Page 6

CHAPTER 5

MAGGIE

T he morning after the alley incident feels like someone else’s nightmare has overtaken me—one that clings to my skin and breathes down my neck. I’ve barely slept. My muscles ache from tension, my eyes are gritty with exhaustion, and my brain spins like a mixer left on high. Every time I close my eyes, I see the alley. The dark. The glint of something in one man’s hand. The smug tilt of the other's grin. But most of all—I see Gideon. Stepping forward like the storm he is. Unshakably calm, carved from something harder than stone. Solid. Dangerous. And far too steady in the face of chaos. It rattles me almost as much as the attack itself.

I dream of Gideon—of his commanding presence stepping out of the shadows to rescue me. Only this time, the alley isn’t cold or dark. It shimmers with heat and the weight of expectation. He pulls me against him, those same hands that had pinned a man to a wall now dragging down the zipper of my dress with devastating patience.

In the dream, he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, my lips—each kiss slow, deliberate, possessive. My body melts into his, desire pouring through me like molten sugar. His strength isn’t a threat. It’s a sanctuary. And when his hands finally slide beneath the fabric at my hips, coaxing pleasure from me like he already knows the recipe by heart, I arch into him and give in.

I wake gasping, sheets tangled, heart pounding, and then curse myself for letting him into my dreams at all.

When I step out of my building, hair hastily twisted into a bun and coffee in hand, he’s waiting. He leans against the same lamppost as if it had been made for him, arms crossed in that patient predator stillness. Sunglasses shade his eyes, but I don’t need to see them to feel the weight of his gaze. He wears jeans and a black t-shirt; they cling to his torso like a second skin, showcasing his quiet strength, which warns rather than boasts. Every inch of him looks like trouble wrapped in calm, and the worst part? My pulse jumps like it’s happy to see him.

“You sleep?” he asks, his voice smooth and deep, cutting through the morning quiet like it has every right to be there. He falls into step beside me with a certainty that steals my breath for half a second, as if his presence isn’t just assumed—it’s inevitable. Like we’ve been doing this for years. Like the world has already decided where he belongs, and it’s right next to me.

“Barely.” I don’t look at him. Can’t. If I do, I might remember the dream too vividly—the way his hands had felt in that not-quite-real world, sliding down my body, undoing me like a ribbon. My cheeks warm just thinking about it. We walk in silence, my heart thudding with leftover adrenaline and something far more dangerous. Something want-shaped. Eventually, I mutter, “Kari is so dead.”

But the words lack bite. They’re mostly cover. A shield to mask the truth slinking through my bloodstream—the truth that part of me is relieved he was there. That despite the danger, despite the chaos, part of me slept better knowing he was near. That I’d woken up with the ghost of his hands still on my skin, and for a moment—before the guilt, before the embarrassment—I’d wanted to fall back into that dream and stay there.

It terrifies me. But not nearly as much as how good it had felt.

I call my best friend from the bakery’s back hallway as I slip on my apron, one hand still trembling from nerves and not enough sleep. The second Kari picks up, I don’t bother with hello. My voice is low, sharp. "You sent your brother to babysit me? To stand outside my door like some sexy human alarm system?"

There’s a pause. Silence is never good where Kari is concerned.

“Oh good,” Kari says cheerfully, completely unfazed. “I was starting to worry that you’d miss your own plot twist. But now that we’re here, how are the brooding bodyguard vibes working for you?”

"You're the writer. I don't do plot twists and I don't need a bodyguard, brooding or otherwise."

“Correction,” Kari says. “I sent a trained, off-duty Texas Ranger to make sure you don’t get mugged, kidnapped, or murdered in your own alley. You’re welcome.”

I rub my temple. “You had no right...”

“I had every right,” Kari snaps. “You think I’m going to sit back while my best friend brushes off being targeted like it’s a faulty smoke detector?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Besides,” Kari adds more softly, “last night proves you needed someone there.”

“How do you know about that?”

“He is my big brother…”

I don’t argue. Because deep down, under all my pride and resistance, Kari is right. As much as I hate the idea of needing protection, last night shook me to the core. And knowing Gideon had been there—had seen the threat before I had, had stepped in like it was second nature—makes me feel something dangerously close to safe. It also makes me feel something else entirely, and that’s the part I don’t want to name just yet.

After opening and running through the morning rush with one eye constantly tracking Gideon’s presence in the corner of my kitchen—calm, quietly competent, and somehow always in my periphery—I finally break down. Not because he’s in the way, but because every time I turn, he’s there. Watching without judgment. Moving with practiced ease. And every once in a while, our hands brush as we pass trays or utensils, sending a jolt of awareness straight through my spine. It’s not just distracting. It’s disarming. I need control in my kitchen. The problem with Gideon is that while I feel safe with him, I also feel tempted. That’s when I snap.

“You want to work here?” I ask, dragging him into the walk-in so we can talk without being overheard. “Fine. But only if you can actually bake.”

“I can,” he says, with that quiet certainty that makes my stomach flip. Not cocky. Just... sure. Like he knows I won’t believe him, but he also knows it doesn’t matter—because he’ll prove it, and I’ll see.

“Prove it.”

And he does, moving with a quiet confidence that makes my breath catch, sleeves rolled, apron tied without fuss. Then he gets to work. His hands—those same hands that had pinned a man to a wall just hours before—are now expertly folding batter, checking texture, adjusting temperature with an ease I hadn’t expected. The contrast rattles me. Power and patience, violence and delicacy. It should be unsettling. Instead, it’s... distracting. Addictive, even.

To my shock and reluctant admiration, Gideon handles the batter like a seasoned pro. His technique is unpolished but instinctive. His hands move with confidence and care, and within two hours, he has cupcakes cooling on trays. The trays look perfect, the cupcakes don’t look half bad.

I hate how impressed I am. It blooms in my chest like heat, stubborn and unwelcome. Every time I catch myself staring at the way his forearms flex as he stirs, or how he tastes the batter with a level of focus that makes my mouth dry, my pride wants to revolt. But my body? My body wants to lean closer, watch longer, and find out what else those hands are capable of when they’re not deflecting punches or folding flour.

Midway through the afternoon, I sigh and ask, "Do you even have a place to stay in the city, Bonham?"

“Nope,” he says, popping a cooled blueberry mini into his mouth with maddening ease. “Didn’t figure I’d need one yet.”

He chews slowly, like he has all the time in the world and no doubt I’ll end up offering. And damn it, he isn’t wrong. The way he leans against the counter, so relaxed and grounded in my space, it feels inevitable. Like he’s already decided where he belongs—and it’s here, with his hands in my batter and his mouth full of my blueberries.

I stare at him for a long second, then exhale.

“God help me,” I mutter. “My condo only has one bedroom, but I do have a murphy bed in the office area. It's yours, temporarily, if you want it. And I mean temporarily, Bonham. Don’t touch my bedroom, don’t touch my stuff, and don’t even think about confusing buttercream with bodyguard duty.”

I try to sound stern. I really do. But something about the way he looks at me—like he can see straight through my defenses and isn’t afraid of a single one—makes my voice sound thinner than I like. The worst part? Part of me wants him there. Not just for protection. But for the solid, quiet presence that has already started to feel too steady. Too familiar. Too tempting.

His grin is pure sin, lazy and slow like honey melting over something too hot to touch. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, but there is a glint in his eye that makes my stomach clench—like he’s heard the unspoken parts of my warning, the part that doesn’t mind him being too close. The part that maybe wants it.

That evening, after we lock up, Gideon ushers me into his vintage truck and drives us to my condo. He grabs his duffle bag and follows me silently inside. Once we enter, I can feel my entire body go on high alert.

"I normally like to shower in the morning. So you can shower at night if you want..."

"No long, luxurious bubble baths?" he teases, giving me an appraising look that makes me blush. I hope he doesn't notice.

"No. I hate bubble baths. They're too... passive."

"Ah," he says, his voice a shade lower, the smile curling at the edges of his mouth slow and deliberate. "You like your showers like your men—scorching, relentless, and impossible to ignore."

He lets the words hang there between us, heat pulsing in the pause that follows. The tease in his tone dances just close enough to seduction to make my breath hitch. Flustered and not knowing what else to say, I walk to my bedroom door, each step an effort to ignore the heat still lingering in the air between us.

"I'm afraid I'm really tired," I say, my voice thinner than usual. "I think tonight I'll take my shower and go straight to bed. You can use the shower in the morning. There’s also a powder room over there," I say, indicating its location.

I don’t glance back as I speak, but I feel his gaze all the same—like a touch I can’t shake. Every nerve under my skin buzzes, alive with everything I’m not letting myself feel. And when I finally close the door behind me, I don’t lean against it because I’m tired. I lean because my knees are no longer cooperating.

The next morning after breakfast, we head to the bakery. Gideon attempts to decorate a batch of cupcakes with all the seriousness of a man defusing a bomb. I catch him squinting at the piping bag like it has personally insulted his honor. He adjusts his grip like it’s a tactical weapon, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. When he finally frosts the cupcake, the result is so catastrophic—lumpy swirls, sagging edges, and something that might have been a rose if roses had been flattened by a truck and then run over again—that I have to walk away before I burst into laughter.

I duck behind the prep table, hands over my mouth, shoulders shaking. The frosting looks like a toddler with no motor skills and a deep-seated vendetta against buttercream had applied it. And yet... the sight of his big, battle-hardened hands fumbling through flower shapes tugs at my chest in a way I can’t quite shake.

I double over behind the prep table, muffling the laugh with the crook of my arm, tears stinging my eyes. It wasn’t just bad—it was gloriously, epically bad. And yet... there was something undeniably endearing about it. This man, lethal and composed, a weapon in combat, earnestly trying to create buttercream rosettes with the same intensity he probably applied to hostage situations. That kind of effort? It cracked something open in me. Something soft.

“What the hell is that supposed to be?” I ask, pointing at a mangled rose.

“Ambition,” he says. “Felt right in the moment.”

I roll my eyes, but my chest tightens anyway. Because he tried. He was trying—and not in the casual, half-hearted way most people offered help. No, he was giving it his full attention, fumbling through flour and buttercream like the mission mattered. And maybe that’s what got me most. That this dangerous, brooding man with callused hands and a soldier’s stare was putting effort into my world. My space. My rules. He was meeting me where I lived, and that was the kind of intimacy that snuck past my walls before I could stop it.

Then the flour delivery arrived. Wrong brand. Wrong size. Again. This wasn’t the first careless error; we dismissed the first one as chance, but this one wasn’t a coincidence. I feel it like a punch to the gut. I check the invoice twice, then the original order, fingers moving faster as my breathing tightens. I hadn’t messed up. I know I hadn’t. The creeping dread that had been building all week twists tighter in my chest, wrapping around my ribs like a vise. My jaw clenches. My pulse kicks hard enough to make my vision blur for a beat. Something was wrong. And it was getting worse.

Gideon says nothing, but I can feel his attention sharpen beside me, like a lens clicking into tighter focus. It wasn’t just the error he zeroed in on—it was me. The way my shoulders tensed. The way my jaw flexed. The flicker of panic I tried to swallow down. He watched it all with that quiet, methodical intensity that made my skin prickle, like I was under examination and protection all at once. Taking notes. Tracking patterns. Calculating the angles of pressure. Waiting for the next shoe to drop—and already preparing to crush it under his boot when it did.

And for once, I don’t mind that someone else is watching. I feel the weight of his gaze like a second skin—steady, capable, almost comforting in a way I don’t want to name. Gideon didn’t just see the surface. He saw the cracks forming underneath; the pressure mounting. And that unshakable sense that he would catch whatever broke before it hit the floor makes me exhale just a little deeper. I just hope he’s fast enough—and fierce enough—to stop whatever storm is building on the horizon.