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And it also left room for me to experiment with frosting and presentation.

“Never thought I’d see the day my kitchen would turn into a full-blown bakery,” Hank says as he walks through the double doors. The dinner rush is over, and he’s carrying a tub of dishes.I’d taken a break to eat dinner with Cruz, but I quickly returned to the kitchen to get back to work.

I laugh, following his gaze to the myriad of cakes resting out on baking sheets to cool.

“These look fantastic,” he says, stepping in for a closer look.

“They’ll look better once I add all the icing and toppings,” I assure him. The big dinner is tomorrow night—Friday—which means I need to have all the cakes done today so I can spend tomorrow icing them before the evening. Good thing I only have one left in the oven.

Hank shakes his head in admiration, depositing the tub of dishes into the sink. “What’ll we do when you go back to Seattle at the end of the summer?” he says with a playfultsk. “You’ve got all my ranch hands spoiled rotten.”

The idea hits me a bit harder than expected. Sure, I knew I was eventually going home but … I guess I hadn’t really thought on it. Suddenly all the peace and calm and giddiness I’d felt evaporates, leaving a tightness in my chest.

I clear my throat and force out a small laugh. “Yeah … you’ll have to take up baking,” I joke.

“Oh, my baking would be worse than no baking,” Hank guffaws.

The timer on the oven goes off, startling me momentarily. I hurry over and peer inside, seeing my yellow base cake looking nice and done. I don oven mitts and pull it out, setting it on a vacant cooling rack. I step back with hands on my hips, surveying the mass of cakes.

“You better not be thinking of starting in on the icing tonight,” Hank says as he starts washing dishes. “You’ve been hard at work since early this morning. Go relax. I’m sure Cruz wouldn’t mind spending some time with you,” he adds with a guilty grin.

I blush slightly and turn away. Of course Hank knows about Cruz and I. Not because either of us has said anything, but because Hank isn’t an idiot, and neither Cruz nor I are very good actors. But even if therewas something to say out loud, what would it be? We haven’t exactly had a conversation about what we are. And having been suddenly reminded of my imminent return to Seattle—to the real estate life, to my family, to the stress of it all—I suddenly don’t want to think too hard about anything at all.

I take a deep breath. “I’ll just do one,” I tell Hank. “One cake, then I’ll head home.”

The next day passes in a blur. I’m in the kitchen in the early hours of the morning, icing cakes, adding toppings, and looking up techniques on YouTube. And while I can still definitely pick out the flaws in my design, the cakes all actually look … professional.

As the dinner hour nears, I busy myself with setting up the dessert table in the cafeteria.Hank is busy with his own prep, and we barely exchange words, lost in our own little worlds.

As I step back to observe my cake display, a familiar scent envelops me—as well as two strong arms—from behind. I giggle as Cruz kisses my cheek in greeting. “You sure you didn’t just pick these up from the local bakery?” he teases.

I scrunch up my nose. “I’m nervous. I hope they live up to the whole ‘fancy dinner’ title.”

“Addison, these look incredible. Like, seriously,” Cruz assures me. “And I know they taste great because I was your taste tester earlier in the week.”

It’s true. He and Hank were the two people around for me to run recipes by, giving them samples and getting their input.

“You’re just saying that because you like me,” I protest.

“Can’t both be true?” he replies, wrapping his arm around my waist and giving me a little squeeze. “So tellme—what all did you decide on?” He gestures to the cakes on display.

“Well, there are a few of each cake type, since there are so many people to feed,” I explain. “But this first one is a German chocolate cake with cherry filling layers and maraschino cherries on top. This is a vanilla cake with buttercream frosting and strawberries—because who doesn’t love strawberries?” I point to the last one. “And this is a gluten-free, dairy-free cake to make sure everyone gets a sweet treat. I chose chocolate again for this once since I think it’s always a fan favorite.” I glance to Cruz, beaming from ear to ear.

He shakes his head, taking it all in, then wraps his arms tighter around me. “You’re so fucking talented,” he murmurs into my hair. “Ugh, I’m proud of you.”

I’m surprised at the emotional reaction his words provoke in me. My chest floods with warmth, and I hug him back, giddy.

The sound of the front doors opening has Cruz stepping back, putting just the right amount of spacebetween us. He glances over his shoulder at the group of ranch hands entering. “Your fans await,” he says with a smirk.

I swat him on the arm, although it’s somewhat true. Ever since I started baking, I’ve become fully embraced by the staff here. It’s true what they say, I guess—the way to someone’s heart is through their stomach.

It doesn’t take long for the mess hall to fill, and soon I spot Theresa, Tate, Lucy, and the kids. And they’re just as blown away by my newfound hobby as Cruz.

“When Hank mentioned you were baking, I wasn’t prepared forthis,” Tate says as he stands in front of the dessert table.

Dinner is served, and as expected, the salmon fillets are incredible—just like everything Hank whips up. Cruz sits with me and my family, although we’re careful not to act lovey-dovey. Tate and Theresa keep glancing at me throughout the meal, though, and I start to worry that somehow the news about Cruz and I has spreadto them—but then the mess hall door opens, and my mouth drops.

Theresa grins wide, standing and waving to the new visitor.