Page 1 of Ryder (Heart River Valley: Montana Protectors #3)

Dana

The predawn quiet of Hearts & Grinds is my favorite time of day. Just me, my recipes, and the gentle hum of the industrial mixer—no expectations, no disappointments, no family voices in my head telling me I’m throwing my life away.

“You’re humming again, Miss Lewis,” Elise, the owner, calls from the front, where she’s setting up the coffee station. “Let me guess—thinking about our best customer?”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I’m thinking about proper gluten development, thank you very much.” The dough under my hands is almost ready—soft, elastic, perfect. Like everything else in my kitchen, I can control this. Unlike the way my stomach does little flips every time Ryder walks in.

“Mhmm.” Elise’s knowing smile is audible. “That’s why you’re making his favorite cinnamon rolls. Again.”

“They’re everyone’s favorite,” I protest, though it sounds weak even to my own ears. “Besides, shouldn’t you be focusing on your own love life instead of mine? How’s that gorgeous husband of yours?”

“Rhett’s perfect, as always. And don’t change the subject. You know Ryder’s been single for months now. That disaster with the yoga instructor was his last attempt at dating.”

I try not to think about that—or any of his other dates. The parade of women who seem to match his easy charm and confident swagger so much better than a flour-covered baker who’s disappointed her entire family.

“Elise.” I give her my sternest look as I start rolling out the dough.

“He is a customer. A good customer, sure, but that’s all.

He flirts with everyone—it’s just who he is.

” The bell over the door chimes and both our heads snap up, but it’s just my friend coming in for her morning coffee before heading to her gallery. I tell myself I’m not disappointed.

“Who flirts with everyone?” Elena asks, blowing steam off the mug of coffee she served herself. “Are we talking about Ryder again?” Elena and her best friend Rachel were the first people I met when I moved here, and I’m lucky to call both of them close friends. Most of the time.

“No,” I say at the exact same moment Elise says, “Yes.”

I scatter brown sugar and cinnamon over the rolled dough with maybe a little more force than necessary. “Don’t you have coffee to brew or something Elise?”

“Someone’s touchy this morning,” Elena sings out. “Could it be because a certain tall, dark, and handsome rancher will be here soon?”

I focus on rolling the dough into a tight spiral, refusing to acknowledge the way my pulse picks up at just the thought of him. Of that crooked smile he seems to save just for me. Of the way his voice gets all warm and rough when he says, “Morning, sugar,” like I’m something sweet enough to taste.

The timer on the first batch of rolls dings, saving me from my own thoughts. As I pull them from the oven, the bell chimes again.

And there he is.

Ryder fills the doorway like he always does, all broad shoulders and faded jeans and that hint of stubble that makes my fingers itch to touch. His dark hair is still damp from his shower, and when his eyes meet mine, that slow smile spreads across his face.

“Morning, sugar. Something smells amazing.”

My heart does a little skip-jump that has nothing to do with baking.

Just another morning at Hearts & Grinds. Just another day of pretending I’m not falling hard for a man who doesn’t do serious relationships.

What could possibly go wrong?

“Just testing a new recipe,” I lie, sliding the pan onto the cooling rack. As if I haven’t perfected these cinnamon rolls months ago, specifically because of the way his eyes rolled back in pleasure the first time he tasted them.

“Guess I’ll have to volunteer as taste-tester. Purely as a public service, of course.” He leans against the counter, close enough that I catch the clean scent of his soap mixed with leather and something uniquely Ryder.

“Of course,” I manage, proud that my voice stays steady. “Nothing at all to do with your sweet tooth.”

“Hey now, a man’s got to maintain his strength.” He pats his flat stomach, and I definitely don’t imagine running my hands over those abs. “Speaking of which, I’m moving fence posts all day. I’m gonna need extra fuel.”

His sister Rachel snorts from behind as she follows him in. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Ryder shoots his sister a look that would be more effective if he weren’t fighting a grin. “Shouldn’t you be at home with that husband of yours instead of giving me grief?”

“And miss this morning’s entertainment? Not a chance.” Elise starts his usual coffee order without being asked—black Americano, extra shot.

“Besides, Garrett’s out with Dad checking the north pasture.”

I busy myself with frosting the rolls, trying to focus on making each swirl perfect instead of the way Ryder’s presence seems to fill the whole bakery.

It’s ridiculous, really. I’ve left behind a world of society parties and corporate lawyers to build something real with my own hands.

I’m not about to get butterflies over some cowboy’s smile like a teenager with a crush.

Even if it’s a really great smile.

“So Dana,” his voice has that tone that usually precedes trouble, “I hear y’all are catering the Fall Festival next month.”

“Word travels fast.” I add an extra dollop of cream cheese frosting to his roll, telling myself it’s just good customer service. “Mrs. Henderson strong-armed us into it yesterday. Apparently, my apple pie is ‘simply divine’ and ‘exactly what the festival needs.’”

“Smart woman, Mrs. Henderson.” He watches as I plate his breakfast. “Need any help with deliveries? I’ve got a truck and time.”

Behind him, Rachel and Elena exchange looks that are about as subtle as a neon sign.

“That’s... that’s really nice of you to offer.” I hand him the plate, careful not to let our fingers brush. Last time that happened, I dropped an entire tray of scones. “But I couldn’t ask you to-”

“You’re not asking, I’m offering.” His eyes hold mine, and for a moment the teasing glint fades into something warmer. Something that makes my chest tight. “Besides, someone’s got to make sure you don’t work yourself to death. You’re here before dawn every day as it is.”

“I like the quiet,” I say softly, and immediately wish I hadn’t. It sounds too honest, too close to admitting why I’ve chosen this little Montana town, this simple life that would have my mother reaching for her smelling salts.

Something flickers across his face, like he catches the weight behind my words. But then that easy smile is back, and he’s reaching for his wallet. “Well, if you change your mind about the help, you know where to find me. Though fair warning—my assistance comes with a taste-testing fee.”

“Shocking,” I deadpan, ringing up his order. “Whatever would the festival committee do with all these leftover baked goods?”

“Exactly. I’m performing a vital community service here.” He hands over far too much money, like always. “Keep the change, sugar.”

“Ryder—”

“Consider it an investment in my future pastry needs.” He picks up his coffee and breakfast, then pauses. Something shifts in his expression, turning serious for just a moment. “You know, I-”

The door chimes again as Mrs. Peterson bustles in with her usual morning crowd of teacher friends, and whatever he’s about to say disappears behind that practiced grin.

“Ladies! Looking lovely as always. Dana’s got fresh cinnamon rolls this morning. Best in three counties.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving me with the familiar mix of frustration and longing that seems to follow every one of our interactions.

“Oh honey.” Elise appears at my elbow with a sympathetic smile as Rachel and Elena wave goodbye, Rachel grinning through a mouthful of cinnamon roll. “You’ve got it bad.”

“I’ve got nothing except a lot of orders to fill.” I turn back to my kitchen, my safe space of precise measurements and predictable chemical reactions. “And shouldn’t you be home packing for your big trip?”

“You can’t hide in that kitchen forever,” she calls after me.

Watch me, I think, pulling out ingredients for the next batch of muffins. I’m good at hiding. Good at keeping things surface-level and sweet, just like the treats I bake. Good at pretending I don’t want more.

Because wanting more is dangerous. Wanting more leads to disappointment and judgment and those awful silent dinners where my parents act like I’m not even there.

Better to stay here in my warm, flour-dusted world where the worst that can happen is a fallen soufflé. Better to keep Ryder Winston firmly in the “customer” category, no matter how much my heart protests.

Besides, I have a festival to prepare for. Three weeks to prove to this town—and maybe to myself—that I’ve made the right choice walking away from my old life.

I just have to keep my heart from getting in the way.