Page 22 of Ranger's Code

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’tnotcome? 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.

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