Page 9

T he sun is dipping low behind the trees, casting everything in this golden, buttery light that makes the entire ranch look like a country song music video.

Not the sad breakup kind.

One of the fun ones.

The kind with beers, dogs, and people who actually like each other.

It’s weird because I’m a Jersey girl through and through and country music isn’t usually our thing here.

But there’s always that odd breakthrough song. Add that to that one awesome vacation I took to Texas in college, and I have to tell you, I am a fan.

Anyway, smoke drifts lazily from the double grill out on Avery and Dante’s new stone patio.

They really outdid themselves.

Built it themselves, too, though let’s be real, she probably supervised while he Hulk-smashed his way through the dirt and carried slabs of stone like he was building a fortress.

The smell of grilled meat is basically a religious experience right now.

Chicken, ribs, sausages, burgers—I don’t even eat red meat that often, but I’m contemplating proposing to whoever’s responsible for that smoky, spicy, mouthwatering scent.

Which is why I’m currently carrying two giant containers— macaroni salad in one hand, coleslaw in the other —over to the massive picnic table that’s already half-filled with people and side dishes and drinks.

Rosie is running through the yard, wearing clothes this time. She’s playing with a couple of kids— goats, not children .

The sight is something else. Still, it’s sweet, innocent, and homey, and I-I kind of like it.

Adults are lounging with beers and red solo cups, and someone is playing country rock from a speaker that’s been duct-taped to a porch post.

It’s chaotic.

It’s loud.

It’s borderline magical.

I’m filled with a sense of longing. I mean, it’s been so long since I felt anything like this.

Camaraderie. Kinship. Family.

I set the bowls down, arrange the serving spoons like I’m on a cooking show, and then turn back toward the house.

“Napkins,” I mutter to myself. “Get the napkins before someone wipes barbecue sauce on their jeans and blames me.”

I slip back inside, grateful for the moment of quiet—until the kitchen door swings open behind me and in walks Zeke.

Carrying a plate.

Of brownies.

My eyes narrow.

“Are those brownies ?”

“Cinnamon cayenne brownies.”

He looks almost guilty.

“Seriously?”

He shrugs those massive shoulders, making all my girly bits perk up.

“Yeah.”

“So, you can bake?”

He sets the plate on the counter and shrugs. “Sure. I like it. I mean, sometimes. Since Penny had the twins, she’s not baking as much and we all developed a taste for chocolate. It was self-defense.”

“You always over-explain yourself?” I tease.

“Well, now I’m not sure I should answer that.”

I step closer, eying the glossy top layer of the brownies, the faint hint of spice in the air. “So, you really made these?”

“Guess I’m just full of surprises.”

“Oh, I bet you are,” I murmur, grabbing a napkin and pretending to dab sweat off my forehead. “Seriously. Cayenne and cinnamon? Are they spicy spicy? Or just a little warm?”

He shrugs again, but there’s a spark in his eyes now. “You’ll have to find out for yourself.”

I blink at him, my lips twitching. “Are you flirting with me using baked goods?”

“Maybe.”

Goddamn. This man is sex on legs. His voice is deep and rumbly and his crazy indigo eyes are following me, sparkling like he’s got a secret he can’t wait to share.

I raise an eyebrow.

“You tellin’ me you want me to put something hot in my mouth?”

He goes very still.

Then, slow and rough, “I want you to see if you can handle it, Petals.”

Oh no.

Oh yes.

I step even closer, toe-to-toe now, looking up at him like I’m not about to self-combust in the flirty maxi-dress I put on just for dinner.

It’s got spaghetti straps and an elastic bodice that hugs my boobs just right. The rest of the thin fabric sort of drapes my body in a way that should be modest, but there are long slits cut strategically up the sides and, in the back and front, revealing glimpses of my legs when I walk.

His chest seems to rumble, and I want to high five myself when I spy him checking out a bit of thigh peeking through the side.

“Zeke Gordon, is this your idea of foreplay?”

He leans in a hair’s breadth, voice like smoke and sin. “Would you run if it was?”

My breath catches.

“No,” I whisper.

A beat passes.

My heart is pounding.

Then a kid shrieks outside, someone yells about the corn getting too charred, and the moment breaks like a soap bubble.

I blink and take a hasty step back.

“Right. Napkins. Getting the napkins.”

He chuckles low in his chest and picks up a brownie.

“Better save room for dessert, Petals.”

I grab the napkins and flee from the kitchen, face flaming and pulse racing.

Oh my God. Can you die from too much angst?

If so, then I’m gonna die on this ranch.

And it’s going to be his fault.