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“You mentioned you were afraid of the dark, and I wanted to make sure you were okay.” I take another bite under her unrelenting stare and sense there’s something else on her mind.

“What is it?” I ask, losing my train of thought when our eyes meet again.

“Nothing.” She waves it off, as though pushing a thought away.

After eating every crumb of the most incredible pie I’ve ever tasted, I set the fork down. “That was delicious,” I say, getting up from the table.

Her easygoing smile disappears. “You’re not leaving now, are you? You just got here.” Her voice comes out thin. All the confidence from a moment ago is gone.

“You’re all set now. The generator’s humming, and it’s new. You won’t have any problems with it. See how bright it is in here with all the lights on?” I spread my hands, palms up at the ceiling, and try to cheer her up with a smile. “There isn’t anything to be afraid of now.”

“It’s the wind,” she whispers, with her gaze fixed on the rattling windowpane. Every time a branch hits the wall, I think the whole cabin is coming down. I know it sounds stupid, but out here … it feels like it could.” The wind howls against the glass like it’s agreeing with her.

Her face is the color of old ash and she’s looking at me like I’m the only solid thing left on this mountain.

“I could bake a pie for you every day for a month,” she begs. “Just for you. A whole pie. I’ll make you a different one every day you’re here. For breakfast. Anything … just please don’t go. I know it’s a huge ask, but I would really, really appreciate it.”

Not what I was expecting at all. I scratch my chin and look up at the pitched pine ceiling. My family is safe. The lines are someone else’s problem tonight. It’s probably after midnight, and the curvy city girl who was supposed to be nothing more than a glance is standing in my emergency cabin offering me pie and begging me to stay.

Every instinct tells me to head for the door. But then I look at her, small and scared in the middle of my family’s place, and I can’t. I walk back to the table and take a seat again.

“You’re staying?” She presses her palms together like she’s praying. “Please say yes.”

I grin, look at the counter behind her, and push the empty plate toward her. “I think you mentioned more pie?” I tease. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” she says in a bright, relieved voice. She snatches my dish and heads for the kitchen with her hips swaying. I can’t look away. She turns quickly, almost catching me, and calls over the counter, “I sliced you a big piece this time.” A genuine laugh escapes her as she hurries back, setting the plate on the table with a thunk.

I glance down at the pie, but hell, at this point I can’t stop looking at her face. Damn, she’s pretty. The kind that makes me want to slow down and be careful, like I’m handling something I could break. I can’t even think of her body. I’m already semi-hard for her, and we’re not even touching.

She sits directly in front of me, studying me as I take a bite, and doesn’t stop watching me eat. Her eyes are glued to my every move. Fork to plate, to mouth.

“Do you always stare at people eating?”

“Only when they’re eating my pie.”

My mind immediately goes straight to her pussy. I hold back a laugh with my mouth full, swallowing quickly. She must realize what she said, because a blush creeps up her neck and then we both crack up.

“Sorry. That didn’t come out right.” She giggles as her eyes sweep to my mouth.

“You’re pretty forward for a baker.” I grin at her, and our eyes lock for a beat. Whatever I was about to say next doesn’t matter. Her eyes are almost lavender in this light, but she shifts and peers at the window behind me, apparently deciding the tree thumping against the glass is far more fascinating.

I ask about Chicago, and she talks about a roommate named Maya who sounds like trouble, parents who split their time between the city and Florida, her volunteer work at the local humane society, and a life in Lincoln Park that sounds a million miles from here. She asks what it’s like to live in a place where everyone knows your business. I tell her it’s a pain in the ass until you need your truck pulled from a ditch at two a.m. She laughs, then tells me just how much this pie contest means, her voice turning serious.

By the time one a.m. rolls around and my eyes are starting to close, I haven’t completely changed my mind about her. That would be too fast, but almost.

She’s smart. Funny. Loves her family. There’s something about Lila I can’t quite put a name on. Maybe it’s the way her whole face changes when she talks about her family, and baking. Her hands move, voice picks up speed, like the subject is too big to stay contained. It makes the cabin feel less quiet.

What’s so wrong about her coming to Passion Pines? The organizers apparently advertised the contest heavily. According to Lila, when she heard someone on the Foodie Network mention our Pie Palooza, she took it as a sign her career might not be over. I can’t blame her for sending in an application and getting accepted.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes, breaking into a yawn. “I swear you’re not boring, and you’ve been so generous with me. It’s just that I’m beat. It’s been a long day.”

“I’ll bet. I’m pretty tired too.” I grab my plate and rinse it in the sink. Lila sidles up next to me, so I remind her. “You do realize there’s only a loft in this place. It’s tiny, with no secret extra bedrooms.”

“Yeah. Got it. Only one bed, but I checked it and it’s pretty big,” she adds, trying to sound positive.

There is no way I can share a bed with her. That would lead to issues. I dry my hands on the dish towel and head into the living area, saying, “No problem. I’ll take the couch down here.”

“I can’t make you sleep there.” She hurries beside me, her nose scrunched up with worry, looking awfully kissable for an interloper. “That thing is tiny. You’ll freeze. Or wake up with a broken back.”