Page 5 of Revival in Laurel Valley

The visits had stopped after her parents’ divorce. Just one more casualty of a family that couldn’t hold itself together.

But Aunt Rose had remembered. Had left Liza everything. The bakery. The apartment upstairs. The recipes written in faded ink on index cards.

The weight of expectation.

Movement outside the window caught her eye.

Two men walking down the cobblestone street toward the bakery.

Liza’s heart stuttered.

Blaze O’Hara she recognized. Hard not to in a town where the O’Hara family had been the foundation for generations. Tall, dark haired, with eyes that could make a woman melt and the kind of presence that commanded attention. The sheriff’s badge on his chest suited him, though she’d heard stories about his wilder days.

But it was the man beside him who made her forget to breathe.

Tall—easily six four or more. Broad shoulders that filled out his jacket in a way that suggested serious muscle underneath. Light brown hair that needed a cut, falling into dark eyes that swept the street with the kind of awareness that spoke of training. The scruff on his jaw said he hadn’t shaved in days, and the way he moved—controlled, purposeful, dangerous—sent heat flooding through her.

“Well, hello, cowboy,” she purred under her breath.

She hadn’t felt this spark since before Richard. Since before she’d learned that attraction was a trap and men were experts at lying.

But looking at this man, she wanted to believe in sparks again.

Liza hurried to shove the remaining boxes behind the counter and ran her fingers through her hair, trying for artfully tousled instead of windswept disaster.

The bell jangled as they entered, bringing cold wind and the scent of pine.

“Hell-o,” she said, barely a whisper.

But the stranger’s mouth curved, and she knew he’d heard her.

His eyes met hers, and the world narrowed to just the two of them. Dark brown eyes that held intelligence and something harder. Pain, maybe. Or anger. Something that said this man had seen things, done things, survived things that left marks.

The scar along his jaw only made him more compelling.

“Hey there,” she said, leaning against the counter. “What can I do for you?”

“A loaded question if I’ve ever heard one,” he said, his voice like whiskey and gravel.

Heat pooled low in her belly. Oh, this was dangerous.

“Oh, for the love of—” Blaze interrupted. “I want a bear claw and a fresh cup of coffee. You make it better than what I can manage at the office.”

“You got it, Sheriff.” But Liza’s eyes never left the stranger as she moved to pour coffee and grab a pastry.

“What about you, cowboy? What do you want?”

His gaze traveled over her slowly, deliberately. “I don’t think you serve it here. And I’ve decided to swear off pastries.”

Blaze snorted, but Liza ignored him. She could feel the electricity crackling between them, the kind of chemistry that made smart women do stupid things.

“That’s a shame,” she said. “I don’t think you’ve ever tasted one of my pastries. They’ll melt in your mouth.”

His eyes darkened. “How can I resist such a temptation?”

“Oh, I’m sure you could manage if you put your mind to it.”

“Why would I want to do that?”