Damn.
She wasn't just good. She was excellent. The kind of excellence that didn't end up in the middle of nowhere unless something had gone sideways.
He heard Arletta humming in the pantry, and he leaned against the counter, arms crossed.
"She's got secrets," Arletta said without turning around.
"Everyone's got secrets."
"Not the kind that make a woman that jumpy." Arletta came out holding a jar of pickles and fixed him with a look that could strip paint. "You gonna ask what they are?"
Mike shook his head. "Nope."
"Good." She set the jar down with a thunk. "But you're gonna protect her anyway, aren't you?"
He didn't answer. Didn't need to.
Arletta sighed, the kind of sigh that said 'men' and 'Lord help us' all at once. "Your mama raised you boys too decent for your own good."
Mike grinned, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yes ma'am, she did."
He turned back to the stove, adjusted the heat under the roast, and let the sizzle fill the silence. Protection wasn't something you announced. It was something you did. Quietly, carefully, until the threat passed or the person you were protecting didn't need you anymore.
And judging by the way Liv Ramsey had flinched when Arletta asked where she was from, judging by the way her hands had trembled just slightly when she set that oven timer, told him she needed someone in her corner.
Whether she knew it yet or not.
Liv waited until Mike's footsteps faded, then slowly unzipped her case and found the small leather wallet tucked deep inside a compartment constructed of duct tape and anxiety. Inside, Olivia Langford's entire life was stuffed into laminated plastic—her driver's license, American Express card, insurance cards . . . all items she dared not use. Would not use as Liv Ramsey.
My God, she'd never dreamed a high-profile catering event would change her life in such a dramatic and horrible way. One moment in time, between serving Petit Fours and Crème Brûlée, she'd passed by the wrong door at the wrong time. What she'd seen was stamped on her brain and had put her on the radar of a mafia-connected underworld executive.
She shoved the documents behind a stack of underwear, then slid the false bottom shut.
Standing, Liv walked to the window and peeled aside the floral curtain.
The land kept going, as far as she could see, warm and breathtaking under the wide-open sky. She cracked open the window and soft air filtered in, carrying the scent of animals and freshly plowed land. Somewhere out there, voices and laughter echoed faintly from one of the barns. She could see why folks would want to spend a weekend or longer in this environment. This was a far cry from the frenetic, crowded streets and honking horns of downtown Manhattan.
Inside her chest, she felt the first inhale in far too long that didn't end in panic.
Then her burner phone buzzed.
Liv leapt toward it, heart in her throat, but the screen only showed the low battery symbol. No new messages.
No calls.
Still no sign from Damian—who probably wanted her dead—or from Detective Sanchez, who'd promised to keep her safe. The food world back home might still be reeling from a half-cooked scandal, but for now, she was just Liv Ramsey, new pastry chef at the Watkins Ranch who'd survived a goat ambush and a cowboy smirk.
She powered off the phone and set it next to the bed. It wasn't the latest iPhone she usually carried. That one stayed permanently turned off so no one could track her location. My gosh, she wasn't cut out for this. Hiding. Constantly afraid.
And although staying at a ranch in the middle of nowhere felt like the safest place she could be, she was clearly out of her element. She didn't know the first thing about animals, and if Tiny the goat was any indication, she was likely to run into a lot of them.
She unpacked her suitcase and went into the attached bathroom to freshen up. Here the room didn't feel quite as masculine. There was an assortment of toiletries in a basket on the sink countertop, which was a nice touch. The shower was roomy and a deep soaking tub sat invitingly beneath a high window that let plenty of light into the room.
As she left the room and made her way downstairs, laughter rolled up from the kitchen, mingling with the mouth-watering aroma of meat roasting in the oven. Liv wandered down, hesitant at first, then with a boldness her employees back home would have recognized.
Once again, the sight of this amazing kitchen gave her goose bumps. It was an absolute baker's dream. Stainless steel, double ovens, an island fitted with burners and a griddle, plus a walk-in pantry that brought a whimper to her throat. Mike was standing at the stove, brow furrowed as he added something to a sauce.
"Get settled in?" he asked without looking up.
