Page 3 of Cinnamon Rolls and the Guy Next Door (Holiday Romance in Snowflake Falls #16)

Chapter Three

JUNIPER

My shift at The Coffee Heart drags like cold molasses. Kieran was gone all day yesterday, and I went to bed early, so I didn’t hear him come home. I was up at the crack of dawn, prepping my pastries for today until the oven started acting up.

His motorcycle was parked outside, so I kept the noise down and left quietly, trying not to bang the door.

At least everything I’ve baked is selling fast, including my cinnamon rolls. But every time the bell over the door jingles, my pulse jerks, expecting broad shoulders and a leather cut. He doesn’t walk in. I tell myself I don’t care as I wipe the front counter. Again.

“You’ve wiped that spot six times,” Luna says, hip-checking me as she sails past with a tray of mugs. Her glossy ponytail swishes in accusation. “What’s up, Junie?”

“Nothing. Thinking about the competition.” I steam milk like the wand owes me a favor.

“Mmhmm.”

“And I’m just tired. My oven is being weird. It keeps heating up and then switching itself off. It’s not ideal.” I line up the cups like soldiers.

“That sucks. Have you been practicing?” Luna asks.

“Yeah. I don’t have much else to do. I live the life of a nun. I deleted all those dating apps; I just don’t think I’m a hot proposition right now. I'm going to concentrate on winning the competition tomorrow instead.”

The bell chimes.

It’s not him. The pastel-clad Mrs. Trent wants her decaf and to lecture me about how I should be dressing more up-to-date. I make her drink, smiling sweetly and biting my tongue.

“Junie.” Luna’s voice goes soft as she slides back over beside me. “You know your biker neighbor special-orders your baking, right? Every week. Sometimes twice. Always asks if you made them.”

My hand stalls on the filter. “He does?”

“For months.” She bumps my shoulder. “Maybe stop assuming you’re destined for singledom when a guy who looks like he stepped out of Sons of Anarchy is chasing your pastry.”

The bell chimes again, and this time my whole body knows who it is before I look up.

Kieran fills the doorway, leather cut over a gray T-shirt that clings to every plane of muscle. His dark hair is damp, as if he’s just showered. When his eyes find mine across the crowd, heat arcs through me so sharply that I have to hold onto the counter with both hands.

“Kieran!” Luna calls, far too cheerfully. “Your usual?”

He nods and makes his way to the table near the back. There’s a festival planning committee meeting going on, and with his leather and boots, he looks almost comically out of place. I’m acutely conscious of his eyes on me as I needlessly rearrange the pastry display.

Kieran’s brother Grayson comes in. He runs the local wildlife rehabilitation center and is a bona fide mountain man. He walks over to greet his brother while Luna makes his order. I’m busy with the afternoon rush, so I don’t notice Grayson leaving.

It’s quieter when Kieran stands up and his big boots thud toward the counter. Shit, is he coming to talk to me? Maybe all the early morning music I play bothers him, despite his being nice about it yesterday? Or is he going to give me some more advice about brown butter?

I smile, looking up into his green eyes and trying my hardest not to blush.

“More coffee?”

“Actually, I need to talk to you, Juniper.”

My mouth goes dry. “Um… I’m working?—”

“Take your break,” Luna says, already tugging at my apron ties. “I’ve got this. Scoot.”

Kieran waits, huge and silent, while I grab my jacket. We step outside into the October air, gold and orange leaves spinning in deep drifts on the sidewalk.

“Walk?” he asks, voice a low scrape that does indecent things to my insides.

I nod because speech is beyond me.

We head toward the town square. For a minute, the silence is easy, the kind that hums, our arms brushing now and then, each accidental touch sparking along my nerves. He matches his long stride to mine like he’s done it a thousand times in his head.

“I wanted to tell you I’ve entered the competition.”

I stop. “What?”

“The Fall Festival baking competition. I put my name in.”

Suspicion narrows my eyes. “What category?”

“Breakfast pastries.”

“My category.” I fold my arms. “You’re competing against me ?”

He smiles in a way that makes my stomach flip. “With you. Not against you, Juniper.”

I shake my head. “That’s not how competitions work.”

“It is if you’re doing it right.” He takes a measured step closer. I hit a tree before I realize I’ve backed up against it, the bark rough. He braces a hand beside my head, not touching, but caging me in anyway.

“I’m not going to sweat too hard to win the trophy, Juniper. I’m not a real baker like you.”

“Then why enter?”

His eyes drop to my mouth and I hold my breath. “You know why.”

“This is crazy,” I whisper.

“Probably.” His voice roughens. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since you moved in. That first night you sang Iron Maiden off-key through the vent.” His gaze flicks to my throat, back to my eyes. “Drove me insane.”

“You don’t know me.” My protest sounds weak, even to me.

“I know enough.” His fingers hover by my cheekbone, and I lean closer before I can stop myself. “When do you finish work?”

My breath shudders out. “I need to practice tonight. My oven’s temperature gauge is faulty; it keeps switching off, and I’m behind on my prep.”

“Use mine.” The words are a command.

“I…Kieran…”

“My kitchen.” His wicked half-smile cuts through my hesitation. “My rules. In return, you can school me a little. I’m no threat to you; the least you can do is help me improve.”

“This is a terrible idea.”

Kieran pushes away from the tree, giving me space even though his eyes are locked on mine. “Seven, Juniper. Don’t make me come up and get you.”

He turns and walks off, leaving me sprawled against the trunk, pulse trying to pound out of my skin. I get myself together and walk slowly back to work. Luna whoops from the café doorway.

“What happened?” Her eyes are bright.

“He’s going to let me use his oven. I have to be there at seven tonight. And he’s entering the baking competition, as unlikely as it sounds.”

“If you don’t show up at seven, I will personally drag you down those stairs. You need to wear your green dress.” She beams at me and claps her hands together in delight.

A little after seven, I’m outside his door with a box of ingredients. I’ve showered and am wearing my favorite vintage dress, a deep green number with cherry blossoms, cap sleeves, and a full circle skirt. I tell myself the dress is practical under an apron, but my body calls me a liar.

The door swings open before I knock.

Kieran has changed into a black T-shirt, and his feet are bare, which should make him look less intimidating. It doesn’t. Suddenly, everything is intimate in a way that makes my knees shaky.

“You came.” His gaze drags over me, hot and possessive, “Good girl.”

The words spark all the way down my spine while wetness pools between my legs. “I need to practice.”

“Sure.” Kieran clears his throat, his eyes wicked as he steps back. “Come in.”

His place mirrors mine in layout but feels entirely different: dark furniture, neat lines, zero clutter. Not the chaos I expected. It smells like leather, cedar, and the spice that clings to his skin. A tall bookcase surprises me with rows of paperbacks packed tight.

“The kitchen’s this way.”

It’s larger than mine, anchored by a professional-grade gas range that makes me moan before I can catch it.

“Juniper,” he mutters, heat in his voice. “Make all the sounds you want. Especially that one.”

I busy my hands with bowls and flour to hide the blush heating up my cheeks. “Okay, so are you watching or baking with me?”

“Oh, I’m with you. All the way.” His voice is a low rumble.

“Let’s start simple. Dough?”

He crowds the counter, close enough that his forearm brushes mine. “Tell me what to do and I’ll follow orders.”

I measure, he pours. He’s focused, serious, and careful with the delicate stuff. His hands are huge, rough, and when I guide them over the soft dough, a low sound grates from his chest. My body answers embarrassingly fast.

“Like that?” he asks, voice raspy.

“Softer.” I move behind him, palms over his, molding pressure and motion, my front to his back. He stills, sucking in a breath.

“Firm but yielding,” I whisper. “You feel it?”

“Yeah,” he says roughly. “I feel it.”

We work in a bubble of heat and flour dust as the dough succumbs to his big palms.

“Now we let it rise,” I manage.

“For how long?” He turns, caging me against the counter without touching. It still feels like contact everywhere.

“An hour.”

“What do we do for an hour?” His thumb traces my bottom lip. My brain jitters, and I’m unable to reply for a moment. We shouldn’t be doing this.

“Kieran—”

“Tell me to stop.”

I can’t. I won’t.

He leans down and our mouths crash together.

He kisses like he rides his motorcycle, all controlled power that’s just barely leashed; filthy and perfect.

He lifts me like I weigh nothing, sets me on the counter, and steps between my knees.

Heat detonates low in my belly as my nipples poke at the thin fabric of my dress.

“Fuck, Juniper,” he groans against my mouth. “You taste even better than your cinnamon rolls.”

I laugh, breathless. “That is the worst line…”

He kisses me harder, exploring every inch of my mouth with his tongue. His hands span my waist, thumbs stroking bare skin where my dress has ridden up. I arch helplessly into him, needy and unashamed.

The timer beeps.

We break apart, breathing like we’ve run a marathon, our foreheads pressed together.

“The dough,” I say on a gasp.

“Right.” Kieran doesn’t move. “We should check it.”

“We should.”

Neither of us moves for a minute. Then he eases me down, palms lingering on my thighs, and steps back slowly.

I try to tell him what to do, but I can’t concentrate. Every brush of our fingers lights a spark in my core. I can’t tear my gaze from his. By the time the rolls come out, the kitchen smells divine. I taste his final batch and blink.

“These are good, Kieran. Really good.”

“I had an excellent teacher.” His eyes drop to my mouth as I lick glaze from my finger. He leans in, catches my wrist, and, his eyes on mine, draws my finger to his lips. Heat slams through me at the first slide of his tongue.

“Perfect,” he rasps as he slides my finger into his mouth, gently tonguing it. His smile is filthy.

My knees nearly give out, and I shake my head before I lose the ability to form coherent thoughts. What the hell am I doing? Kieran’s my neighbor and my competition.

“I have to go. I really need to rest before the big day.”

He walks me to the door with a hand at the small of my back. My core clenches in response.

“Juniper,” he murmurs at the threshold, his deep voice filled with promise. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Sweet dreams.”

Lying in my bed, I replay his mouth on mine, the touch of his hands, and the feel of being lifted like I belonged in his space. I should be concentrating on the best strategy to win.

But the big, bad biker below me is all I can think about.