got a boyfriend, Daphne? A dad who’ll be coming after me with a shotgun?”

My breath catches on a gulp. I lock my knees to hide their trembling as his thumb brushes across my lips. But I’m not able to stop the little whimper that escapes my throat. “Neither.”

He watches his thumb as it tracks over my lips a second time. “I shouldn’t do this,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.

“Then don’t.” But my hands betray me, sliding up his chest, where his coat is unzipped. The heat, the hardness of his chest against my hands is like nothing I’ve ever felt.

“Tell me to stop.”

“I don’t want you to stop.”

To the sound of his groan between us, his mouth eases onto mine, and the world spins away. He tastes like my cupcakes, mint and vanilla. That and some sort of male ambrosia that has my knees weakening all over again.

He might have claimed my lips gently, but he doesn’t stay that way. Every passionate movie kiss I’ve ever seen flashes before my closed eyes and I’m opening my mouth beneath his, welcoming the thrust of his tongue. Joining mine against it. Reveling in the slight nip of his teeth.

I’ve been kissed before, once, when I was fourteen and attended Melanie Hardaway’s first boy-girl party. But six miserable minutes in a stuffy and dark closet with the boy who drew my name can’t compare, even remotely, to this.

A grown-up kiss from a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. His mouth eats at mine and I’m on my toes, scrambling to get my arms over his shoulders, more of his tongue in my mouth. That stupid whimper sound turns into a squeal, practically screaming my inexperience. My stomach sinks when he pulls back, both hands now framing my face, his breathing ragged. “Jesus. I’m too old for you.”

“You’re not that old.”

“I’m twenty-eight, Daphne.”

“And I’m an adult, so we’re good.”

“Still in school?”

My stomach sinks. “Yes.”

“Which college?” When I remain silent, he swears, a soft fuck that clangs through the quiet like a gong. “High school?”

“Senior year.”

He closes his eyes, exhales slowly. “This is insane. I’m back on duty by the end of next week.”

I pull his hands from my face, but don’t let go. “Then we have a week.”

“A week for what? I’m not looking to take advantage of some kid—”

“I’m not a kid.” The protest is automatic and comes out brutal. I don’t try to soften it. “I haven’t been a kid since I watched both my parents be lowered into the ground three years ago.”

He pales. “Oh shit. God, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Just don’t treat me like I’m fragile. Or don’t know what I’m doing.” I release his wrists and shrug out of his hold, turning toward the wall because I need distance to clear my head. “So, maybe I overreacted to a simple kiss. But it’s not like I’m asking you to marry me.”

He steps back into my line of sight. “Daph, there was nothing simple about that kiss.” He gives me a grin that’s dangerous to my peace of mind. “And if you aren’t asking me to marry you, just what are you asking?”

“I don’t know. Haven’t a clue.” My tongue sneaks out and swipes over my lips without permission. They’re swollen and throbbing and I just want to press them against his, close my eyes, and lose myself in him for the next few hours. Maybe forever. “But I’d like to get one step closer to maybe figuring it out over those cinnamon rolls tomorrow morning.”

He scrapes a hand through his hair, messing up the military-neat strands. “Your family won’t mind you having breakfast with a stranger? What time do you open?”

“Grandma comes in at five. Occasionally, Amalie joins her. I stay back at home and get Brittany and Civility ready for school when we’re not on break, and then come in about six-thirty, right when we open.”

Ugh. How much longer-winded could I have made my answer?

I move toward the counter, needing something to do with my hands. “Civility’s sixteen and handles the register better than I do. Brittany’s fifteen and does a little bit of everything when she’s not running her mouth or looking for whatever she just lost. Amalie, the baby of the family, is thirteen. She used to just mostly get in the way, but now that she’s discovered decorating whatever she helps bake?” I can’t stop the chuckle, which only gets a bit louder and longer as I think of some of Amalie’s latest projects. “Get that girl around butter, sugar, and milk, add in some coloring drops and a piping set, and watch out. She’s going places.”

“Three sisters.” He comes up next to me, stretches one arm over the display case and watches me fidget with a dish towel, wiping off imaginary crumbs. “And you’re raising them?”

The serious way he says it, as though it’s a Big Negative Deal, squashes my amusement.

“Sort of. With my grandparents. But Grandma’s busy here and Grandpa’s still in great shape even in his fifties. He works out in the oil patch, so he’s here and gone every couple of weeks. So yeah, a lot of it falls to me.”

He gives a low whistle and I force myself not to flinch. “That’s a lot of responsibility for someone your age.”

I shrug. “I didn’t tell you that to get sympathy. Just explaining why I’m not a stupid kid.”

He straightens away from the counter and replaces his casual posture with a stiff sternness I can’t deny kind of does things to my stomach. “Listen up and take notes: I get that you’re not a kid. And nothing about you is stupid. Don’t ever assume anyone thinks that. You know what?” He actually snaps his fingers and stops looking so angry that I’m fighting the need to smooth his brow. “Fuck ’em. Who cares what anyone else thinks? I’m impressed. You, Daphne Baker of the damn fine cupcakes and fireworks smile, are one of the most impressive women I have had the fortune to meet. Now, talk to me, please. And not because you need to convince me how responsible you are because I already know that. Talk to me because right now we’re getting to know each other, and it’s not something I’m ready to put the brakes on. What happened with your parents?”

Holy crap. Is he for real?

The way he’s standing up for me, damn everyone else, is making me think of stories Mom would tell about meeting Dad.

“Small plane crash. Happened between here and Dallas. A friend of Dad’s was a physician in Crystal Springs, had his own plane. The four of them, both men and their wives—” I have to stop talking for a second when my bottom lip starts shaking. I hit the back of my hand into my lips, take a deep, fast breath through my nose and finish quick. “They were heading to an opera. Plane went down not far from Abilene. Everyone gone.”

Then he’s hugging me. Hugging me against his chest, and somehow I’ve wrapped my legs around his waist, my hands behind his nape. Breathing against the skin above his collar and holding on for dear life.

“It was quick, they said.” My lips brush his skin. “That’s something to be thankful for, I guess.” God, as if anyone could ever find anything to be thankful for with that sort of tragedy.

At least I had the cell number of a great therapist on speed dial. Hadn’t felt the need to visit with Charlene in the last year or so, but after seeing her weekly for almost two, still kept in touch.

His arms tighten around me. “Small comfort, I know, but at times, we take what we can get. My squad lost three guys last deployment. A third of us”—his voice goes rough—“didn’t make it home. But yeah, quick is better than the alternative.”

The realization of shared grief hangs between us, strangely intimate. More intimate than the kiss, maybe.

Maybe, but not necessarily given the way you’re wrapped around him.

Reluctantly, I ease myself from the embrace until I’m standing on my feet, looking up at him. My left hand might be fisted at my side, but my right? It’s still clenched over his heart, wrinkling his shirt to high heavens and I can’t bring myself to release him. The rhythmic thump of his heart beneath my palm both comforting and, yeah, arousing.

I swallow hard, pretend I’m not wanting to jump back in his arms, lick his neck, and taste his lips all over again. “So why the Marines?”

“Family tradition. Grandpop and my dad both served. My brothers each joined up. Conrad’s still in for another ten years at least. Menace claims he’s getting out. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Menace? That’s a name?”

He laughs, the sound warming me from the inside. “Picked it up during boot camp. You’ll understand once you meet him.”

Once I meet him. Not if. Wow.

His eyes drop to my lips again, and my pulse does an Olympic floor routine. I blurt out the first thing that pops into my head. “It’s very brave of you, being in the military. Riding broncs. I don’t think I’ve ever done anything courageous like that.”

“And you would be wrong, I think you are plenty brave, Miss Daphne.”

“Me?”

“The girl who just propositioned a man ten years her senior?”

“Pffft. I didn’t proposition you. I invited you for breakfast.”

“At five in the morning.”

“Told you we open at six-thirty. But if you want to swing by the back door around six, I’ll get here early and let you in. Absolute best time for cinnamon rolls. They’re still warm from the oven.”

“Sounds delicious. But it’s the company I’m after.” My throat makes this stupid little excited noise I attempt to muffle.

“After raising your sisters,” he says, his lips curving in a way I know I didn’t succeed, “do you still want kids of your own someday?”

“That’s out of left field.”

“Humor me.”

I huff out a breath, stalling. Because it’s not something I’ve thought of, not really. “Honestly, cowboy? That’s not anything I can answer today.” One of the things Charlene taught me was one day, one hour, one minute, one single decision at a time if I start feeling overwhelmed. I’ve taken that to heart. “I don’t plan too far ahead anymore. I just can’t. Ask me after Amalie graduates.”

One of his big hands closes in over the back of mine and presses my palm harder into his chest (as if I wasn’t already clutching him tight). “When’s that? You said she’s thirteen?”

“Right. She starts high school next year.”

He gives me a nod full of so much weight and understanding, it’s as though we’re discussing world peace, not whether or not I want to raise children of my own. But the way he’s staring at me right now? I almost get the sense he’s imagining me holding a baby. Ours.

You have gone completely around the bend! How much icing did you eat helping Amalie frost those cupcakes?

“It’s late. I should get you home.”

I sputter a laugh. “You’re not responsible for that.”

He releases me and steps away, reaching for his cowboy hat and plopping it over his head. “Nevertheless, I’m doing it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I have my car.”

“Then I’ll follow you home. Got to make sure you get there safe.”

“That’s not—”

“Up for discussion.” And the way he says that just makes me want to whimper and purr and tell him to make some more decisions for me. Allow my brain and responsible side a little vacation. “Small town or not, I’m not letting you drive home alone in the dark.”

“Fine. But you’re wasting gas.”

“Worth it.”

Heck, those two words warm me all over. Daphne, keep your head, girl.

Because I’m afraid I could fall for this man and hard.

We gather our things in heavy silence, me turning off everything in the kitchen, pulling on my coat and grabbing my purse and cell, him the bakery boxes. “Ready?” he asks, holding the door open after we’ve walked through the shadowy interior.

“Almost.” I stand on tiptoe and press my lips to his, a brief, soft—goodbye? Or hello to my future?—kiss that leaves me wanting so much more. “Now I’m ready.”

“You like playing with fire, Daphne Baker?”

“If you’re going to use my full name, might as well do it right. It’s Daphne Rose Baker. And since meeting you? Maybe I’ve learned I like a little heat. A little spice in my life.” And if that isn’t an understatement, I don’t know what is.

Outside, the cold slaps my cheeks, but I barely notice with his hot bulk at my side. He’s parked right in front of the shop; I’m around the side, closer to the back. He buffers me from the wind as we round the building and his consideration only makes me fall harder. I won’t get a wink of sleep tonight, why waste a second when I could be reliving every word exchanged, every stroke of his tongue, his thumb, his consideration?

At my car, an old-model Toyota hatchback that had been Mom’s car early in their marriage and Grandpa’s maintained beautifully, I unlock the door and turn to him. “Six thirty, Marine. Don’t be late.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He shifts the boxes to one arm and tips my chin up with his free hand. “One for the road?”

One for forever.

Kissing him is like a miracle, an escape, a marvel to the senses all at once. Instead of being as voracious as the first, as comforting as the second, this one is nuanced. Different, almost as though it’s a promise of things we both know can’t happen now. But want, are agreeing to.

Wishful thinking on my part? Or actually that promise I sense on his?

When he finally pulls away, we’re both breathing hard.

“Drive safe,” he murmurs, placing a closed-mouth kiss atop my lips, my cheek. “I’ll be right behind you.”

True to his word, his headlights appear in my rearview mirror as I pull onto Main and drive the several paved miles to the dirt road turnoff, where they maintain a comforting distance all the way.

I love how he’s not hovering, not blasting his headlights and making me wince, but staying just close enough through the rough road full of rocks and somewhat crowded by trees and bushes on either side, that I know he’s there.

I’ve never had this before, not as long as I can remember—someone watching over me. Without permission, tears flood my eyes and I laugh out loud as I wipe them away. “What a feeling. Someone’s actually looking out for me?”

I should find his escort ridiculous; I’ve been driving these roads alone for years. Long before I had a license, if I’m honest. Grandpa taught me the back routes early on, winding through the lesser-traveled roads in town and staying off the paved highway, approaching the bakery from the rear. 

But even with my grandparents’ ongoing love and care, they couldn’t replace Mom and Dad. No one ever will. Tonight though, Mustang’s presence has made me feel cherished in a way I haven’t since my parents died.

When I pull into the turnoff to my grandparents’ property and brake, he stops at the gate without turning, engine idling. I stick my left arm out the window and wave. He flashes his headlights once in response.

I head on down that winding path, and less than five seconds later, I’m greeted by the sprawling two-story mountain home where I’ve lived for several years.

Inside the house, chaos greets me—Civility and Brittany arguing over the remote (Brittany wants to stream Australian Survivor while Civility is hung up on some drama that just dropped), Amalie with her nose in a book at least takes a moment to look up and smile. “Did you finish up that batch you are working on?” She glances over to the wall clock and frowns. “You’re home a lot later than we thought.”

“Ignored my two texts!” Brittany yells, amid a wrestling match with Civ.

I open my mouth to tell them everything, but slam it shut immediately. Mustang. Rodney Phillips. Champion bronc rider. Brave Marine. My first real kiss that I plan to remember.

My morning cinnamon roll date.

I sink my teeth into my bottom lip and just grin. Because I’ve just decided, for once, to keep something special to myself. “Late customer, that’s all. Everything’s great.”

And it was, at least for the next few hours.

Until tomorrow morning comes and goes without any hint of my just-met Mustang Man.