Page 67 of Branded Betrayal

I stifle a yawn and head back up to the house, the rich scents of chocolate and butterscotch wafting through the air. The oven timer bleeps, and I pull open the door, letting the sweetness envelop my senses. Leaning against the counter, I allow my eyes to float closed.

Lover’s Bluff. A soft blanket. Night sky with thousands of tiny stars winking down on us. Blaze’s thick, ripped arms holding me tight as I writhe under him, his name tumbling from my lips when I take a swan dive straight into the all-consuming sea of euphoria.

Nights like that always started with a batch of Ms. Eloise’s famous cookies. I run my fingers over the swirly script of the recipe card she gave me before I left Whiskey Creek.

Before Blaze left me.

Back then, I was stupid enough to think that I could always re-create those moments if only I had the magic ingredient. Turns out, that magic ingredient wasn’t so magical after all because the last time I baked those cookies, he tore my heart out of my chest and trounced all over it.

I thought of incinerating the recipe afterward. Instead, I tucked it away in Aunt Marg’s recipe book.

Because I realized that the cookies weren’t the magic ingredient.

Love was.

And you can’t re-create that. Not when you never really had it in the first place.

But a flicker of hope made me dig out that recipe this morning.

I set the trays on cooling racks and stir my coffee, staring out at the lavender fields.

“I hate that I want him so much after everything that happened,” I grumble, picking a cookie off one of the sheets. The warm, gooey center melts in my mouth.

I polish off a few more cookies before I lock in on my decision—good, bad, or otherwise.

After a quick shower, I pile cookies into a plastic container, grab my keys, and run out the front door.

“I’m just going to drop these off and leave. Nothing more,” I say out loud once I’m in my car. “It’s just to be neighborly. It’s not like I can eat all of these cookies on my own. I used to bake for the Hartmans all the time, so this is perfectly normal.”

I drive down the dirt road, my heart like a Ping-Pong ball slamming against my rib cage, harder as I approach their property.

A near panic attack assaults me as I turn into the driveway.

This is crazy. I need to get out of here now, before he sees me.

I cannot be that girl. I won’t be.

I clutch the steering wheel, braking hard when Harlon Hartman walks toward me.

Shit. I’ve been spotted.

I can’t very well leave now. And anyway, maybe Blaze isn’t even here. Maybe I can still escape without him knowing I did the most desperate thing ever by showing up here.

I jerk my head left and right until my eyes land on his truck.

No. No, no, no!

I am so caught.

I roll down my window, forcing a smile while the lump in my throat slowly chokes the life out of me.

“Savvie, good to see you. How are you holding up? Been thinking about you and Nash. You know we’re always here for you.”

“Hey, Mr. Hartman. We’re doing just . . . fine. Thanks.” I hold up the container. “I, um, baked a few batches of cookies for Brixton’s and had some left over. Thought you boys might be interested.” I smile wider, hoping that’ll deliver the lie effectively.

“Sweet girl, thank you so much.” He pats his belly. “I know I’ve definitely missed your baking since you left for Denver.”

“Great,” I say, handing him the container. “Here you go. I have to be on my way now.”