Page 7 of Cinnamon Rolls and the Guy Next Door (Holiday Romance in Snowflake Falls #16)

Chapter Seven

JUNIPER

The trophy sits on my kitchen counter, catching the afternoon light. It should feel like a victory. Instead, it feels like theft.

I've replayed that moment a hundred times. Kieran reaches into his oven, his hand jerking, the pan flipping. Except his hand didn't jerk. There was no stumble. He threw those rolls on the ground as deliberately as if he'd painted a target on the floor first.

For me.

My phone buzzes with congratulatory texts I can't bring myself to answer. Luna wants to throw me a party at The Coffee Heart. My mom actually said she was proud, though she followed it with questions about when I'm getting a ‘real’ job.

Stanley bubbles on the counter, indifferent to my moral crisis.

“He gave up his win. Who does that?” I tell him.

Kieran had to attend a meeting with his club, but told me he’d be back by late afternoon. I play music and try to distract myself.

Three knocks on my door. Soft, almost hesitant.

Kieran looks rough. His leather cut is absent, replaced by a plain black henley. There's a bruise darkening along his jaw that wasn't there this morning.

“Jesus. What happened to your face?”

“Disagreement with a brother.”

“About the competition?”

“About my priorities.”

I step aside to let him in. He moves stiffly, favoring his right side.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“I'm fine.”

“That’s crap and you know it!” I lift his shirt without asking. A bruise the size of my hand blooms across his ribs. “Kieran…”

“It looks worse than it is.” He catches my hands, stilling them against his skin.

“That doesn't make this okay.”

“No,” he agrees, giving me that lopsided grin. “But it was worth it.”

“Worth it? You threw away your win and got beaten up for it.”

“You think I give a shit about winning a baking competition?” His hands tighten on mine. “Juniper, you deserved that trophy. Your rolls were perfect?—”

“They weren't, though. The mixer broke. My timing was off. The glaze was rushed.”

“And they were still better than mine.”

“We'll never know that, will we? Because you threw yours on the floor.”

We stare at each other. He's still holding my hands against his chest. His heartbeat thumps under my fingers, steady and strong.

“Why? Tell me the real reason.”

He's been quiet for so long, I think he won't answer.

“The president needed to be visible at the festival.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “It was important to the club that we were there all day, with witnesses.”

“An alibi?”

He doesn't deny it.

“Jesus, Kieran. What are you involved in?”

“Nothing that touches you. Nothing that will ever touch you.” His voice is fierce. “But when I saw you struggling with that mixer, saw you fighting so hard to finish, I realized something.”

“What?”

“That I'd rather lose everything than watch you miss out on something you deserved.”

My throat tightens. “One of your MC fought you because you threw the competition?”

“No. He hurt me because I chose you over the club. He thought it wasn’t respectful. I showed him he was wrong and that you’re mine.” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “And I'd do it again. Every time. I would always choose you.”

I kiss him. Can't not kiss him. He makes a pained sound against my mouth, but when I try to pull back, he follows, deepening the kiss until I can't breathe.

I gasp for air. “We've only known each other for three days.”

“Doesn't matter.”

“Your club?—”

“Will get over it or they won't. Either way, I'm not giving you up.”

“Kieran—”

“I love you.”

“You can't love me. It hasn’t been long enough…”

"I loved you the first time I heard you playing your metal music at three in the morning. Loved you more when I tasted one of your cinnamon rolls for the first time. Loved you most when you kissed me in front of everyone, showing them all that you belong to me and I to you.”

My eyes burn. “This is crazy.”

“So let’s be crazy.”

I laugh. “You need ice for those ribs, bad boy.”

“I need you .”

“You have me.” The truth of it settles into my bones.

“Yeah?”

“I love you too.” Saying it feels like jumping into thin air. Terrifying and exhilarating all at once. “I have no idea how this works or what we do next, but I love you.”

His smile transforms his whole face. “We'll figure it out.”

“Your club…”

“Clay got what he needed… his alibi. There’s one guy who’s pissed about how it went down, but he can't deny it worked.”

“The bruises suggest otherwise.”

“The bruises were just him making a point. It's already over.” He winces as he shifts. “Mostly.”

I get him ice and pain meds, and make him sit while I fuss over him. He watches me with this soft expression that makes my chest ache.

“What?” I ask.

“Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“How the hell am I going to explain to Gram that I lost a baking competition on purpose?”

“Tell her you were defending my honor.”

“Were you dishonored?”

“My mixer was clearly sabotaged.” I grin. “Probably by Beatrice. She looked shifty.”

“Eighty-year-old Beatrice Howl sabotaged your mixer?”

“She wanted that trophy real bad.”

He laughs, then immediately regrets it, hand going to his ribs.

“Bed, Kieran. You need rest,” I order.

“Is that an invitation?”

“It's a medical directive.”

“Sexy.”

I walk with him to my bedroom, carefully arrange him on the bed with pillows supporting his bruised side.

Then I curl up next to him, careful not to jostle his body.

We lie there in comfortable silence, his hand playing with my hair.

Outside, in the town square, the festival is still in full swing.

But here, in our little bubble, there's just us.

Kieran’s chest rumbles. “Next year, we should enter as a team.”

I prop up on an elbow to look at him: bruised jaw, tired eyes, heartfelt expression.

“You're serious.”

“Dead serious. You and me. Taking on the baking world together.”

“We'd be unstoppable.”

“Fucking unstoppable.”

I kiss him gently, mindful of his injuries. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Next year. Team registration. You and me, baby.”

His smile is brighter than my trophy. “You and me. I love the sound of that.”