“Not really.” Britt shrugs. “It’s pretty quiet, other than the mysterious sign poster. I think it’s all pretty harmless, but after what happened last year, Aiden wants to get to the bottom of who’s doing it.”

  “He’s not planning to press charges, is he?”

  “I don’t think so…” Britt tilts her head to the side. “I hope not!”

  I’m walking behind them, my blazer over my arm as I hit the lights on the way out, and I don’t miss a wobble in their step. “How are you two getting home?”

  “I rode my bike,” Britt announces brightly. “Your mom said I could have it now that I’m days away from being a member of the family.”

  She’s already family in my mind, and I catch her arm. “It’s too late for bike riding. I’m giving you both a ride home. Aiden would have my hide if I didn’t, and I’d let him.”

  They don’t argue—Britt even giggles something like consent, and we walk to my burgundy Tesla parked in a reserved space. With a touch we’re on the road, and it only takes five minutes before I’m pulling into Aiden’s driveway.

  Britt gives my arm a squeeze before hopping out of the passenger’s side. “Thanks for the ride, Bubba. See you tomorrow, Cass!”

  “Owen hates that nickname.” I exhale a laugh, glancing over my shoulder, but Cass is behind me in the dark backseat, almost like she’s hiding. “Want to climb up front? You’ll be more comfortable.”

  She hesitates a moment before sliding over and stepping out of the open door and climbing into the front. The door closes with a solid thump, and she pulls the seatbelt across her shoulder as I back out of the driveway.

  “I've always wanted to ride in one of these.” Her voice is quiet, her eyes tracing the console. “This is where my expertise ends. I know nothing about electric cars.”

  “Good news—you don’t have to know much. There are no oil changes or fuel filters, and the only wear and tear is on the brake pads. Even that’s reduced by regenerative braking.”

  “Impressive.” She lifts her chin. “And they send you wireless upgrades? Very Big Brother.”

  I don’t miss her tone. “It’s one less thing to worry about in my opinion.” My eyes drift to her smooth legs, her slim hands clasped in her lap. Is she nervous? I try to find a more neutral subject. “I heard you’re looking for a place to live?”

  “Do you know of anything?”

  “Not at the moment—just wondering where I'm taking you tonight.”

  “Oh, sorry, I’m back at Carol’s, I guess.” She sighs heavily, slumping back in her seat.

  “I thought you got along with your aunt?” I cast another glance at her face.

  Her lips pull into a frown. “I do, I guess. She’s always taken care of me, made sure I had a roof over my head and clothes to wear, food to eat…”

  “But?”

  She presses her head against the headrest, pinching the bridge of her nose. “It sounds so childish and selfish.”

  “Consider me forewarned.”

  More hesitation, and I feel her gray-blue eyes sizing me up before she continues. “If you must know, she says I’m just like my mother. And the truth is, I’m afraid she might be right. I never went to college. I chase dreams that don’t pay anything and get me nowhere… My mother was broke and alone by the time she was thirty. The farthest she ever got was a small-town gig in a main-street honkey tonk.”

  “I never met your mother, but as far as I can tell, you’re far from alone.” Easing my foot off the gas, I do my best to prolong the drive across our town of only four stoplights. “You have a beautiful voice. It’s been a while since I’ve heard it, but I remember.”

  A tenuous silence falls between us, and I wonder if we’re finally going to address the elephant in the room.

  “That would’ve been the first time you saw me naked.”

  Yep, we’re going there.

  “It was your voice that caught my attention. I had no idea you were skinny dipping.”

  “You expect me to believe you were entranced by my voice and not my prepubescent nipples?”

  “They were pubescent.” A tightness is in my lower stomach. “And I saw more than your nipples.”

  “You don’t sound any more sorry now than you did then.”

  “I wasn’t sorry, but it was an accident, a lot like what happened this afternoon when you walked in on me.”

  Silence falls between us, and she exhales a short laugh as I pull into her aunt’s driveway. “I guess that makes us even.”

  “I wasn’t keeping score.”

  “Me either.” A tentative smile curls her lips, and she reaches for the door.

  I wonder if she remembers kissing me that day. On that, I am keeping score, and I’d like to make us even—right now would be nice.

  I catch her forearm before she steps out of my car. “It’s going to work out for you, Cass.”

  “How can you say that? You don’t know anything about my situation.”

  “I know enough, and I’m always right. Ask Britt.”

  Her eyes move from my hand on her arm to my face. A smile lifts the corner of her lips, and her head tilts to the side. “You’re a lot different with your clothes on.”

  “How so?”

  She leans in, putting her lips dangerously close to mine, and whispers. “You’re a lot cockier when you’re naked.”

  My dick tightens, and I’m ready to catch her by the jaw and claim her mouth with mine.

  Instead I arch an eyebrow. “Or is it just more cock?”

  Her eyes widen, and she falls back against the seat covering her laugh with her hand. It’s incredibly sexy, and it makes me smile.

  Just as fast, she sits forward, lifting her chin and placing her hand on my cheek. “Thanks, Alex. I really needed to hear that tonight.”

  Her thumb moves over my lips, and her eyes follow. I’m ready to say fuck it and pull her to me when she quickly exits the vehicle. For a brief moment, I want to go after her, but I don’t.

  I have no reason to hold her, and I don’t want to be her friend. I never have.

  I want so much more.

  For now, I’ll let her go, but something’s coming. I can feel it. I don’t know why, but a series of events was set in motion this afternoon in Britt’s old apartment

  And I’ve learned to get the best, sometimes you have to be patient.

  CHAPTER 4

  CASS

  “Another box arrived!” My aunt calls from the kitchen, and my head shoots up from the pillow as she continues muttering. “They just keep on coming.”

  “Fuck! I overslept.” It’s 7 a.m., the day before Britt’s wedding, and I’ve got to get to the distillery.

  The last few weeks have absolutely flown, and my stomach is in knots from needing everything to arrive on time, be set up properly, nothing broken, and all smooth sailing for the big day.

  My top priority today is the cake, and I’ve brought everything to the industrial-sized kitchen at the distillery for it. I can put it all together and store it in the massive refrigerator for tomorrow.

  Britt has always been such a good friend, and she’s marrying the man of her dreams—her years and years of dreams, I happen to know. Planning this event is the only gift I have to give her, and I want it to be perfect.

  “I’ll get it,” I yell, hopping around my room, pulling on black leggings and a white cotton tank top.

  I yank an oversized sweater over my head, and it falls off one shoulder as I dash into the kitchen, whipping my hair into a ponytail on top of my head. “I’ll be at the distillery all day, then I’m spending the night with Britt and Piper tonight. Bachelorette.”

  “Will you be drinking?” My aunt’s eyebrow arches, and I fight my eye roll as I snatch the box off the counter.

  “Yes, we’ll be drinking. It’s a celebration.”

  “I hope you don’t plan to drive anywhere.”

  Everywhere in Eureka is walkable, but I don’t bother pointing out the obvious. “We’re staying at the apartment above the Star Parlor. All night.”

  “Bachelorette party.” She shakes her gray head in a disapproving manner. “I’m sure you’ll be doing things I don’t want to know about.”

  I can’t resist. “Yep, it’ll be dildos and penis pops all night.”

  “Cassidy Dixon! I did not raise you to speak that way in my house…”

  I don’t have time to engage with her. I was thirteen when I came to her house, as grown as I would ever be. I simply call out a goodbye as I continue out the door to the strains of her speech about common decency and foul language.

  Luckily, I haven’t been around much this month to hear all her judgments and disapproving opinions on Britt moving in with Aiden before the wedding and “living in sin.” I have no idea what I’ll do after tomorrow.

  Of course, my job hunt has been on hold as I’ve spent the bulk of this month planning the wedding. Alex said I could use his business account to order all the tables and place settings and plants and lights and everything. It’s ultimately all the property of Stone Cold anyway, and it’ll be packed up and stored on-site for the next event when we’re done.

  Five minutes later, I’m driving on the narrow, two-lane highway a mile outside of town where the distillery sits on ten acres of undeveloped country. It’s a really beautiful drive, with the tall grass blowing in the sea breeze, the bright sun climbing higher in a baby-blue sky.

  We’re close enough to the coast, between Kiawah Island and Hilton Head, and tourists who know anything about bourbon often make a special trip to sample the famous, Stone Cold single-barrel reserve. I’ve been impressed by how many visitors a week they get.

  I’ve also been impressed by how hard Alex works. He’s either meeting with advertisers and liquor influencers, which is a thing—who knew?—or crunching numbers or checking batches or talking to suppliers or greeting guests and serving as bartender while he explains the process.

  I really had no idea how much work went into making something like this successful. I always thought it was just alcohol. How hard do you have to sell it? Apparently, the answer is pretty hard if you want to be the very best on the market.

  His Tesla is in his reserved spot, and my stomach tightens when I see it. As much as I’ve tried, I haven’t been able to forget the night he drove me home, touching his face, looking into his smoky hazel eyes.

  It was the second time that day he’d looked at me like he wanted to devour me. The first was in Britt’s apartment when I caught him fresh out of the shower, and I couldn’t deny the blaze of desire it sent racing to my toes.

  It’s going to work out for you, Cass. The slight rasp in his low voice made me want to kiss him. The unspoken invitation in his gaze made me want to straddle his lap and indulge my fantasy from earlier in the day.

  Somehow, I managed to walk away. The last time I was in a similar situation with him, sixteen years ago, I didn’t walk away. He was the cutest boy in town, and I’d noticed him my first day here, standing in the Pack-n-Save, holding an Icee. It made me think living with my aunt might not be so bad after all.

  He’d watched me, and I might have added a little extra swish in my step for his benefit. Then after that day at the beach, he completely turned on me. A wall came down between us, and he acted like nothing had even happened, like I hadn’t even kissed him.

  Worse, he acted like we weren’t even friends.

  I decided that’s what I got for giving away free kisses, and he’d be waiting a long time before he got another one, no matter how supportive he might sound. Fool me once…

  Shaking these silly, childish thoughts aside, I leave the box on my passenger’s seat—it’s for tonight anyway—and hop out of my old gray Subaru Outback, Roger. Best car for the money, and also the easiest to work on, not that it ever needs it.

  Alex is around here somewhere, but I head straight for the kitchen. I’ve got a cake to bake and decorate, sixty place settings to arrange, since we didn’t cut the twenty extra guests, and assembly workers to direct this afternoon setting up the stages and the lights and the sound system.

  That’ll just leave the flower delivery in the morning, and we’ll be all set to roll. My breath tightens in my lungs. We’re so close. It’s going to be so beautiful, but now I have to calm down and focus on the cake.

  Stepping into the huge, walk-in storage closet, I find the giant canister of cake flour I carried over earlier this week. Baking powder and baking soda up next, butter, cinnamon, dark brown sugar, cream cheese, buttermilk, and a carton of eggs.

  Setting my portable Bluetooth speaker on the metal counter, I pull up my favorite Haim playlist and start dragging out the measuring cups, parchment paper, cake stand, and bowls to the opening drum beats of “The Steps.” The guitar chords ring out, and my hips start to sway along with my ponytail.

  My sweater is off, and I’m up to my elbows in cake flour belting out the words to the song as I beat in the eggs. Shimmying my shoulders, I toss my ponytail as I prep the magic—my special snickerdoodle filling.

  I don’t know how much time has passed. I’m singing along with Haim’s first hit “Forever,” when I feel a presence behind me. I’ve never really been mystical like Britt’s family, but it’s like I have some sort of sixth sense for him.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I bite my bottom lip instinctively when I see Alex Stone leaning against the door frame watching me. He’s casual today in jeans and a dark-green Henley that hugs his broad shoulders and muscled arms, which are crossed over his defined chest. The dark scruff on his cheeks is a little thicker, and a smile lifts the corner of his sexy mouth.

  Jeez Louise. I turn back quickly to what I’m doing, so I don’t blush like an idiot, managing a casual, “Hey, there!”

  “She sings, she bakes…” His low voice is fire in my veins as he walks into the kitchen. “And she dances.”

  “You were spying on me again.” My voice is calm, playful even.

  “You were singing again.” He stands on the opposite side of the large, metal table where I’m combining brown sugar, flour, and cinnamon for the swirl. “Not Broadway this time, but I like it.”

  “It’s impossible not to like Haim.” I give the filling a final stir, and it’s ready to be added to the batter.

  “Who’s Haim?” He walks around the table separating us to the long one behind me where the six pans holding the cake batter are waiting.

  “A sister group out of Los Angeles. They open for Taylor Swift sometimes on the West Coast.” He looks at me blankly, and I exhale a little laugh. “They’re amazing.”

  “You’re amazing.”

  Don’t blush. Don’t blush. Don’t blush. His low voice is so certain, like it’s an indisputable fact, and I wish it didn’t completely throw me off balance.

  I clear my throat and answer with a soft, “Thank you,” focusing on the bowl in front of me and not the heat of his body so close to mine.

  “You’ve done a lot of work these last few weeks. I’m eager to see it all come together tomorrow. I lined up a photographer to take some marketing photos…” He glances from what I’m mixing to the waiting pans behind me. “Cinnamon roll cake?”

  “Close. It’s my famous snickerdoodle cake.” I take a small spoon and dip it into the filling I’ve just finished and hold it out for him to taste.

  Hazel eyes meet mine as he places his full lips on the spoon, and my stomach dives. We’ve drifted past each other so long, like two stars in space, and now with Britt’s wedding, we’ve been pushed closer together. Our attraction is elemental, like the pull of gravity…

  And I’m acting dickmatized. Alex Stone has never shown any interest in me—other than for a free peep show. I’m not throwing myself at him again. I have some pride, after all.

  His eyebrows rise, and he blinks a few times. “That’s fucking delicious.”

  Not gonna lie. My pride loves hearing that. “Wait til I put it in the cake.”

  “This is your recipe? As in, you made it up?”

  “It’s not that hard.” I shrug. “I’d been baking for a while, so I was used to how the flavors combined and the behavior of the ingredients. I just started experimenting with tastes I loved or other people loved. This one’s based on a cinnamon sugar Pop-Tart. Britt loved those when we were in high school, and after I made it, it was her favorite cake.”

  “You’re a cake artist.”

  “More like I know what works together, and I’m not afraid to try new things.” I glance up at him, thinking we have something in common. “It’s like your bourbon. It’s your grandfather’s recipe, but I’m sure you take a few liberties to make it yours.”

  “Not with the single barrel. With the special reserve, I take liberties. But the original is all Thomas Woolsen.”

  “Was that his name? Thomas Woolsen?” Leaning my hip against the counter, I’m so curious. I don’t know anything about the old man whose death brought us together all those years ago.

  “Yeah, I’m named for him.”

  “Alexander Thomas Stone.” I say the words slowly, like I’m tasting them for the first time, and when I look up, he’s studying my lips like he wants to taste me.

  My stomach tightens, and my tongue slips out to wet my bottom lip.

  He flinches before darting to meet my gaze again. “What will you do now?”

  I blink, and it takes me a second to realize he means with the cinnamon filling.

  “Oh,” I breathe a laugh and snap out of my daydream, taking the bowl to where the pans of batter are waiting. “I add small spoonfuls to each of these.”

  He watches as I add the little dollops throughout the layers then spread them with a knife. As soon as I finish, he helps me slide the six pans into the waiting, industrial-sized double oven.

  Then he picks up the bowl that held the cinnamon mixture and slides his finger over the side, taking another taste. “I’m already addicted.”

  “Just wait til you get a piece of the cake. That filling makes a sticky, chewy ribbon of cinnamon sugar in every bite.”

  “I’m with Britt. I think your baking era might be my favorite if this is what comes of it.”