Page 17 of Ryder
The simple faith in his voice makes my chest tight. “Ryder...”
“Besides.” He pulls me closer, nuzzling my neck. “Keep stress-baking like this and I’m going to need new jeans.”
I laugh despite myself. “Are you saying I’m making you fat?”
“Worth it.” His lips find mine again, softer this time. “Every extra pound.”
We trade lazy kisses until my head is spinning, until I’ve almost forgotten my fears about the competition. Almost.
“You know,” he murmurs between kisses, “it’s just a local thing. Not like it’s some big career moment.”
And just like that, the warmth in my chest turns to ice.
Because that’s exactly what it is. A chance to prove I belong here, that choosing baking over law school wasn’t a mistake. That I’m more than just a trust fund girl playing at small-town life.
But how can I explain that to someone who’s never had to prove they belonged? Who’s never had their dreams dismissed as a phase?
Before I can find the words, headlights sweep across the windows.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Ryder groans as car doors slam outside.
“Ryder?” Jake’s voice calls. “Your truck’s smoking again!”
This time, as we spring apart, the interruption feels almost welcome. Because suddenly I’m not sure what scares me more—the physical heat between us, or the way his casual dismissal of my dreams has made my heart crack.
Chapter 8
Ryder
My truck isn’t actually smoking. Jake just has terrible timing and an even worse sense of humor. But watching Dana practically run back to the guest house, I have a feeling I’ve screwed up somehow.
“You look like a man who needs a drink,” Jake says, inviting himself onto my porch.
“I look like a man who needs better friends.” But I hold the door open. “One beer. Then you’re leaving.”
“Rough night?” He settles into my kitchen chair like he owns it.
I grab two beers from the fridge, trying not to think about how Dana looked in that sundress. Or how soft her lips were. Or the way she went quiet after I mentioned the competition…
“Earth to Ryder.” Jake waves a hand in front of my face. “You gonna share what’s got you looking like someone shot your dog, or do I have to guess?”
“I think…” I drop into the other chair. “I think I said something wrong. About the bake-off.”
“Wrong how?”
“Just… that it wasn’t a big deal. You know, trying to help her relax about it.”
Jake groans, eloquent. “You didn’t.”
“What?”
“Tell me you didn’t dismiss something she’s obviously passionate about as ‘not a big deal.’”
Put that way, it does sound bad.
“Shit.” I scrub a hand over my face. “I was trying to be supportive.”
“By telling her not to care about something she clearly cares about?”
