“Let’s not,” Wyatt says, and I gape at him in surprise.

  “You’re chickening out on me?” I ask, and Wyatt shakes his head. “Sounds like it to me. Bawk! Bawk! Bawk!” My impression sounds a bit like Lester mimicking a chicken, but it gets the point across.

  “When we play, Hazel, we’re going to do it when we’re on equal level,” Wyatt says. “You’re getting tipsy. I won’t take advantage.”

  “I could beat you falling down drunk!” I protest, and Wyatt laughs.

  Getting up, he comes over to my seat, one hand on the back and one on the table to whisper in my ear, “When we play again, I want you sober so that you know without a doubt that I’m the one man good enough to handle you.” I look up at him, searching his face for the lie, but he smiles easily. “Or maybe I need a little liquid courage before I try again.”

  It’s sexy, so sexy I can feel a sudden flash of heat between my thighs. Confidence, praise, and some self-deprecating humor all in two sentences? It’s a headier mix than the drinks that are not making me tipsy in the slightest.

  “If you want to play, Rachel, go ahead and grab a table. I’m sure Wren will play. I think I’ll get some mushy love songs playing on that jukebox over there. Set the mood for this party.” Wyatt saunters off, going over to the big Seeburg that Etta bought almost at the same time she opened Puss N Boots.

  Rachel and Wren look at each other, shrugging and not making a move to claim a table.

  “I think I’ll make sure he isn’t loading up a bunch of Carly Rae Jepsen or something,” I mumble, getting up to follow Wyatt, my eyes locked on his broad back and tight buns as he looks at the selections on the digital screen.

  He doesn’t look my way when I walk up beside him, as though he knew I’d follow. That irks me. I’m not one of these lovesick, or horny, women he can lead around like a puppy on a leash.

  “I’m surprised,” he says as he pushes a button and the screen changes. “I thought you’d have an old-school box here, not digital.”

  I ignore his comment and lean in. “You’re wasting your time.”

  “Hmmm?” he asks, dropping a quarter in and punching in a code. A few seconds later, Pink’s “Raise Your Glass” starts playing, and Wyatt moves on.

  I try again. “You’re flirting with the wrong bridesmaid, Wyatt. That one over there is an easy bet,” I tell him, pointing over at Rachel. “I’m not going to play with your balls anytime soon, but you could probably have her in a bathroom stall with a crook of your finger. No shame in that,” I clarify. “Rachel’s a sweetheart, and a bathroom romp with a hot stranger would be one of those naughty stories she looks back on fondly for the rest of her life.”

  Wyatt chuckles and cuts his eyes to me, smirking. With him leaned over the jukebox, he knows it’s just him and me here, and there’s nobody’s feelings to protect other than our own. “Maybe I don’t want easy,” he says. “Maybe easy is boring, even if it is a quickie in a bar bathroom with a hot stranger.” He pauses, looking me up and down. “Maybe I want something more than that.”

  I blink, surprised.

  So quiet I almost miss it, he says, “Or maybe I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here.” Before I can question that, he punches in another code on the jukebox, then another. “Okay,” he says, stepping back. “So in about ten minutes, you can blame ‘I Want It That Way’ on Winston.”

  “You’re kidding . . . That’s on the jukebox?” I ask, and he nods. “Fuck.”

  We go back to the table, and true to his word, the Backstreet Boys’ song does play. To my surprise, Winston cheers, singing along as he serenades Avery, who laughs along with him. I get the feeling this isn’t the first time they’ve done this together, and I smile at the mental image of them singing and dancing around together at home to old boy band songs.

  By the chorus, Wyatt joins in, the two brothers harmonizing at various points, and I’m half expecting them to break out into a choreographed dance routine. As the bar realizes what’s happening, they start singing backup for Winston, and it becomes an entire concert with Winston and Avery as the center stage stars.

  But Wyatt’s eyes aren’t on Avery, or Rachel, or Charlene. And they’re definitely not on his brother, who’s kneeling and holding Avery’s hand now. Wyatt’s eyes stay on me as he sings, and heat fills my chest. I find myself fighting the urge to meet his eyes, and I know I’m probably blushing, even if I should be weirded out that Wyatt Ford’s singing an old love song to me while staring at me like a creeper.

  But it’s powerful, knowing I’m the sole focus of his attention. It’s like I’m driving him crazy, and I decide to lean into it, giving him a wink and playing with the straw on my drink. It’s subtle, but he seems to respond to that more than having it thrown in his face. Or he just responds to me . . . regardless of what I’m offering.

  I decide to test that.

  While I’m figuring out my next move, the Backstreet Boys song ends and Wren runs to the jukebox, shouting, “Our turn!”

  The next song starts, and I catch Wren’s suggestion that we do a performance in answer to the one Winston and Wyatt, and most of the bar, just gave.

  Game. On.

  I know how to work my assets—I’m a waitress, after all—so I run with Wren’s idea.

  “On the bar!” I call, and Charlene and Aunt Etta both give me raised eyebrows, but when a soon-to-be bride wants to dance for her man to “Side To Side,” there really isn’t anyplace better than on top of the bar, or on top of the table.

  Since we can’t fit more than one person on the table, the bar’s the place to do it. Wren pulls Avery up, and I join them a moment later, dancing along with the other two. Rachel defers, shaking her head when Avery waves her up, but Charlene joins in to the hoots and hollers of the entire bar.

  But even as the four of us do some halfway decent hip shaking and even a coordinated booty drop that leaves quite a few tongues wagging when we bring it up slow, I’m not dancing for the crowd.

  I’m teasing one person, and one person only. So when I look over my shoulder, it’s Wyatt’s eyes I look into first, letting the heat there inspire my next few moves, before I intentionally look over to some other random dude and flash him a wink.

  This is the sexiest I’ve felt in a very, very long time. And that it’s because of a Ford is an extra naughty thrill.

  Afterward, Aunt Etta slows down the pace at which the pitchers flow to our table, which is probably a good thing. Even as I slow down, I feel a bit tipsy, and I’m glad for the cool night air when we all leave.

  Somehow Wren manages to volunteer herself as the driver for Rachel, Winston, and Avery. “I’ll drop Rachel off at the hotel, and then take Winston and Avery to Avery’s house. I’m good to drive home after that.”

  Wren lifts questioning brows at Wyatt, waiting to see if he’ll say anything to change those plans. I keep my mouth shut, knowing she’s leaving the two of us here alone together, but not sure how I feel about that yet.

  Wyatt says nothing, and a moment later, Wren’s herding her passengers away.

  Almost afraid of myself, or maybe what could happen, I turn without a word and start walking toward my car. Wyatt follows, catching up quickly. “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Walking you to your car,” he says, his voice a deep rumble in the quiet night. “You shouldn’t be driving.”

  “I’m fine.”

  I am not fine. Not to drive and not to be alone with him.

  “I wouldn’t play you in pool. You think I’m going to let you drive? No,” Wyatt says in a no-nonsense tone. “Not a chance, Hazel.”

  No one talks to me this way, least of all guys. They’re usually begging for scraps of my attention. But not Wyatt. No, he demands it, but gives it back just as powerfully. The fire inside me roars, liking his confidence, even enjoying his bossiness, and the ache in my body for more than flirting grows uncomfortable.

  “Fine.”

  We reach my car and he leans in. For a panicked moment, I think he’s going for a surprise kiss.

  Nuts him in the knee! I mean, knee him in the nuts!

  My automatic response screams across my brain, but I refrain this time. I don’t want to imagine his balls all swollen and purple later. That’s a definite mood killer, and I’m going to have to take care of this fire inside me.

  Dammit. I meant to make him hot and bothered, and ended up doing it to myself too.

  But instead of the kiss that I’ve decided to allow, he gently plucks my keys from my hand, and steps back, pressing the unlock button on the fob before holding out a hand. I blink stupidly, then realize he’s walking me around to the passenger side. Tipsy me is a sucker for gentlemanly manners.

  With my filters down, I tell him, “You’re nice sometimes.”

  He doesn’t gloat, thankfully, but I think he chuckles under his breath. He covers it with a cough, so I’m not 100 percent sure—more like 97.3 percent.

  “Where to?” he asks as we walk around the back of the car, his voice gentle. “I don’t know where you live.” Ugh. I’m letting him put me in the shotgun seat of my own car.

  “Not going home,” I answer unexpectedly. Not sure where that came from because I was totally thinking about going home and using the muscle-blaster setting on my showerhead to blast my clit. Hard and fast, it’d get me off like a rocket, and probably knock me out for the rest of the night.

  “Okay,” Wyatt says agreeably. “Where to, then?”

  I turn to lean against the passenger door. “Mom’s bakery.”

  Wyatt gives me a very suspicious look. “Where?”

  “The Bakery Box,” I explain, being very careful to enunciate each word. “I work there, helping out as much as I can, and she’s extra busy this week with the wedding prep.”

  “You want to bake? Now?”

  “No, I want to clean,” I retort sarcastically. “Of course I want to bake. It’s a bakery. That’s what you do there. Or are you too good to get your hands dirty?”

  “I clean my workshop every day,” Wyatt scoffs. “But you work for Etta and your mom? At the same time?”

  “Yep,” I reply with pride. “It’s a family affair. Twenty-four seven, three hundred and sixty-five. It’s what we do.”

  Wyatt shivers. “That sounds awful.”

  Maybe that’s true for his own family. I think it speaks volumes about the Fords, and gives me a bit more insight into why Wyatt left town. Maybe I can find out why? “Depends on the family.”

  “Ain’t that the truth?” he says almost wistfully. Suddenly, he gives me a smile. “Think you could use some help?”

  “At the bakery?” I ask incredulously. “I was joking about your hands, Wyatt.”

  “I know. And why not?” Wyatt offers. “I promise, despite me being a Ford, I do know how to scrub a pot or use a mop. I can help.”

  “Do you bake?” I ask, and he winces.

  “Noooo,” he says hesitantly, “but I can follow orders.”

  I snort. “Yeah . . . I’m sure that’s not true in the slightest.”

  Wyatt shrugs. “Let’s say I can follow orders when I want to, when they make some sense and are given by someone I want to please.”

  I’m pretty sure we’re not talking about cupcakes or mopping floors any longer, but I’m almost eager to find out exactly what we are talking about. “Okay, let’s test that theory.”

  Chapter 9

  WYATT

  For most people, going to work half-tipsy at half past midnight isn’t the best idea.

  But Hazel seems to feel this is perfectly normal. Judging from her 24/7/365 comment, maybe for her, it is? She’s getting more clearheaded by the minute, not having any alcohol in more than an hour and putting away a basket of cheese fries by herself, so I’m not in doubt of her decision-making skills. And it’s not like we’re breaking and entering. She has a key.

  Honestly, even if we were committing a little light B and E, I’d probably go along with it to spend time with her and get to know what makes her tick better.

  As Hazel flips on the lights, I’m surprised at the charming bakery before me. After seeing Etta’s version of Puss N Boots, and hearing that her mom’s business is called the Bakery Box, I was worried it would be sexy red velvet fabrics and black lights. For Cold Springs, it’d seem apropos in the craziness. Instead, it’s bright and clean, with pink-and-white striped walls, a trio of four-seater tables, and chrome display cases that are currently empty.

  Hazel looks at me expectantly, awaiting my verdict or a snappy comment. But I’m enjoying surprising her as much as possible.

  “This is cute. Your mom must be an amazing baker,” I say kindly.

  “She’s the best,” Hazel agrees, and I can sense the indecision in her. Under the eyes of her watchful aunt at the bar, she was flirty but knew she had a solid safety net that would keep her from taking things too far. She could tease and torment me, all the while telling me that I didn’t have a chance with her because of one thing. My name.

  But now? Alone, with only herself to stop her, I can feel her wavering. She wants me, she just doesn’t want to want me. It’s a situation I’ve never been in, and I suspect she hasn’t either. As for me? I certainly wasn’t expecting to find something, or someone, to make this trip home bearable, but Hazel has more than done so.

  The kitchen is different from the front of the shop. Gone are the cutesy decorations and soft pastels, replaced with commercial-grade stainless-steel worktables, an industrial mixer that looks like it could handle cake batter or concrete with equal ease, a huge refrigerator, and a trio of big ovens that could bake a whole wedding cake at once.

  Oh, and a microwave. It looks out of place, the only black thing in the entire bakery, with a twist dial and a huge scuff on top. “What’s with this old thing?” I ask, running my hand over the surface. It’s clean, just scarred.

  Hazel looks my way and flips the switches on the wall with practiced ease. “Mom only uses that for two things.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Rewarming coffee and melting butter,” she says, pointing at the big industrial sink. “You. Hands. To the elbows.”

  I sense this is my first test—to see if I actually will follow directions. I scrub up to my elbows like a surgeon getting ready for open-heart surgery, with every intention of acing this test. “Now what?”

  Her reply is to toss an apron in my face, and I’m tempted to protest. It’s . . . cutesy.

  But without a word I slip the baby-blue gingham strap over my head, fiddling with the ties to get something approaching a bow knot going behind my back. I feel like I look stupid, but Hazel gives me an appreciative look. Though it’s possible that’s because she’s tying her own plain white apron on.

  “Cara had this crazy midnight-madness idea,” Hazel explains, giving me flashbacks of the awful wedding planner barging into my suit fitting like she owned the place, “which is actually brilliant, but I will kill you if you tell her I said that.” She points a sharp finger at me, and I hold my hands up, promising that I’ll do no such thing. “Good, because it basically means that, in addition to Mom making the wedding cake, she now has to make four hundred desserts.”

  “Four hundred?” I ask incredulously. “Holy shit, that’s a lot.”

  “Exactly,” Hazel says. “Now we can’t bake it all tonight, and Mom’s already started on some of the goodies, but we can help out by getting a few batches of cupcakes done and in the cooler for her.”

  It makes sense, and I’m even more impressed as Hazel looks up at a big whiteboard on the wall. It’s covered in a mess of scribbled notes in a rainbow of colors that looks about as decipherable as the walls of an Egyptian pyramid. But she clearly understands it.

  “Okay, what’s first?” I ask, and Hazel points. “The flour?”

  “Yeah, the one marked ‘all purpose,’” she says. “Use the baker’s scale there, and get me two pounds of it.”

  I find a large plastic tub and do as she says, putting in two pounds of white flour. “Now what?”

  Hazel, who’s in the fridge, looks over her shoulder. “Do the same thing with fourteen ounces of sugar, but put that in the bowl when you’re done. It’s a wet.”

  “A wet?” I ask. “But it’s sugar. Dry.”

  Hazel flashes me an amused look. “It dissolves so quickly with liquids, sugar’s considered a wet ingredient for our purposes.”

  I peer into the bin of apparently “wet” sugar that looks completely dry to me. “If you say so.”

  “I do,” Hazel says, bringing her own ingredients over. Dropping what looks like an obscene amount of butter into the big metal bowl on the mixer, she starts the mixer up at a slow speed. “C’mon, Helga. I know it’s early, but you can do it, girl,” she purrs to the mixer in a sweet, cajoling voice. To me, she simply orders, “Get me a fresh gallon of milk.”

  I grab her the milk, and as she pours it in without measuring, she asks, “What do you do now that you’ve run away from home and are apparently the black sheep of the Ford family?”

  “Is that the rumor? Hard to believe I’m the black sheep.” She gives me a wry look, and I shrug. “I’m a woodworker, own my own shop making heirloom furniture and period-appropriate reproduction millwork.”

  “Blah blah . . . wood . . . blah blah . . . furniture. That’s about all I understood,” she teases, cracking eggs into the bowl.

  I laugh, charmed by her “no big deal” attitude. But I want her to know me, as much as I want to know her, so I explain. “When people are renovating historical homes and need trim moldings, you can’t just go down to Home Depot and pick it up. The pieces are special, unique, and though we could machine-mill them with the technology we have now, creating them by hand, carving them the same way they were centuries ago, is . . . important.” I realize Hazel has stopped what she’s doing, listening to me attentively, and I fear I’ve revealed more than I intended. “The heirloom furniture is my cake and pie, though,” I joke, pointing at the bowl she’s holding. “Custom pieces using turn-of-the-century methods to make furniture your great-great-grandkids will sell at an estate sale one day.”