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Dot made a sound from behind the counter, like she agreed.

Sterling finally tore his eyes from mine, only to grab a fistful of napkins from the table. He wiped the remaining filling from his chest with lazy, unhurried strokes. Each swipe drew attention to the way his biceps flexed, the way his abs tightened, the way the cherry juice glistened before it disappeared.

I was still staring. Obviously. There was no hiding it or coming back from this.

When he was done, he tossed the napkins aside and looked back at me with an annoyingly hot smile that told me he’d done it all on purpose, and he knew exactly the amount of unwanted lust I was feeling right now.

“I should probably go shower,” he said mildly, as if he hadn’t just wrecked Dot’s diner and my entire nervous system. “Before someone calls the health department.”

Without another word, he turned and strode toward the door, his bare chest and all those muscles on full display. The bell over the door jingled as he pushed it open, and I tracked him like a sunflower following the sun.

The moment the door swung shut behind him, my legs remembered gravity. I peeled off the apron with shaking hands and walked it back to the counter, holding my head as high as I could. I’d unfortunately just proven that working for an establishment that Sterling Hayes owned was not a possibility for me. I’d never survive the embarrassment.

Dot took one look at my face and sighed.

“I’m very sorry for destroying your pie, and I don’t think,” I said faintly, placing the apron in her hands, “that this is going to work out.”

Dot glanced toward the door Sterling had exited through, then back at me. Her mouth twitched. “That’s fair. I imagine you’ll never look at cherry pie the same way again,” she teased.

I exhaled hard, relief and embarrassment tangling together in my chest.

She nodded toward the counter. “Sit. Eat something.”

“I—”

“That wasn’t a suggestion,” she said calmly.

I hesitated, then slid onto a stool, my knees still a little wobbly.

My stomach suddenly rumbled so loudly the man beside me edged his plate away in self-defense.

Dot didn’t even blink. “Bacon and hash browns? With eggs or without?”

“With,” I whispered. “Please.”

“That’s my girl.”

She called the order toward the kitchen, and I surrendered completely.

The other thing about small towns, I was quickly discovering, was everyone treated you like family. Or at least, what I imagined a loving family would be, because how would I know?

Ten minutes later, with hash browns and eggs valiantly mopping up my humiliation in butter and salt, the day didn’t look quite as apocalyptic. I still wasn’t employed, but at least I’d had some carbs. That had to count for something.

I reached for my bag—and paused.

The pie case was reflecting the light like something divine. A single slice of peach bourbon pie waited behind the glass, glowing as if it had been blessed by angels or possibly baked to lure sinners into town.

Dot noticed my stare. “Go on, sweet pea. That one’s been waitin’ on you.”

I didn’t even pretend to resist.

She set the plate in front of me, and I immediately took a forkful, my eyes closing in bliss as I tasted what might have been the most delicious thing on earth. The world seemed to pause for a breath, just long enough for the sweetness to quiet the panic and the bourbon to murmur that maybe things weren’t as doomed as I’d decided.

I had to admit, too, the lattice crust did taste like it possessed some kind of mystical power, the sort of magic small towns whispered about with straight faces. If I hadn’t just quit, she should have fired me just for desecrating such a thing.

When I opened my eyes, Dot was already wiping down the counter, humming her hymn again, calm and steady as if she performed a bit of emotional surgery every day and didn’t need applause for it.

I thanked her, and she patted my hand, a simple gesture that could’ve undone me completely if I let it. For a flicker of a moment, I wanted to lean into that kindness, but I didn’t trust myself not to break open.