town she’d lived in her whole life. Where she worked in a bakery with her best friend and went to dinner once a week at her friend’s mom’s house. Where they served things like cheesy potatoes and lettuce salad with ranch dressing and breaded, baked pork chops.
He wasn’t her type.
She didn’t know many guys like him. If any.
He’d bet a million dollars on it. Literally.
After he’d kicked his shoes to the side, she took him through the three-season room and into the kitchen.
She set her purse and car keys on the little table just inside the doorway and then headed to the sink. She washed her hands and then grabbed an apron—one of four—from the little hooks on the wall.
“What are we making?” he asked. He wanted to watch her bake. It was as strange as wanting to go barefoot, but hey, he was willing to roll with things at this point.
He’d been friends—and a pseudo babysitter—to Dax Marshall and Oliver Caprinelli for nine years. He was the voice of reason, the guy who talked them out of the dumbest ideas and the one who paid the bail for the ideas he couldn’t talk them out of. Generally, he was the guy who kept them out of the worst-case scenarios.
And he’d learned the best memories and stories were never the ones where people were toeing the line.
Dax and Ollie had more fun than Grant did.
Sometimes he was a little jealous of that.
Like right now when his head was telling him he should turn around, leave Jocelyn’s house, leave Appleby, leave Iowa. But his heart was saying this is going to be so, so good. Crazy, but good.
She smiled. “You want to help?”
“I want to watch.”
“You want to watch me bake?”
“I do.”
“Is that a fetish I’m not aware of?”
“For me, as of tonight, yes,” he told her truthfully.
Her eyebrows rose as if surprised, but her smile was sly and pleased. “Well, okay, then.”
She crossed the room to the stove and grabbed the tea pot. “Hot water?”
He frowned. “For?”
“To drink?”
“Uh, no. Do you have coffee?”
She turned to face him. “Of course. But you drink hot water with lemon, right? Not coffee?”
Ah, his order from the bakery every morning. “That’s for Piper.”
Jocelyn tipped her head. “So you drink coffee.”
“I do. Strong. Black.”
“Oh.” She seemed relieved. “But you don’t like our coffee?”
“I get up early and usually have already had a cup or two by the time I come in,” he said. “And there’s more at the office if I need it.” He peered closer. “Does that offend you? I’ll gladly drink your coffee, Jocelyn. If that would make you happy.”
That sounded a little like innuendo as well. He meant it that way too.
She gave him a little smile. “Actually, Zoe makes the coffee, so no. But I do want you to eat my sweets tonight.”
That was definitely innuendo. Though it was also literal. She was going to bake. And he was going to strip her naked and take her right here on one of her countertops.
“I can’t remember the last time I had a craving like this,” he admitted.
She pressed her lips together but then gave a little nod. She turned to the Keurig coffee machine. “Regular or decaf?”
“Regular.”
She fixed his coffee and set the mug on the center island. He grabbed it, then propped a shoulder against the doorway that led into the dining room. He figured he’d mostly be out of the way here but could see everything she was doing.
Jocelyn bustled around the kitchen, retrieving ingredients and bowls, spoons, whisks, and spatulas from the fridge, cupboards, and drawers. She had flour, eggs, cocoa, buttermilk, and various other small bottles and cans laid out before she stepped back to survey the assortment.
Grant cradled his cup between his hands, mostly forgetting about his coffee. He was intent on the woman who was muttering to herself as she moved around. He was quite sure she was unaware of the way she talked to herself and he found it endearing.
“Buttermilk, soda, salt, eggs… butter. Dammit.” She turned back to the fridge and retrieved the butter.
“Buttermilk,” she started again, to herself. “Soda, eggs, butter, cocoa, salt… brown sugar. Fuck.”
She headed for one of the cupboards and Grant grinned. For some reason, he hadn’t pegged her as someone who said “fuck.” It didn’t offend him in the least, of course. It was one of his favorite, most used, words. But Jocelyn gave off a sweet and sunny air that didn’t quite line up with someone who