Page 9 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
“I’m afraid not. Mrs. Martinez was quite clear. She believed the ranch needed someone who would trulyunderstand it before making any decisions about its future.”
Three months in Montana with three Alphas, a bull named Brutus who has it out for me, and I have no idea if this small town even has a heat clinic.
What could possibly go wrong?
3
SOPHIA
Istumble out of the lawyer’s office like someone just told me Santa isn’t real and I owe them months of back rent.
Three months.
Three fucking months in Montana with cowboys who probably want to lasso me off their property.
The afternoon sun hits Front Street beautifully. Everything glows golden, the vintage lampposts with their hanging flower baskets overflowing with petunias, the brick storefronts with hand-painted signs, the mountains in the distance looking like God’s own screen saver.
“Get it together, Sophia,” I mutter. I survived Chicago rush hour for years. I can handle a few cowboys and a ranch. Then I sigh, feeling slightly lost onhowto handle this.
That’s when the sweet, buttery scent of cinnamonfinds me. My stomach growls in betrayal, reminding me I’ve skipped both breakfast and lunch in my rush to get to the town of Honeyspur Meadow. I turn around, and across the main street, nestled between The Dust Jacket Bookshop and Sweetwater Creek Realty, sits the Wildflower Bakehouse & Café.
I wait for a pickup truck to rumble past, then cross the quiet road like I’m on a mission from the carb gods.
The window display is pornographic. I’m talking full-on, should-be-illegal levels of baked seduction. Croissants so flaky you can see the layers from outside. Cupcakes topped with buttercream roses. A chocolate cake coated in shiny ganache. And there, front and center, a tray of Portuguese custard tarts with their signature burnt edges, calling my name like sirens.
A little bell chimes as I push open the door and step into what can only be described as carbohydrate heaven. The interior is all warm wood and mismatched vintage tables, with mason jar lights hanging from exposed beams. A chalkboard menu stretches across one wall in looping script, and the display case, sweet mother of pastry, is even more glorious up close.
“First time?” comes a soft female voice from behind the counter.
The woman speaking has flour in her straight, dark hair and a dusting of powdered sugar on her cheek. Her apron is a rainbow of patches, cats, and one suspiciously bedazzled donut. She wears a cherry-printblouse buttoned all the way up. She looks my age, in all honesty, around twenty-four years old.
Her name tag reads “Kitty,” and somehow that tracks more than it should.
“You’ve been staring at my tarts like they hold the secrets of the universe,” she says, tilting her head.
“Is itthatobvious I’m drooling over them?”
She nods sagely. “We’ve had priests, brides, and a biker gang cry over that tart tray. You’re in good company.”
“They might hold the secrets,” I say seriously. “Can I get two of those and a latte, half vanilla, half hazelnut? I’ll have them here.”
“A woman who knows what she wants. Ilikeit.” Kitty snatches a pair of tongs. “You’re the city girl, aren’t you? Here about the Martinez ranch?”
I blink. “How did you?—”
“Small town, sweetie. Plus, Belle swung past here earlier to pick up some pastries. If this town loves anything more than rodeos, it’s gossip.” She giggles as she plops the tarts onto a delicate china plate with painted violets.
The espresso machine hisses as Kitty works her magic. In moments, she slides over a latte with a flawless rosetta in the foam, like she just casually moonlights as a latte art champion.
I carry my goodies to a small table by the front window, the view overlooking the old town road where the occasional car rolls by and locals wanderpast in no particular hurry. My table has a single bud vase holding a daisy and a tiny crocheted doily that someone’s grandmother probably made. The chair creaks as I sit, but it’s the kind of creak that saysWelcome, notYou’re about to die.
The first bite of tart is a religious experience. I moan, sinking into my seat.
The custard is silky and just sweet enough, with a surprising hint of lemon that tastes perfect with the caramelized edges. It’s not what I expected, but it’s a twist I didn’t know I needed. The pastry shatters at the slightest pressure from my fingers, flaky, buttery deliciousness that makes my eyes flutter closed.
“Oh my God,” I groan, not caring who hears me. “I might survive three months here after all.”
Kitty beams from behind the counter. “My grandmother’s recipe. She always said good pastry could solve half the world’s problems.”
