Page 7 of Ryder
“Okay.” I take a shaky breath, trying to ignore how my skin tingles where he’s still touching me. “Okay, but just until the repairs are done.”
“’Course.” But something flickers in his expression, something that makes my pulse skip. “Now let’s save this kitchen before the whole place floods.”
As if on cue, a pipe groans somewhere in the walls.
Right. Focus on the crisis. Not on how good Ryder looks all competent and commanding. Not on how I’m about to be living in his space, seeing him every day, probably running into him fresh from the shower…
This is fine. Everything is fine.
I’m only going to be staying with the man I’ve been half in love with for months, trying not to reveal exactly how much he affects me.
What could possibly go wrong?
Sunset paints the Montana sky in shades of pink and gold as Ryder’s truck turns onto the ranch road. My personal recipe book—the one filled with family secrets and hard-won techniques—sits safely in my lap, while my few boxes of belongings rattle in the truck bed. It feels strange leaving Hearts & Grinds behind, even temporarily. The morning’sdisaster keeps replaying in my head: Elise on the phone after she and Rhett just landed in the Dominican Republic, insisting insurance will cover it and not to worry, Mrs. Henderson’s understanding but disappointed face when I called about the festival orders, the sight of my workstation underwater…
“Stop thinking so loud,” Ryder says, his voice warm in the cab’s comfortable quiet. “Whatever you’re worrying about, we’ll figure it out.”
“I’m not worried.” I’m lying and we both know it. “I’m strategizing. The festival committee—”
“Will understand. And if they don’t, they can take it up with me.”
I clutch my recipe book tighter. “It’s not just that. All the specialty tools are back at the bakery. My proof boxes, my pastry rings... I can’t exactly produce festival-quality goods with basic kitchen equipment.”
“Hey now,” he shoots me that crooked grin that always makes me forget how to breathe. “I’ll have you know this kitchen has the finest measuring cups money can buy.”
Despite everything, I laugh. “My hero.”
“Damn straight.” His eyes flicker to me. “Though if you really want to thank me, I wouldn’t say no to more of those cinnamon rolls. You know, once we figure out the equipment situation.”
“You never say no to cinnamon rolls.”
“Why would I? Best thing in three counties.” He pauses. “Well, almost the best thing.”
Before I can process that, we’re pulling up to the guest house. I’ve been here before for family dinners with Rachel, but never alone with Ryder. Never in a way that feels so... intimate.
The small house glows welcoming in the dying light, all warm wood and big windows. A wraparound porch supports hanging baskets of late-summer flowers, their sweet scent mixing with sage and prairie grass on the evening breeze.
“Kitchen’s fully stocked,” Ryder says as he kills the engine. “Though, uh, you might want to check what’s actually in there. Rachel stocked the basics, but I’m guessing your definition of ‘basic’ is a little different than ours.”
The mental image of Ryder Winston, six feet of pure masculine confidence, puzzling over the difference between pastry flour and all-purpose makes me smile despite everything.
“Don’t worry, I’ll teach you the basics.” The words slip out before I can stop them. “You know, in case of pastry emergencies.”
“Pastry emergencies?” His laugh is low and rich. “That a technical term?”
“Very technical. Right up there with ‘cookie catastrophes’ and ‘muffin mishaps.’”
He’s still chuckling as he grabs my boxes, and I let myself admire the way his shoulders move under his shirt. Just for a moment.Just because I’m tired and stressed and he’s being so sweet.
The guest house kitchen is gorgeous. Gleaming stainless steel appliances, yards of granite countertop, a center island that would have been perfect if it wasn’t missing all my usual tools. Late evening light streams through windows that overlook rolling pastures, and somewhere in the distance, a meadowlark calls.
I set my recipe book on the counter, running my fingers over its worn cover. “This is... really beautiful. But I don’t know how I’m going to make this work.”
When I look up, Ryder is watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. “We’ll figure it out,” he says softly. “Whatever you need.”
Our eyes meet across the kitchen, and for a moment everything else falls away. No flood, no crisis, no complicatedreasons why this is a terrible idea. Just me and Ryder and the soft Montana twilight wrapping around us like a blanket.
Then his phone buzzes, shattering the moment.
