Page 9 of Ranger's Code

MAGGIE

The 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 hadeveryright,” 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?”

“Heismy 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?"

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