Page 1 of Caden

1

RUBY

Armedwith an iced white chocolate mocha and two blueberry scones fromThe Sweet Tooth, I square my shoulders and cross the street. Entering my brother’s gym on any given Tuesday isn’t a particularly challenging task. It’s facing who might be inside that tests my will.

With a deep breath and a mumbled prayer, I push open the door and hope like hell that Caden Daniels is anywhere else.

It’s not that I loathe Marshall’s business partner. It would be so much easier if Ididhate him.

Oh no, it’s much worse than that.

From the moment I first met Caden a few months ago at the Daisy Hills Volunteer Firefighter Pancake Feed, I’ve wanted to climb him like a tree. Branch by delicious branch.

This ridiculous crush is probably heightened by my firm conviction to swear off men for the foreseeable future. I’ve made enough mistakes when it comes to the opposite sex—the last one cost me a very comfortable, high paying job. Getting cheated on, and the poor decisions that follow, can do that to a girl. I’m not about to screw up this miracle opportunity Grandma Judy gave me by sleeping with my brother’s business partner.

Any hopes of avoiding Caden this morning are thwarted the instant I spot the unfairly sexy volunteer firefighter—Mr. June—doing pullups on a contraption way too close to the front counter. It’s a safety hazard. They should put that thing in a faraway corner. Caden’s moving up and down with such ease he might as well be floating. Except, his biceps strain with each rep, proving this isn’t magic. Just pure strength.

I don’t realize I’m staring until I hear a chipper bark from behind the counter.

“Gram,” Marshall says, his tone a gentle warning. “We don’t bark at—” Then he sees me. “Oh, never mind.”

“Good morning to you too!” I greet, plastering on an overly perky smile that’s sure to annoy him. I should play nice, considering I need a favor. But I can’t seem to help myself. Since moving home a few months ago, I’ve surprised myself by finding excuses to bump into my Marine veteran brother almost daily. It’s as if, over all those years we barely caught up on holidays, I actually missed him. Him. The brother who used to pull my braids and never let me tag along once he hit high school. Our new connection…it’s …nice.

“Rubes, what is that?” Marshall nods to the coffee cup, half curious, half accusatory. “You know I don’t drink that stuff.”

“It’s mine.” I slide a step back, cradling it close. “Try prying it out of my hands, and you’ll find out I’m better at hand-to-hand combat than you.”

“Doubtful.”

“Mothers can lift cars off their babies when they need to. Don’t underestimate me.”

“Coffee is not ababy,” he says.

“Says the anti-coffee drinker.”

“Did you need something?” He feigns annoyance, but secretly I think he’s happy we’re both back in our hometown. After Grandma Judy—who sold her house and landscaping business to me before retiring in Florida—left, we’re all that’s left of the McCray clan in town these days.

“These are for you,” I say, setting the bag of scones on the desk in front of him.

I catch an accidental glimpse of Caden in the process, his feet firmly on the ground, wiping a towel across his forehead. I clench my thighs, frustrated as hell that my body is reacting to every little thing this man does. It’s fucking ridiculous.

“Rubes,” Marshall says, his tone hushed as he looks over his shoulder, “You know I can’t have these in here.”

“So youdon’twant Audrey’s blueberry scones?” I reach for the bag, but he yanks it away before I can take it back.

“I didn’t say that.” He looks like I slapped him, and it makes me chuckle. In a low voice, he adds, “It just makes us look bad.”

I roll my eyes as I fish a dog treat out of my purse and round the front desk where Gram is waiting patiently for his handout. “It makes you lookhuman.”

Marshall scans the area again before stashing the bag of scones under the counter. I brought two, in case he wanted to share. But I’m not sure Mr. June eats sweets. The thought makes him the teensiest bit less likeable. I really need to lean into that thought.

“Aren’t you going to ask what I want?” I ask, my attention focused on the German shepherd as I hold out the treat.

Marshall ignores my question. “He has allergies,” he reminds for the hundredth time.

“And that’s why it’s homemade,” I answer for the fiftieth time, because yes, I ignore him too. “Who’s the bestest boy?” I croon.

Gram’s butt hits the tile floor, tail swishing softly as he lifts a paw. I accept the paw, giving a couple of extra shakes before offering up the bone-shaped cookie. Gram’s lips close gently around the offering before he retreats to the oversized dog bed tucked under a portion of the rounded front counter.

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