Ramsey’s Roadhouse in Wild Rose, Texas

I’m a sick fuck. I’ve been lusting for Civility for far too long to stop myself from doing something stupid tonight. Or maybe brilliant, sick bastard that I am. Because I can’t seem to stop myself. 

Can’t stop wanting her, needing her. No more hiding how I feel. Not from myself, the town, or from Civility.

Fingers clenched around the cold longneck I’m tapping against the tabletop now that I’ve regained my seat after all the uproar, I scan the crowd of locals: cowboys, bikers, ex-military loners like me. Yeah, some families too, all of us packed tighter than bees in a hive. Never seen Ramsey’s this crowded, ever. 

Alcohol, appetizers, and anticipation. That’s what surrounds me. Almost stifling. 

Or maybe that’s just my own desperation. Because we’re getting a late start, after that unexpected asshole prank several of us scrambled to contain. 

The first live auction item was slated for 7:00 p.m., and it’s long past that now. 

Beneath the table, my rescue dog hunkers down between my legs. As though she senses my impatience, she’s full of extra anxiety tonight. I told Herman she’d rather stay home (yep, that’s her name), but she was damned determined to join me, forcing her way out the front door and into my truck despite my orders to the contrary. At least I left the mountain early enough to prep her a new spot where we’ll spend the night, God willing, all three of us.

The hand not holding the beer slides down and pets Herman’s soft fur. Yeah, she got a bath last night. Even slapped on some conditioner. We’ve got a woman to impress tonight. To claim.

But only if these damn fuckers quit screwing around and get this party started. Every second I’m forced to wait, I swear, I can feel my blood pressure ratcheting upward.

After rampaging through the cackling crowd, confiscating every program we could, Mustang Phillips—tonight’s emcee and auctioneer—and a couple of the K-9 rescue guys are up on stage, testing the microphone and shuffling through papers while they grumble amongst themselves. The same “papers” that have two thirds of the room in an uproar. Somebody fucked with the programs, changed up one of the bakery items—Daphne Baker’s cookie auction—to something rhymingly inappropriate. The kind of sick joke that dredges up old high school rumors and paints targets on the Baker women’s backs all over again.

As if those girls haven’t already been through enough.

But it’s not Daphne I’m worried about right now. It’s her sister. The one whose name no one uses correctly except me. The one who should be here any minute, pie in hand, ready to step up onto that stage that occasionally hosts a country and western band, a wedding, or even a visiting preacher. Tonight, it’s got Mustang and his podium and the scuffed-up programs we were able to retrieve.

But no Civility Baker. The woman I’m holding my breath over.

What if she doesn’t show? Decides the crude prank played on her sister isn’t worth braving the crowd for?

Over two agonizing months ago, I’d sworn off her. Backed away completely. How in the hell could I do anything else, after what I learned this past summer? About that sick bet from years back. High school boys competing to claim the virginity of female students, including Civility and her sisters. One call to my son, Roy, confirmed the worst. Those bastards turned deflowering virgins into a goddamn competition, spread rumors when they failed. The oldest sister, Daphne, caught the worst of it.

After that, I stopped my Tuesday ritual. Stopped torturing myself watching Civility from across the bakery, breathing in her sweet scent and basking in her nearness whenever she paused by my table to check in or chat. I knew my ongoing interest would only drag her name through more small-town, small-minded mud. She’d already dealt with enough because of men like my son and his friends.

Then the accident happened. That semi driver falling asleep at the wheel just one town over. Four teenagers in a pickup truck. Two dead on impact. The other two mangled inside and out, one of them the younger brother of my store manager which brought it even closer to home.

Standing at that double funeral, watching those wooden boxes lower into the ground with kids barely old enough to drive inside them, I spotted the Baker sisters across the cemetery. Civility’s face so somber, so alive as she caught me looking and stared back. So goddamn beautiful it hurt.

Life’s too short.

Watching those kids’ mommas weeping only reinforced what I already knew after burying my own precious wife a few years ago. Any day could be our last, and I’ve wasted months pretending I don’t want what I want.

Who I want.

And what I want, who I need down to my soul, is in tonight’s auction (assuming she shows). Well, a dozen of her cinnamon-cherry pies are. To be delivered at a time and place of my choosing. By her. Anywhere within a fifty-mile radius of her shop.

Just so happens I measured on the way home the other day. The last time I came into town, in fact. Last Tuesday. The second one I allowed myself to return to her bakery after weeks of making myself scarce. The day I plucked wildflowers for her and saw the sign posted about the countywide charity auction raising money for the recently opened K-9 rescue operation that’s come to Wild Rose.

Run by four military guys. My guys. My people. Veterans who served and have the scars to show for it, inside or out. Often both.

But did I share what my odometer said? From my cabin to Gimme Some Sugar, the sweet shop my girl runs with her sisters? Forty-seven miles. Well within that stated fifty. And so I’ve got myself an auction to win. Not because I want the dozen cinnamon-cherry pies, which I do, but because I’m interested in the delivery girl, or woman. Civility Baker.

The heavy thump of the roadhouse door alerts me to new arrivals, and my head snaps up. A group of oilfield workers stomp in, loud and primed to party, judging by the noise and alcohol fumes they bring inside with them. Not who I’m waiting for. Not even close.

Where is she?

Because it’s not the twelve cherry pies commanding my attention. It’s the Baker’s dozen, if you will, the thirteenth cherry. The one I suspect sweet Civility might still be holding on to between her legs. And that would be criminal—if I wasn’t the man to claim it now that I’ve decided to hell with gossip. With the fact she used to date my son.

Those kids’ funeral changed everything. Standing there, watching those coffins, I realized we don’t get unlimited chances. And here I was, about to pass up my second chance for true happiness? Not any longer. Small-town whispers be damned.

Now that I’m widowed and she’s matured into a tempting, kind package?

I’m claiming Civility tonight. And I’m keeping her.

If she shows up.

My fingers drum against the cold bottle. I’ve only taken two swallows in the forty-five minutes I’ve been here. Tigg, the ex-Marine biker who runs the place, has already replaced it with a fresh one, chiding me for being wasteful. But I don’t need alcohol clouding my thoughts, my judgment, nor my driving tonight. I just need my woman. 

Who remains conspicuously absent.

I palm my phone. A few swipes and I’m staring at her contact info. The number she gave me last December. And I’m shooting off the first message. First of many, I hope, because whether she shows up tonight as expected or not, she’s mine. 

And it’s time I make damn sure she knows it.

Chapter 2 - ROYCE

Early December, the prior year

The always distinctive, always welcome opening notes of “Pancho and Lefty” fill the cab of my truck as my headlights cut through the dark night. I’m driving back home from Crystal Springs toward my mountain cabin. Nearly eight o’clock and I’m bone-tired after spending the long day checking inventory at the lumberyard. December in West Texas means everything closes up early, streets are typically dead and businesses closed long before they would be in the big city. Temperature is just right, though, the evening desert chill welcome after the tiring day.

I’m passing through Wild Rose, population several hundred on a good count, when the bright glow from Gimme Some Sugar catches my eye. Strange. The place normally closes at two. At the end of the year, between Christmas and New Year’s, town turns into a major tourist destination when everyone is out of school and off work, but that’s certainly not the case tonight.

I hit stop on the CD and ease my foot off the gas, a combination of curiosity and protective urges stirring uncomfortably in my chest. The Baker girls shouldn’t be alone this late. What if there’s trouble?

It’s not the locals I’m worried about, even with the reputation for recluses aplenty, but more the possibility of transients and tourists. We’re off the beaten path, but drug running isn’t unheard of. A man can get lost for weeks in these mountains, what with so much uninhabited terrain.

Before I can think better of it, I pull into the empty parking lot. All four spaces of it, so I don’t worry about straddling two of them. Light spills from the front windows, uncharacteristic this time of night, casting bright rectangles across the graveled lot. The red neon “OPEN” sign blinks but my hackles are up, given the time and lack of vehicles.

I kill the engine and step out, brisk air hitting my face. Herman, my new dog, is likely to chew me out when I finally get back to the cabin, pissed I left her at home, but I hadn’t planned on stopping anywhere. Didn’t realize my manager’s whole family, and half my employees, would come down with the flu and I’d be overseeing inventory with a skeleton crew today. Though the hours of necessary work have tired me out in a positive way, guilt nags at how long I’ve been gone. The big Rottweiler-German shepherd mix hates being separated from me—something we have in common since, for the first time since Eva died, I opened my home, and heart, just enough to let the anxious dog in.

As I approach the door, the aromas hit me: butter, sugar, a bevy of baking spices, and cooked fruits, maybe apples and berries? My stomach tightens. Eva used to fill our house with these same scents every fall. After she got sick, I hired capable management, stepping back first to care for her, and then, after she passed, to come to grips with the grief and loneliness in my own way—mostly by retreating. I sold the house we’d lived in together; the one burgeoning with so many memories. Exchanged living in town for the more remote vacation cabin that had been in my family for years. 

For the past two Christmases, I’ve hardly acknowledged the holiday, just braved Midland three hours away to take some gifts to Roy and his two kids, my grandkids. Nothing more.

I push through the door, the little bell announcing my arrival. Dammit. This late—this dark—it should have been locked. 

Holiday music drifts from the kitchen, located behind the eating area and checkout counter. “The Little Drummer Boy.” Eva’s favorite.

For the first time I don’t feel like bawling my eyes out or shooting something when I hear it and think of her and the holiday.

“Hey?” I call out, suddenly unsure why I’m here. Why I’m poking my nose in someone else’s business, not anything I’m known for. “Everything all right?”

Then she appears. Not one of the other Baker girls, but Civility herself, the one I know. Sort of, thanks to Roy. Looks as though she’s been busy in the back, baking I guess, because her cheeks are flushed, a light sheen of sweat covers her forehead, easily noticed when she blots her face with a towel. That distinctive reddish-blonde hair she and her sisters share escaping its braid after what I can only assume is a day as long as mine, maybe longer given how the bakery opens at the ungodly hour of six-thirty every morning.

“Mr. Tanner, howdy!” Her gaze sweeps upward from my booted feet, over my worn, snug-fitting Wranglers, the flannel shirt with sleeves I rolled up hours ago, across my chest and over my shoulders. Then she looks past me and pales. “Gracious. Didn’t realize it was so late.” Shaking off her surprise, she turns a beaming smile my direction. “It’s great to see you, though. What can I help you with?”

Before I can scramble for a reason to be standing in her bakery after hours, she rounds the counter and walks straight into my chest, her arms coming around me in a hug that knocks the wind from my lungs.

“I sure am sorry about Eva. Didn’t get a chance to talk with you at her funeral, but I want you to know I prayed for her the whole time she was sick, and I’ve been praying for you and Roy ever since.”

My heart nearly cracks in two. Not just at her caring, thoughtful words, or at the knowledge that this sweet young thing has been praying for my sorry old hide, but because, for the first time since I buried my wife a little over two years ago, I’m noticing how another woman smells. How her arms feel wrapped around my waist. How her breasts feel, those soft mounds pressed against my hard chest. Dammit.

In no time at all, my cock stirs.

Dammit. Dammit!

Not having any of that, not with any woman, ever again. Certainly not with Civility Baker, the young woman who once dated my son.

Despite my dick’s inappropriate interest, no one can hold a candle to my sweet Eva. Grief might not haunt me every second of every day any longer; in fact, now that I’ve adopted crazy-ass Herman from that new canine rescue that opened in town, my days might actually be full of something other than regret. But I’ve got no business having lustful thoughts about the second-oldest Baker girl, the one who attended her junior prom with my boy, Roy.

I clear my throat and edge back from her embrace, mind scrambling and mouth hurrying to catch up. “Uh, I came to place an order for the guys at the lumberyard.” Not bad. That sounds plausible, so I keep going. “Yeah, I want to give them all something to take home to their families. What with Christmas coming and all.”

Her face lights up, but then I notice the glimmer of tears. “That’s so thoughtful of you, Mr. Tanner.”

Holy hell. What caused that sorrowful reaction? And why does it grate, her calling me Mr. Tanner? It’s not as if that’s new, not given her history with my son. I replay my words. Aw, hell. Christmas. “Your grandmother passed recently, didn’t she? Just before Thanksgiving?”

Civility nods, pulling on the end of that long reddish-blonde braid. “She did. Left us the bakery and all her recipes, well, most of them anyway.” She gestures around the cozy shop, one of the few staples to last for decades in Wild Rose. “Each of us has our specialty now, but I’m still getting used to her not being here asking me if I’ve got the cinnamon-to-love ratio right.”

She says that with a forced smile. Fresh grief. More familiar with that than I’d like to admit.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, meaning it. Death is a cold companion I know too well. “For all you girls. Hollis, too.” I mention her ornery grandfather, another staple in Wild Rose.

“Thank you.” She straightens her shoulders, uses that towel to blot her face once more—and I don’t miss how she grinds a corner of it into both eyes—before slamming it down on the nearest table and meeting my gaze, all business now. “So, holiday treats for the lumberyard crew? Management and sales staff, too? How many are we talking about? And delivered when? Any idea or favorites you want to order?”

“About twenty families. Uh, delivered to the store mid-December? I’ll need to check the calendar for an exact date.” I’ll make it on a Wednesday or Thursday close to Christmas, but not so close everyone’s already taking off for the holiday. “I’ll see when most of my full-timers will be there. As far as what? You can make that call. Whatever’s popular. I don’t really have a preference.”

She glances at the darkened windows, then at the clock behind the counter, a big frosted strawberry cupcake acting as the clock face. “It’s hours past closing. Let me lock up, and I’ll show you some options.”

Before I can protest, she’s across the room, clicking off the blinking red OPEN, flipping the sign hanging in the door window to closed and turning the deadbolt. The sound echoes in the empty bakery.

“You don’t need to stay late on my account,” I say, tracking her actions and uncomfortably aware that we’re alone. Haven’t heard a peep from the back. “Or should I say late-er? I can always return tomorrow.”

The thought of coming back to town after the long day I’ve had makes me cringe. But I’ll do it, for her.

“Nonsense. This is a big order.” She retraces her steps, and I pretend I don’t notice how my hand shakes as I fight the urge to grab that long braid and haul her back into my chest. “You can’t just choose blind. You need to taste everything first.”

I shift my weight and the soles of my boots snap against the concrete floor beneath. “That’s not necessary—”

“It absolutely is. Wait right here, Mr. Tanner.”

She disappears into the back before I can argue. Herman would call me a pushover if she saw me now, standing awkwardly in the middle of the bakery, surrounded by empty tables, hat in hand, trying not to think about touching the smooth skin of Civility’s nape as she walks away.

Don’t be a creepy old man!

Yeah, agreed.

In moments, she returns balancing a tray laden with an assortment of cookies, cupcakes, and various little triangles and squares that I soon realize are pie samples.

“This is our holiday sampler. Each Baker sister has her specialty.” She sets the tray on the nearest table. “Have a seat. Let me talk you through it.”

I ease into the chair across from her, feeling like a bull in a china shop. Everything in this bakery is dainty and sweet-smelling—especially Civility.

“First off, everything’s cold because I just pulled it from the fridge.”

“Not a problem.” In fact, maybe I need to close my ass up in her fridge, cool off these hot thoughts that have sprung up out of nowhere.

Like your dick?

Oblivious to my illicit thoughts, she says, “These are Amalie’s holiday cookies, this year’s version.” She mentions her youngest sister, pointing to iced sugar cookies shaped like reindeers and stars, and then to a cinnamon-topped round one. “She also makes these thick and chewy snickerdoodles that sell out by noon.”

“They look good. Real good.” I’m trying to focus on the desserts and not the way her forest-green eyes catch the overhead light.

“Then we have Daphne’s vanilla mint cupcakes—buttercream frosting with red and green sprinkles. The base is either chocolate or vanilla with a hint of mint, your choice.” She pushes one toward me. “Here, try it. If you’d rather have a different cake flavor, we can do that, too.”

I pick up the cupcake, feeling ridiculous. My rough-and-tumble fingers look wrong against the delicate zigzagged wrapper. I take a bite, and damn if it isn’t delicious.

“Good, right?” Grinning, she watches my reaction, all hints of her earlier grief gone. “Brittany doesn’t love baking as much as the rest of us, but her molasses pumpkin pecan pie is incredible in the fall.” She spins the tray until the pumpkin pie is in front of me.

“And what’s your specialty?” I ask, wiping a flaky crumb of crust from my lip after downing one square and moaning at the rich flavors.

Her cheeks flush pink. “Cinnamon-cherry pie. It’s the only recipe Grandma gave exclusively to me. She gave each one of us a special-access recipe.” I love how she can share that without tearing up again. She gestures to one of the pie samples in the middle of the tray. “It’s our most requested item.”

I reach for it, but she stops me.

“Wait. Save the best for last.”

For the next several minutes, I sample more sweets than I’ve eaten in the past year. Each bite she offers comes with a story or description, and I find myself hanging on her every word. When she laughs describing how Brittany once delivered a pie to the wrong house and nearly caused a neighborhood feud when the unintended recipients tried to bribe her to let them keep it anyway, I catch myself staring at her mouth. Noticing how one front tooth is ever so slightly more pronounced than the other.

Staring at her mouth? Fucker! Inappropriate!

“About delivery,” I cough out behind a tightly fisted hand, forcing my thoughts back to business. “Can you arrange that?”

“Of course. Brittany usually handles deliveries to Crystal Springs, but if she can’t, I’m happy to. You’ve given us a great amount of notice.”

The thought of Civility showing up at the lumberyard makes my pulse skitter. I need to wrap this up before I make a fool of myself. Get back to my cabin and Herman. Back to reality.

“I’ve tried enough.” I push back from the table. “They’re all excellent.”

“Don’t go.” There’s a hint of desperation in her voice. But I’ve got to be mistaken. Right? “You haven’t tried my pie yet.” 

Her pie. Her cherry pie.

And now I’m about ready to gouge my brain out through my eyeball with a fork because my thoughts just went somewhere that’s likely to send me straight to hell.

Chapter 3 - CIVILITY

What’s gotten into me?

I’ve never been this pushy with a customer before. Never spoken so familiarly to one of the older, mature ranchers, recluses, or businessmen who inhabit the rugged land around Wild Rose. Certainly never sounded as if I was whining about my pie not being sampled and complimented over how great it is.

Never felt this compelling urge to prolong contact with any man, especially not Royce Tanner. But watching him taste our baked goods, seeing those strong hands handle the divine, yummy treats, has me all flustered and flushed.

“Just one bite,” I insist, my heart thumping hard and fast and my belly turning backflips. What the heck? I point to the sample of cinnamon-cherry pie. “Before you make that long trek up the mountain. Surely you’ve got time for that?”

I’ve been to his cabin before. Back when it was the family vacation home and he and his wife and son also had a place in town where they lived.

I’d gotten lost today, lost in memories of marathon baking sessions with Grandma. Hadn’t wanted to go home myself, where I live with my sisters and Grandpa. Lately, I feel more alone when I’m with my family than when I’m by myself. I think burying Grandma so recently just brought back all the pain of losing our parents several years ago. So I’d kept busy all afternoon.

It’s easy to lose track of time, especially when my hands and mind are occupied, and today, with Daphne being gone on one of her “secret” errands, and Amalie working with Grandpa, clearing out some of Grandma’s things combined with Brittany finishing up deliveries early, I’d offered to man the bakery. And, wonder of wonders, Brittany even volunteered to go out to the cabin, where Amalie and Daphne still lived with our grandparents, and help Grandpa and Amalie—and by now Daphne was there too, after checking in with me by text. 

Vocally—and I think emotionally—injured Brittany is the sister I’m closest to in both age and proximity. Since she returned home to Texas, after the drama and trauma she suffered in California, we’d rented a house together within walking distance of the bakery. Manning the store unexpectedly by myself this quiet afternoon, the hours had flown by, given the combination of favorite holiday songs and lots and lots of baking.

Grandma’s illness wasn’t so long that we had to watch her suffer excruciatingly for an extended time, but it was long enough for us to discuss and plan. Even with her still here, my sisters and I agreed we wanted to take over Gimme Some Sugar full-time, keep it running both to honor her as well as give each of us purpose. Especially given the difficulties both Amalie and Brittany have faced, I think having the familiarity and comfort of the bakery is important.

With Grandma gone, we’re all still finding our footing, but for now, Daphne handles the business side of things, working with Grandpa when she has questions, and shares customer serving duties with me. Brittany makes deliveries despite her whisper-damaged voice. Amalie works her magic in the kitchen, avoiding everyone not family. And I help out everywhere—baking, serving, business, deliveries. I guess you could call me the Baker-of-all-trades.

But ever since Royce Tanner unexpectedly appeared? It’s as though Christmas came early. My own special holiday treat, a big strong man giving me all his attention, and I’m not ready to relinquish it.

Big strong man? Craving his attention? Are you crazy? Insane?

Yeah, probably so.

“All right. Just one bite,” he agrees and resumes his seat.

Without thinking, I lift the square to his lips instead of handing him a napkin or fork to get it himself as I have the others. The moment freezes between us—my hand extended, fingers at his lips, his eyes wide on me. Not the pie hovering against his mouth.

For a heartbeat, I think he’ll refuse. Then he opens his lips, his gaze still locked on mine, and closes his mouth around the bite of pie. And just a tiny bit of one finger.

My stomach swoops. Core body temperature flares as he takes the pie from my trembling grasp. He doesn’t move away as he chews. No, his lips brush against my fingers because I’m an idiot and haven’t lowered my hand even though I’m no longer holding anything. He finally swallows and a sound escapes him—a deep, appreciative moan that hits me low in my belly.

I’ve never understood what people mean by “weak in the knees” until this moment, watching Royce Tanner’s eyes close as he savors my pie. As I feel the remembered heat of his mouth against my fingers.

“That’s…” He pauses, opening those intense, sky-blue eyes, but not until after he swipes his tongue over first his top and then bottom lip. “That’s the best damn pie I’ve ever tasted, Civility.”

The way he says my name—my full name, not calling me “Crim” or “Criminal” like everyone else does—makes me want to hear it again. From his mouth. The one that just touched my fingers. The one I can’t stop staring at. He’s grown a full beard in the last couple of years, since the funeral when he was clean shaven. I know what he looks like beneath it, but I can’t deny how gorgeous and downright rugged it makes him. Pure, 100% attractive, mature man.

Now that I’ve noticed, I can’t unnotice.

“Incredible, and I mean that.”

It takes me a second to recall that he’s talking about my cherry pie, not the awareness arcing between us.

“You don’t have to say that,” I murmur quietly, because shouldn’t I be embarrassed by the intimacy of feeding him? And not aroused by it?

Aroused? Really? For the first time ever you’re feeling desire toward someone, and it’s Royce Tanner? The father of your only ex-boyfriend?

Yeah, I know. I’m a naughty, naughty girl.

But after my lack of interest in dating and, yeah, sex the past few years? After starting to wonder if maybe I was asexual or ace or some other term I’m not even aware of, I can’t deny I’m relieved. Because the thoughts and images storming my head are anything but platonic and non-sexual. If anything, I should be embarrassed by the definite tingle growing in my panty region. That hot, moist tingle making me decidedly uncomfortable and fighting the urge to squirm. That or jump into his arms and grind myself against his hard, good-smelling body.

“I don’t say things I don’t mean.” His voice is dark as the night and I swallow. 

Hot. I’m so hot I feel like I’m sweating again, as though I’d just stuck my head in the oven.

Don’t forget horny.

“Your grandmother knew what she was doing when she gave you that recipe.”

As if it’s happening to someone else, I realize my fingertips still hover near his mouth and I yank back my hand, cram it into my lap beneath the cover of the table and sock my other fist into that tingling area to keep from doing something stupid. Like petting his beard. Or brushing my thumb over his lips. “Thank you.”

Did he hear the little whimper in my voice? God, I hope not. 

“Put me down for two dozen of those pies,” he says, standing so abruptly his chair bumps into the table behind him. “And a mix of everything else. Keep four of the pies separate and combine twenty of them with these cupcakes and cookies, a dozen or so with each of the pies.”

“So twenty packages with one pie and an assortment of a dozen cookies and cupcakes, and one package with four pies.” He nods and I stand too, aware of how he towers over me. “That’s a big order.”

“It’s been a good year at the yard. They deserve it.”

I scramble over to the counter and grab a business card from the holder that looks like an ice cream sundae. “Here’s our email. Let me know the delivery date when you can. At least two or three business days’ notice will work. More would be super.”

He looks at the card but doesn’t take it. “What if I’d rather call?”

“Not a problem.” AT&T just canceled everyone’s landlines, despite decades of relying on it and many people just outside of town having zero cell reception because the towers get blocked by the mountains. Daphne’s still figuring out our options, hoping to keep the same number with a Wi-Fi service, but we aren’t sure yet. So I scribble my personal number on the back and hold it out. “Here you go.”

“That works.” It’s a low growl as his fingers brush mine—intentionally?—as he takes the card.

“I’ll call you,” he says with a confident nod, tucking the card into his shirt pocket, right over his heart.

I walk him to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open. The cold December air rushes in, breaking the warm spell of the bakery. Feels as though a front has blown through just since he arrived.

That or his presence has got you all hot and bothered.

“Good night, Mr. Tanner,” I say, hoping I sound professional. Especially after the anything-but-professional thoughts I’ve had since he arrived.

He pauses crossing the threshold, silhouetted against the dark night. “Royce,” he corrects. “Just Royce from now on.”

“Good night, Royce. Thanks for stopping by.”

He nods once and his eyes seem to linger on my face before he steps outside. I watch him stride to his truck, his broad shoulders squared against the cold, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

He starts his engine, but refuses to put it in reverse until I close and lock the door. I do, watching as his taillights disappear down the single paved street in Wild Rose. My heart’s racing with thoughts I have no business thinking about a much older man.

Older man? That’s not the problem, and you know it.

Yeah, Dad was twelve years older than Mom. I’ve always appreciated a good mature man, I just haven’t reacted to any. Until now.

My ex-boyfriend’s father.

Naughty, naughty girl.

Maybe so. And yet, I can’t stop wondering what his beard would feel like against my skin. His lips against my mouth. His cherry-pie-coated tongue…

Well, everywhere.

I have a feeling it’s going to be a long, lonely night.