Page 1 of Cinnamon Rolls and the Guy Next Door (Holiday Romance in Snowflake Falls #16)

Chapter One

JUNIPER

The opening drums and guitars of Metallica's Master of Puppets thunder through my apartment, and I crank it louder. That’s the big perk of living above the only other unit in this converted old house; when my downstairs neighbor is gone on one of his mysterious motorcycle trips, I can blast my music at full volume at any time. Even pre-dawn.

And he’s been gone for five days.

I pull another test batch of cinnamon rolls from the oven, steam curling up as I slice one open. The Fall Festival baking competition is two days away, and my signature cinnamon rolls still aren’t right; the crumb too dense, the swirl uneven, the flavor safe. Predictable, even.

Outside, October is in full swing. Fresh snow dusts the mountains, aspens blaze gold, and the air smells like wood smoke and pine trees. Our building sits on the edge of Snowflake Falls, twenty minutes from The Coffee Heart, where I pick up shifts and sell my pastries.

My phone buzzes.

Mom: Hope you’re not still wasting time with that baking thing. The Marriott corporate position is still available. Call me.

I put the phone down and crank up the volume. Time to start batch four.

“What do you think, Stanley?” I ask my sourdough starter. I read somewhere that it can help make your baking taste better if you talk to it. “Cardamom in the filling? Or is that too risky for small-town judges?”

Stanley bubbles noncommittally as the rumble of a motorcycle cuts through the music. My pulse jumps.

He’s back.

After three months, I recognize my neighbor’s motorcycle’s deep growl. Not that we’ve ever spoken. I don’t even know his name, only that he rides with the Ridge Renegades MC and is gone more often than he’s home.

I walk over to the window. He swings off his bike in one fluid motion, leather cut stretching across hugely broad shoulders. The porch light catches his thick, dark hair as he pulls off his helmet.

He looks up.

I yelp, duck back, knocking measuring cups to the floor in a metallic clatter that even heavy metal can’t cover.

“Shit.”

By the time I peek again, his apartment door closes with a thud that vibrates through my floorboards.

This is ridiculous. I’m twenty-seven, not a teenager with a crush. So what if he has arms that could bench press me? None of it matters. Guys like him don’t go for girls like me. Too wholesome. Too vanilla. Too…

The smoke alarm shrieks.

“Crap!” Black smoke pours from my oven. My test batch is charcoal, and two of the rolls are on fire. I yank the pan barehanded and then drop it with a crash. Pain shoots through my palm. Eyes watering, I flap a towel at the alarm.

Three hard knocks. From my floor.

I freeze. He must’ve come up the exterior stairs.

“Hey? You alive in there?”

That voice. Rough gravel and warm whiskey. My belly heats up at the same time as my heart thumps faster in my chest.

“I’m fine!” I squeak, “Totally fine! Everything’s under control!”

“There’s smoke coming from under your door.”

“It’s just a minor baking incident.” I jab the alarm off.

“You gonna open up, or should I call the fire department?”

The thought of Snowflake Falls FD seeing me in a flour-covered Ramones tee and cherry-print pajama shorts is the deciding factor. I crack the door open.

“See? Definitely not on fire.”

And there he is.

My neighbor looks like sin in a black henley under his open leather cut, road-dusty jeans, helmet hair tousled, sculpted jaw shadowed.

Close-up, he smells like leather, engine oil, and spice.

His emerald green eyes sweep me slowly; my messy hair, the flour handprint on my thigh, the towel in my grip.

His intense gaze feels almost like a touch, heat dragging across my skin.

“You sure? Something’s burning.” His voice drops on burning , and for a wild second, I wonder if he means the crackling tension between us.

“My rolls!” I bolt back inside, the door swinging wide. What if they’re still on fire?

The ruined pan sits on the floor like a monument to failure. I throw them into the trash, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“Are they for the Fall Festival competition?”

I jump. He’s followed me in, filling my kitchen with his massive frame until the vintage appliances and gingham curtains look like dollhouse props.

“Yeah. Still perfecting the recipe. Help yourself.” I dump the last charred roll. “I’m Juniper, by the way.”

“Kieran.” He picks up one from batch two.

I watch, riveted, as he bites. His eyes close. A low sound rumbles from his chest, vibrating straight through me.

“Fuck, that’s good.”

My thighs clench. Heat spreads from my chest to my core.

“It’s too dense,” I argue, desperate to focus on anything but his mouth on my pastry. “I think the cinnamon distribution’s uneven.”

He takes another slow bite. Licks glaze from his lip. “It tastes perfect to me.”

“Perfect’s boring. Safe. Vanilla.” The bitterness in my voice sounds like my ex.

“Vanilla can be complex.” He steps closer. My back hits the counter. The heat of his body seeps into me. “Most people don’t know how to appreciate it.”

His gaze drops to my chest, then my thighs, before snapping back to my eyes. My nipples pebble under my shirt.

“You should open some windows,” he rasps, stepping back. “The smoke’s thick in here.”

I exhale, shaky. “Right. Windows.”

I brush his chest as I pass. We both freeze, then I force myself forward and fling open the sash. The October air rushes in, crisp and clear, and I take a deep breath.

“Didn’t peg you for a metalhead,” he nods at my speaker.

“Is that because I wear vintage dresses and bake for a living?”

“Because you seem way too sweet for songs about death and destruction.”

“I’m not that sweet.”

His mouth curves into a lopsided grin. It’s devastating. “I’m starting to see that.”

The air thickens again, charged, and I swallow.

“I should let you get back.” He heads to the door, voice casual, his eyes anything but. “Try another batch again, but with brown butter in the dough. It adds taste without losing the classic flavor.”

I blink. “You bake?”

“My grandma taught me a few things.” He pauses in the doorway, filling it. “See you around, Juniper.”

The way he says my name, low and deliberate, sends a delicious shiver down my spine.

When he’s gone, I stand in the smoky kitchen, my hands throbbing in pain, but my entire body’s humming. Below me, Kieran’s door shuts. There are only floorboards between us.

“Brown butter, huh?” I murmur to Stanley.

Stanley bubbles in agreement.

Two more days until the competition. Enough time to perfect my recipe. And now I know my neighbor’s name, plus the sound he makes when he eats my rolls.

How am I meant to focus on my baking?