The deep voice pulled Lynn’s gaze to the doorway.
Lynn boldly stared at him, then slowly raised her mug and took a long, deliberate sip—never breaking eye contact with Bryce’s brother.
After a loud, satisfied sigh, she tilted her head.
“Oh yeah. In fact…” Another long sip. She could already feel the warmth settling in her chest. “I know it will.”
She winked and lifted her mug in a lazy toast toward the tall, infuriatingly good-looking man across from her.
Brock chuckled, easy and unbothered, as he stepped up to the counter to inspect the sugary mess.
“Just sayin’,” he said with that calm, coastal drawl. “Seeking peace from the bottom of a bottle rarely delivers you where you think it will.”
Lynn tipped her chin toward him. “That’s only true if you’ve got the wrong bottle.” She pointed to her bag. “Mine? Delivers every. Single. Time.”
She sauntered closer, her voice steady, her eyes daring. The space between them shrank—she was too close to be polite and too confident to care.
Brock opened his mouth to reply, but before he could get a word out, a chunk of cake hit him square in the chest.
“Listen here, Billy Graham,” Lynn said, holding up another sticky handful, “I don’t have time for a sermon. I’ve got a cake to redo and no time to do it. So either stick around and help or surf off into the sunset.”
Brock looked down at his shirt, scooped the cake off with two fingers, and popped it into his mouth like it was a normal occurrence.
“Mmm. That is good. What’d you do to it—drop it off a cliff and pray it’d stick the landing?”
Lynn threw up her hands. “Ah! I didn’t do anything!” Then, eyeing the cake more closely, she added, “I mean… I must have done something. I made it. And now it’s dead. So, yeah.”
Brock grinned. “You gonna have time to bake and decorate another one before tomorrow?”
“Nope.” Lynn didn’t even hesitate. “Clearly, I’m better at decorating than baking.”
She stared at the cake like it had betrayed her, then pulled out her phone and started scrolling. Brock watched her silently, stealing another bite when she wasn’t looking.
Lynn hit call and waited. “Yes, hi. I’m calling to see if you have undecorated cakes already baked.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes. That’s right. Cakes. No frosting.”
Brock leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, clearly entertained.
“Wonderful. I need six 8-inch rounds. Four chocolate, four vanilla.” Pause. “Now.”
As she gave her name and the pickup details, she didn’t even notice Brock slipping toward the door.
“Yes, tonight. I can be there in ten minutes. Just write down ‘Stoner.’ Yep, like the criminal record. Great. Thanks.”
She hung up, scooped the cake scraps into a storage container—too good to toss—and grabbed her bag. Then she headed out back to borrow her mom’s car.
Eight cakes on a motorcycle? Even she wasn’t that reckless.
Out by the firepit, Brock found Bryce chatting with a man whose name he couldn’t remember.
“Hey, man,” Brock said, still brushing crumbs off his shirt, “Something happened with the wedding cake, so—”
Bryce burst out laughing before he could finish. “Yeah, Pastor Steve and Beth already told us about Lynn’s rant. Sounded... colorful.”
Brock smirked. “I caught the tail end. It was... something.”
Bryce raised an eyebrow.
