Page 22 of Cowboy’s Christmas Baker

“Harrison,” Mallory said happily from behind the counter.

“Hi,” he replied, feeling a little self-conscious after his talk with the man outside, and with two groups of women sitting at the little tables.

He strode past them up to the counter, where Mallory was fiddling with a stack of menus.

Is she self-conscious too?

He’d been so impressed when she sent him a knock-knock joke yesterday. He’d been absolutely blown away by their in-person meeting, but her message had felt just like before, like nothing had changed.

“What can I make for you?” she asked shyly, not quite meeting his eyes.

“I actually wanted to ask you for something special,” he said. “It’s not on the menu.”

Her emerald green gaze locked on his, and there was something almost like hope in her expression, though that didn’t make any sense. What would she be hoping for?

It threw him a little, and he didn’t respond right away.

“I’m listening,” she said after a moment.

“You know Katie’s kind of… reserved,” he said, then looked over his shoulder, realizing he probably shouldn’t have this conversation in front of strangers.

The three beautifully dressed older ladies bent over a notebook next to a plate of muffins paid him no mind whatsoever. But the two younger women in yoga gear at the other table were both stealing glances at him over their smoothies.

“You know what?” Mallory said. “I need to check on my cranberry-orange muffins. Want to come back with me for a second?”

“That would be great,” he said.

She beckoned for him to follow and he moved to join her, passing the counter and going through the door into the kitchen beyond.

It wasn’t a big space, but the kitchen was sparkling clean and bright with the ceiling lights reflecting in all the stainless steel. Better yet, it smelled incredible.

Along with the sleek lines of the steel, and the massive ovens and counters, there were hooks hanging from the ceiling with copper pots and pans that looked as old as the building itself, with plenty of dents and scratches indicating they had been well-used. Handwritten recipes in pencil with eraser smudges hung from a big bulletin board in the corner.

The space managed to be sleek and comfortable all at once—professional yet imbued with a touch of homemade magic, just like Mallory herself.

“This is really nice,” he told her.

“Thank you,” she replied, her cheeks flushing a pretty pink. “Some days I can’t believe it’s really mine. The equipment at least.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I don’t own the building,” she said. “Just the kitchen equipment and the business. Owning the building one day is the dream though.”

“Is it on the market?” he asked.

“No,” she chuckled. “But I know the owner.”

“Is he local?” Harrison asked.

“Yes,” she said. “And he has no interest in using the space himself. So who knows? Maybe one day he’ll get tired of being a landlord.”

Harrison figured that was a long shot as long as the guy had a good tenant like Mallory. It was more likely that he would raise the rent on her once he realized what a good thing she had going, and how much she had invested in this kitchen.

The idea burned in his mind and little flames of anger licked at his skin before he could remind himself to back off.

It’s not your fight, Law.

There was just something about Mallory that made him want to protect her. Maybe it was her sunny attitude. Only the most innocent soul would believe the best of their landlord.