Page 4 of Ryder (Heart River Valley: Montana Protectors #3)

Ryder

Leaving Dana alone in the guest house is harder than it should be. Every protective instinct I have wants to stay close, to make sure she’s really okay after the day’s chaos. But hovering like some lovesick teenager won’t help anything.

“She’s fine,” Rachel says through the phone, reading my mind like always. “Stop worrying.”

I walk further into the darkness of the ranch yard, trying to put some distance between myself and the warm light spilling from the guest house windows. Distance from the sight of Dana moving around my kitchen like she belongs there.

“I’m not worried.” Even I don’t believe that one. “Just making sure everything’s settled.”

“Right.” Rachel’s eye roll is audible. “That’s why you spent three hours helping her unpack two boxes.”

“It was not three hours.” It’s been two and a half, max. Most of that spent watching Dana organize the kitchen with that adorable furrow between her brows, muttering about mise en place and proper tool alignment. “And she needed help.”

“Mhmm. Like she needs help every morning when you stop by the bakery?”

“That’s different.” I scrub a hand over my face, grateful for the evening shadows hiding my expression. “I’m a paying customer.”

“You’re a lovesick fool is what you are.” But Rachel’s voice softens. “She likes you too, you know. A lot.”

My chest does something complicated at those words. “You don’t know that.”

“Actually, I do. I see how she lights up every time she sees you. How she always has your favorites ready in the morning. How she-”

“Rachel.” I cut her off, not ready to hear more. Not ready to hope. “It’s not that simple.”

“Only because you’re making it complicated.” She sighs. “Look, I know Sarah messed you up. But Dana’s different.”

The name hits like a punch to the gut, even after all this time. Sarah, who promised forever then disappeared without a word. Sarah, who taught me exactly how dangerous hope can be.

But Rachel is right—Dana is different. Dana is real in a way Sarah never was. The way she pours her heart into every recipe, how she remembers everyone’s favorites, that little smile she gets when something comes out perfectly…

A light flicks on in the guest house kitchen.

Through the window, I see Dana at the counter, hair loose around her shoulders as she pages through her recipe book.

The sight makes my hands itch to touch, to run my fingers through that midnight silk, to finally learn if she tastes as sweet as her baking.

“Just think about it,” Rachel says softly. “She’s not going anywhere, but she won’t wait forever either.”

After we hang up, I stand in the dark for a long moment, watching Dana work. She already has flour on her cheek—how did she even find flour that fast?—and her expression is pure concentration as she makes notes in her book.

Before I can overthink it, my feet carry me back to the guest house. I knock lightly on the door frame.

“Everything okay in here?”

She looks up, and damn if that smile doesn’t hit me right in the chest. “Just planning. I might have borrowed some flour to test your oven’s hot spots.”

“At nine PM?”

“Baking waits for no man.” But there’s something uncertain in her eyes. “Is that okay? I know it’s late, but I couldn’t sleep without at least checking the temperature regulation, and—”

“Sugar.” The endearment slips out before I can stop it. “This kitchen is yours for as long as you need it. Test whatever you want.”

Her smile goes soft around the edges. “Thanks, Ryder. For everything.”

The way she says my name makes me want to do ridiculous things. Like cross the kitchen and pull her close. Like find out if that spot behind her ear is as sensitive as I’ve imagined. Like finally admit how much she means to me.

Instead, I shove my hands in my pockets. “Need any help?”

“You want to help me test oven temperatures?” She raises an eyebrow. “At nine PM?”

“Hey, I’m always up for a baking emergency.”

Her laugh wraps around me like warm honey. “Well in that case, grab those sheet pans. We’ve got work to do.”

And as I watch her gather ingredients with practiced grace, explaining something about thermal mass and convection patterns, I know I’m in trouble.

Because having Dana in my space, in my kitchen, looking so perfectly at home?

That’s more dangerous than any burst pipe could ever be.

Turns out “testing the oven” involves a lot more science than I expect. Dana moves around the kitchen with the precision of a surgeon, muttering about ambient temperature and humidity levels while she mixes something in a bowl.

“Hold this.” She hands me a digital thermometer like it’s a vital piece of military equipment. “And don’t let it touch the bottom of the pan.”

“Yes ma’am.” I manage to keep a straight face, but just barely. She’s adorable when she gets all commanding, especially with that smudge of flour still on her cheek. “Any other orders?”

“Don’t distract me while I’m measuring.” But her lips twitch as she levels off a cup of flour with the edge of a knife. “This is very serious business.”

“Oh, very serious.” I lean against the counter, definitely not watching how her tank top rides up when she stretches to reach the vanilla. “Life and death stuff here.”

“Mock all you want, but proper oven calibration is crucial.” She shoots me a look that’s probably meant to be stern, but the effect is ruined by the way her eyes are dancing. “The difference of ten degrees can ruin a souffle.”

“Heaven forbid.”

“Exactly.” She bumps my hip with hers as she passes, and my whole body goes hot. “Now make yourself useful and grab me six ramekins.”

I open three wrong cabinets before finding them, hyperaware of her presence behind me. The kitchen suddenly feels smaller, warmer. More intimate.

“So,” I say, desperate for distraction from how good she smells—like vanilla and honey. “Learn all this baking science in culinary school?”

Her hands still for just a moment. “Actually, no. I was supposed to go to law school.”

“What happened?”

“I chose happiness instead.” She says it simply, but I catch the undertone. “My family… they had different plans for me. When I picked baking over law, they made their disappointment very clear.”

The idea of anyone making Dana feel less than perfect makes my jaw clench. “Their loss.”

“Maybe.” She carefully spoons batter into the ramekins. “But I got something better. A chance to build something real. To make people happy, even if it’s just with a perfect chocolate chip cookie.”

“Trust me, sugar.” I catch her eye. “Your cookies do a lot more than just make people happy.”

A flush creeps up her neck. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I step closer, unable to help myself. “Know how many rough mornings your cinnamon rolls have saved? How many kids’ days you’ve made better with those little smiley face cookies? How many—”

The timer dings, making us both jump. I haven’t realized how close we’ve gotten, how the air between us has gone thick and charged.

Dana clears her throat. “Time to check the temperature variance.”

She bustles around with her thermometer and notebook, but I notice her hands aren’t quite steady. Mine aren’t either.

“Interesting,” she mutters after a few minutes of testing. “The back left corner runs about eight degrees hot.”

“Tragic.”

“It is!” But she’s laughing now. “Stop looking at me like that. This is important data.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” She gestures vaguely with her thermometer. “Like you’re thinking about something other than oven temperatures.”

The air crackles between us. “Maybe I am.”

Her breath catches. For a long moment, we just look at each other across the flour-dusted counter. I could kiss her, I think. Right now. Just lean in and finally find out if she tastes as sweet as she looks.

Then a timer goes off again, and the moment shatters.

“I should…” She gestures at the oven. “And it’s late, and you probably have early ranch work, and…”

“Right.” I step back, shoving my hands in my pockets before they can do something stupid like pull her close. “Need anything else?”

“No, I’m good.” But she won’t quite meet my eyes. “Thanks for helping.”

“Anytime, sugar.” I mean it more than I should. “Anytime.”

I make myself leave before I can do something foolish like tell her exactly how much I like having her in my kitchen. How right she looks there. How much I want her to stay.

The night air helps clear my head, but I can still smell vanilla on my clothes. Still feel the ghost of her hip bumping mine. Still see that flush creeping up her neck when I stepped close.

Jake’s right. I’m in trouble.