Page 12

CHAPTER 11

MAGGIE

I wake to the echo of his absence. The spot where Gideon had been is still warm, but he’s not here. For one soft second, I allow myself to believe he might just be in the bathroom or getting water—then my hand lands on the folded note resting on the pillow beside me.

On the roof. Back soon.

It’s scrawled in bold, military block letters, all edges and precision, just like him. No heart, no smiley face, no sweet nothings. Just presence. That’s so very Gideon. But it’s enough. More than enough, really. My fingers brush the paper as I sit up, his scent clinging to the sheets, and something inside me aches with the kind of longing I don’t want to name.

I pad barefoot to the kitchen, the moonlight still clinging to the loft like a secret. The space is quiet, too quiet, with only the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of waves breaking against the sand outside. I wander over to the desk nook, the office space tucked into the far corner of the open-plan loft where Gideon was supposed to have been sleeping on the murphy bed—so much for that plan.

I grab my phone and creep back into my bedroom. I sink into the reading chair tucked into a nook, phone to my ear, waiting as it rings. Kari picks up and yawns. I don’t realize how much I’ve been holding in until I hear her speak.

“Mags? Good god, do you know what time it is? If you're calling to tell me you’ve finally binged watched that docuseries I told you about…”

My throat tightens. My mouth opens, then shuts again. I swallow, force my voice into something resembling casual. “Not exactly.”

Kari’s voice softens immediately. “Okay. What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” I lie, my voice straining for casual but catching slightly at the end. “Just… needed to talk. Or vent. Or scream into the void for a second.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that stretches just long enough to make my stomach twist. Then Kari’s voice drops a notch, full of amused horror and something that sounds way too close to glee. “Oh, my God. You slept with him.”

I groan and fall back against the pillows, covering my face with one hand like I can smother the heat rising in my cheeks. “You’re not supposed to be psychic, Kari. That’s cheating.”

“I’m not. But I know you. And I know him. And I know that particular brand of existential dread in your voice. It’s the same one you had when you got accepted into pastry school and almost didn’t go because you were afraid you’d fall in love with the idea of something that might never love you back. You don’t get that tone unless your heart’s already more than halfway committed.”

I exhale through my nose, my chest tightening around the words before I speak them. “It was a mistake, or I thought it was. I tried convincing myself of that all day, but then...”

Even as I say it, something inside me flinches. The words don’t feel right. Should I even be talking to Kari about any of this? I feel like I’ve said too much and not enough—like the kind of thing you say when you’re trying to take back something that meant too much, too fast.

“Oh, honey,” Kari says, and the two words are packed with so much amusement, sympathy, and smug satisfaction that I can practically hear her grinning through the phone. It isn’t judgment—more like gleeful vindication. Like she’s been waiting years to see this exact emotional chaos unfold and is now living for every second.

“I mean it. He was there, I was stressed, and… it just happened. It shouldn't have, but it did... and then it happened again. It was a lapse, that’s all. A lapse. It’s not like we’re suddenly a thing now, or that there’s some epic love story brewing. It’s not that deep, Kari. Seriously. So whatever romantic comedy scenario you’ve cooked up in your head, maybe just… don’t. I don’t know why I called you...”

“You called me because I’m your best friend and you’ve been in love with Gideon since before he joined the Marines. Don’t even try to deny it. You used to turn into a babbling wreck any time he so much as looked in your direction. You’d blush for hours and then claim it was the heat or your blood sugar or Mercury being in retrograde or whatever excuse you thought sounded plausible at the time.” Kari’s voice is equal parts affectionate and smug, clearly reveling in every second of this development like she’s waited more than a decade for it to finally play out.

“That’s not fair. I’ve changed. I’m not that girl anymore. I don’t blush when someone gives me a second glance, and I don’t fantasize about someone who barely knew I existed. I run my own damn business, I take care of myself, and I don’t need anyone else to fix my problems.” That part about fantasizing about Gideon is a lie, but Kari doesn’t know that.

“No, you’re not,” agrees Kari. “You’re stronger. Smarter. Fiercer. And still absolutely horrible at lying to yourself—which, by the way, has always been kind of endearing. Like a baby duck trying to look intimidating. Except when it’s driving you crazy. Then it just makes me feel like I should charge for emotional labor, or at least handing out honorary therapy degrees.”

I close my eyes and groan. “What if I ruined everything?”

It’s not just Gideon I’m worried about. It’s the whole damn thing—my business, my sanity, my friendship with Kari. I feel as if everything is balancing on a blade’s edge. I don’t know what I’ll have left if I let this spiral, let myself fall for him, and everything goes sideways. I’ve opened a door I hadn’t meant to, and now I can’t unsee what’s on the other side.

“You didn’t.” Kari’s voice doesn’t waver—just the opposite. It steadies, softens. “Mags, look at me—well, mentally. You couldn’t ruin us if you tried. You’re my person. There’s nothing you could do, no matter how complicated or messy, that would change that. You hear me?”

“You can’t say that for certain. He’s your brother, and I know how close you are.”

Kari pauses. “I do know. Clearly you aren’t thinking straight. I do think, however, we need to acknowledge the slightly awkward, rather well-endowed, I’m told, elephant in the room.”

I groan again. “God, Kari, he’s your brother.”

“And you’ve seen him naked now. Thoroughly, I assume. I mean, I get it—he’s built like sin, moves like a military-grade panther, and probably has abs you could play xylophone solos on. But still. My brother, Mags. That’s sacred territory. There’s not enough brain bleach in the world, and I may need therapy. Or wine. Or a lobotomy… or a lifetime supply of cupcakes.”

“Oh my god, Kari,” I snort.

“Sorry, I cope with discomfort through humor. You know this.”

I laugh despite myself, the sound watery. “It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.”

But even as the words leave my mouth, they ring hollow. Because deep down, in some half-buried part of me, I don’t dare admit it out loud—I wanted it to mean something. This afternoon he made me feel that way in spades, but still. When the weight of him was still on my skin, and the silence had settled into something almost intimate… yeah. I wanted it. Wanted him.

“Wasn’t it? Hard truth time... I think you’ve always fantasized about you and Gideon…”

“You knew?”

“What do you think? I’m an idiot? I’m your best friend and he’s my big brother. You may have fantasized about having sex with him, but I had fantasies of my own...”

“Ew...”

“You are one sick puppy, you know that?” laughs Kari. “I always dreamed he’d realize how terrific you were, scoop you up like some brooding, broody bakery-themed romance novel hero, and carry you off into the sunset while your apron strings fluttered in the breeze. Then I’d get to have you for a sister and endless access to buttercream. Yum. Win-win.”

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I stare up at the ceiling, heart a mess of tangled threads. “I am so fucked up.”

Another beat of silence. Then Kari’s voice, quieter this time, almost cautious. “I don’t know that you are. I think men like Gideon can be incredibly imperceptive where their love lives are concerned. At least that’s what I tell myself…”

“Are we talking about Dalton?” Dalton Calhoun is one of the members of Gideon’s team and I know Kari has a major thing for him.

“We are not.”

“Liar.”

“Mags… what if none of this was random? What if Gideon didn’t just show up to help? What if that ridiculous hot-and-broody act he pulls around you is because he’s been circling you for years without knowing why? What if part of him came to Galveston because some part of him couldn’t not come? I mean, it wouldn’t be the weirdest thing to ever happen in our lives. And honestly, it would make a lot of sense. So don’t try to logic this away—lean into the weird for a minute and ask yourself if you really think this was coincidence.”

“He didn’t. You sent him.”

I mean it to sound firm, like I’m shutting the door on the idea, but the words lack heat. And the second they leave my mouth, I hate how unsure I sound. Because part of me—a small, traitorous part—wants to believe it.

“I asked him to help you,” Kari admits. “But he could have asked anyone, including the local cops. He could’ve passed it off to someone else or just kept tabs from a distance. But he came himself. No hesitation. And I don’t think that’s just big brother protective energy, Mags. I think he felt it. You. Something. What if there’s a reason… if it’s always been you? What if some part of him always knew where he was supposed to end up—and it just took a little sabotage and a cupcake crisis to get him here? What if this thing between you two wasn’t just timing or heat or stress, but something inevitable? Something that rewrites your whole damn life? Fate . ”

* * *

The envelope comes with the following morning’s deliveries, tucked between a vendor invoice and a glossy food distributor catalog.

Plain. No return address. Handwritten name.

I slice through the envelope’s flap without thinking, my fingers executing the well-practiced motion on autopilot. But the second I see what’s inside, my breath catches—and my pulse stutters. This isn’t a bill or a vendor update. It’s something colder. Something meaner. Something that sends an immediate chill racing down my spine.

Inside is a postcard—a photo of Galveston’s pier, old and faded. Just the words:

We’re not done, you and I.

Typed. No signature.

But the greasy fingerprint smeared across the front tells me everything I need to know.

My stomach turns to stone.

I fold it shut, my fingers trembling slightly, and slip it between two invoices in the folder I keep behind the counter. My breath comes shallow, chest tight. The chill that races down my spine doesn’t fade—it lingers, heavy and cold, coiling at the base of my neck like a warning.

I glance over my shoulder once, half-expecting to see Gideon watching me again, reading me too easily. But he’s not there. And somehow that makes it worse.

I won’t tell him. Not yet. Not until the tremor leaves my hands. Not until the dread stops scraping at my ribs like a dull blade. Not until I figure out what the hell this means—and what Chas Warren is trying to say by sending it now, when I’m already on edge.

I need to stay steady. For myself. For my business. I cling to the illusion of control amidst the spiraling mess.

Dalton and Gage arrive just before the late morning rush, posing as old military buddies in town for a visit. I know who they are, though I’ve never met them. I recognize Dalton immediately from the way Kari described him—cocky, all easy grin and reckless charm. Gage, on the other hand, is a quiet shadow—like he could blend in anywhere. He’s all sharp eyes and honed edges.

They don’t carry weapons—or at least not visibly—but the way they move, scan the space, exchange glances that mean more than words? It’s tactical. Controlled. Like they’re waiting for a breach. I’ve seen enough cooking competitions and bad reality TV to spot a team used to operating under pressure. They aren’t just visiting. They’re casing the place like it’s enemy territory. Recon unit, plain and simple. Disguised in civvies and cinnamon sugar.

Gideon introduces them with minimal fuss, and I offer them coffee and cinnamon twists without asking why they’re really here. I don’t need the answer spelled out.

Midday prep is a controlled whirlwind—flour in the air, timers beeping, staff hustling through tight choreography—and I’m right at the center. I move quickly, efficiently, hands dusted in sugar and tension, barking orders and assembling trays like my sanity depends on it.

Even so, I feel it. That pressure. That heat. I look up, and there he is. Gideon stands at the prep counter, arms folded across that annoyingly broad chest, eyes fixed on me like I’m a crime scene he’s piecing together. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches.

It’s not predatory, not exactly—but it’s not passive either. It’s Gideon. Focused. Intense. The kind of stare that sees more than it should and says nothing, which somehow makes it worse. My breath hitches. I drop my gaze, grab the next order slip, and will my hands to stop shaking. I can handle heat. Pressure. Chaos. I lack the ability to cope with that kind of knowing.

He isn’t hovering. He doesn’t interrupt. He just leans against the prep counter, arms crossed, gaze locked on me like he’s reading between the lines of my every move. It’s the way his eyes track my hands. The way he doesn’t look away when I glance at him. The way he doesn’t speak, but knows , and damn it, I hate how much that gets under my skin.

I double down on my tasks, barking instructions at my staff, measuring out ingredients with a level of precision that would impress a lab tech. But my fingers tremble when I grab the next order slip, and I know he sees it.

He says nothing... neither do I.

We close late that evening, exhaustion thick in the air. Dalton and Gage clean up with practiced efficiency, and the second the door locks behind the last customer, the shop falls into a hush. Gideon keeps his distance, sensing my fraying edges. I don’t say a word as we walk back to the loft. Dalton and Gage follow behind, chatting low between themselves.

Once inside, I mumble something about needing a shower and slip into my bedroom before anyone can stop me. I don’t turn on the water. Don’t change. Just sit down on the edge of my bed, head in my hands, the silence pressing too close. I don’t cry so much as leak—slow, bitter tears that burn on the way down.

The door creaks open. I don’t look up—I don’t need to. The bed dips beside me, and a strong, warm arm slides around my shoulders. Gideon doesn’t say a word.

I turn to him and finally let myself fall.

“I got a postcard,” I whisper, voice thick.

His jaw flexes against my hair, arms tightening.

“Typed. Said, ‘We’re not done you and I.’ I think it was Chas.”

He exhales, slow and low. “Warren? He’s already on our radar.”

“You knew?”

He doesn’t deny it, and for once, I don’t push. Instead, I lean into the heat of him, my forehead resting against his chest. For a long moment, neither of us speaks.

“You should be out there with them,” I mumble.

He curls his fingers under my chin and tilts my face up. “And leave you like this?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he says quietly. “But you don’t have to be.”

My breath hitches. I search his face, looking for pity, for judgment—anything I can use to shove him away. But there’s none. Just a quiet, unwavering presence.

“You’re infuriating,” I mutter.

His lips quirk. “You might find it hard to believe, but that’s not the first time I’ve heard that.”

Before I can snap back, he kisses me—slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that unravels me from the inside. He undresses me without hurry, like he’s peeling away all the layers I use to hold myself together. Then he strips and joins me under the covers, swallowing my weak protest about Dalton and Gage with a low growl against my throat.

“They already know,” he murmurs. “They just don’t say anything because they’re smarter than they look.”

The next morning, just as the bakery opens its doors, Gideon’s radio crackles to life in his pocket. Gage’s voice comes through, clipped and tight.

“He’s back.”

Gideon’s gaze snaps toward the rooftop across the street.

The hunt is on. “You and Dalton get eyes on him and report back.”