Page 6 of Ranger's Code

Bracing my hands on the edge of the counter and bowing my head, I fight the sudden, sharp urge to cry or break something just for the satisfaction of the sound. I inhale deeply, then again, longer this time. Nope. Not today. Not with a wedding order due in four hours and only two staff members who actually bothered to show up.

Instead, I take a breath. Then another. I center myself the same way I center my batter—methodical, measured, not too fast or the whole thing will fall apart. One breath in, two counts out. I imagine whisking air into egg whites, folding in strength where fragility threatens to crack. Crying doesn’t make cupcakes. Focus does. And if I want to survive this day with my sanity intact, I’ll need every ounce.

"Maggie!" Josie’s voice rings from the front with a mix of curiosity and amusement. "Uh, there’s someone here asking about the assistant baker job. And, um… you might want to see this for yourself. He's kind of a hunk and a lot cuter than Kyle... maybe he can bake better too."

The sound of a low, resonant, deep chuckle fills the air, vibrating through the walls like it has a body of its own. I roll my eyes, already irritated. I haven’t even posted the listing online yet—how do people keep showing up like there’s a bat signal for bakery chaos? Probably another slacker who thinks the job is just playing with frosting and licking spoons.

I wipe my hands on my apron, square my shoulders, and push through the swinging door into the café’s front, ready to let someone down fast and get back to the mess that actually matters. I'm already preparing what I'll say. I will be pleasant; I will be professional; I will be... In order to be any of that, I have to be able to move and speak. Neither of which is possible as I come to a dead stop and freeze.

Gideon Bonham is sitting at one of my reclaimed wood café tables, legs stretched out like he has all the time in the world, calmly filling out a job application with that same unbothered confidence he wore like armor in high school. He has no business being that tall, that broad, or that devastatingly good-looking in my bakery. He looks like he belongs on the cover of a military romance novel, not parked in my pastel-and-buttercream world with a ballpoint pen between his fingers. His presence doesn’t just clash with the space—it claims it.

Oh. Hell. No.

He looks up. Smiles. That lazy, confident smile that hits me like a warm hand sliding low over my spine—steady, knowing, and entirely too familiar. It isn’t just a smile. It’s a weapon, disarming and practiced, like he knows exactly what it does to my nerves and chooses to use it, anyway. My pulse stumbles. That smile has no business being here, in my bakery, on his face, directed at me.

My brain short-circuits for a full second. I glance down at my chest, grateful for my loose chef's coat and apron that will hide my stiffening nipples. I’ve been dreaming about Gideon since I was twelve. He'd been my first and most persistent crush. I’ve dreamed of him on and off over the years. Only now those dreams have taken a sharp left turn into downright X-rated territory.

Like the one I had three nights ago—Gideon, bare-chested, flour dusting his naked abs, leaning over me, pressing me against the counter as he whispered in my ear in that rough voice telling me, "it's all about getting your hands deep in the dough," and then licking the outer shell of my ear saying "wet, moist heat is always the best to get things to rise."

My cheeks flame, and I banish the memory of what came after that in my dreams.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," I mutter.

Gideon sets the pen down and leans back in the chair like he owns it—and the surrounding space. "Morning, Magnolia."

"No. Don’t you dare use that name like we’re old friends."

"We are old friends."

"Not true. You never even knew I existed. What the hell are you doing here? Did Kari send you?"

"I'm applying for the job," he says simply, nodding toward the form.

"You’re a Marine."

"I left the Marines. I’ve been looking for the right fit. When Kari mentioned you were looking for a baking assistant, I thought I'd throw my hat in the ring."

"You bake?"

He grins. "According to Kari, better than the last guy. I think Josie said his name was Kyle, and he was a jerk."

I step forward, jaw tight, heat rising under my chef’s coat. The man hasn’t changed. Still smug. Still too handsome for his own good. Still able to rattle me without lifting a damn finger. And the worst part? I can now feel my pussy getting wet and softening, as if it expects him to bend me over the counter and have his way with me. I shake my head, trying to dispel the visceral image.

I grab the application, rip it clean down the middle with deliberate force, and let the pieces fall like dead leaves between us. My hands are steady, but my pulse is wildly erratic. "Not interested," I say, each word clipped, sharp as a knife through fondant.

It’s not just about the job—it’s about the storm of emotions he brings in with him, the memories he reawakens, and the dangerous pull that makes my pulse skip and my thoughts scatter. He’s too calm, too comfortable, like he belongs here. Like he's always belonged. I’m not about to give him even a crack to wedge himself into my carefully built walls.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just stands up with that same deliberate ease, walks over to the self-serve station, and pours himself a cup of coffee like he owns the damn shop and has already clocked in for the day. Then he returns to his seat, legs stretched, completely unbothered.

"I’ll wait," he says easily.

"For what?" I snap.

"For you to change your mind."

I turn, catching Josie and Jamal peeking from behind the espresso bar with wide eyes and expressions that practically scream popcorn-worthy. Josie is openly grinning, elbowing Jamal, who pretends to be focused on wiping down the counter, but is definitely listening to every word. Great. Now my staff is watching this unfold like it’s the season finale of a slow-burn workplace romance—except it’s my actual life going up in flames, and Gideon Bonham is the damn match.

I storm back into the kitchen, furious. At Gideon, for showing up like some cocky heatwave in my already crumbling day. At my body, for responding to him like a match struck to dry tinder. And most of all, at my own damn mind for replaying that dream in vivid detail—the heat of his breath on my neck, the rough scrape of his jaw against my skin, the way his voice makes my toes curl. The flutter in my stomach isn't innocent. It's want. And the worst part? The real man looks even better than the one in my head. Stronger. Smarter. More dangerous. And far, far harder to ignore.

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