Page 60 of Wicked & Wildflower

She grins, nodding. Holding out the tray, I notice what appears to be a handful of donuts with some kind of bright orange frosting and chocolate sprinkles on top. “Maple Glazed Pumpkin Whatevers, I call them.”

The laugh that bursts out of me takes us both by surprise, and my eyes shoot up to meet hers. They widen as our gazes clash before she returns my laughter with her own bright melody. We’re both breathless when she sets the donuts on the counter and slides them toward me. I take one, and it tastes just like everything else Dahlia creates—sweet, warm, and insanely flavorful. It’s like I’m drinking the iced latte she knows I love from our favorite coffee stand. I swear, there are even hints of the espresso flavor within the pastry.

“So good,” I say, though it comes out as more of a moan. “Why can I taste the coffee too?”

“The sprinkles,” she responds proudly. “They’re espresso flavored.”

“You are utterly divine.”

Her eyes spark at the compliment, and I notice her dip her head to hide the blush my words bring to her cheeks. I seem toalways be making her blush, yet she continues to hide it. I never get tired of seeing it, her flustered by me, knowing I’m capable of bringing that kind of reaction out of such a strong, independent woman.

We haven’t had another…moment like the one on FaceTime a couple of weeks ago, but we’ve spoken every single night before we fall asleep.

I reach out to grab another donut, only now realizing I’ve demolished the entirety of my first one in just a few bites. A small, pink-manicured hand slaps me on the wrist. “Don’t ruin your dinner. You can take them home and have them later.”

“C’mon, Wildflower.”

She’s failing to hide her smile as she shakes her head. “Your mother would be upset with me if you didn’t eat her turkey because you’re filled up on my donuts.” She grabs the tray and turns around, giving me a view of her phenomenal ass as she covers the plate. “Plus, I’m making pie I’ll want you to try later.”

I open my mouth to continue arguing when I’m cut off by the door opening and a loud whistle. “Whose pretty little blue thing is sitting out in that driveway?” my dad calls from the foyer.

“That’d be mine!” Darby chimes from the living room.

My brother bought her a beautiful new car for her birthday last week. Apparently, the car she had back in Kansas was actually owned by her father and, knowing there was no way he’d be willing to give it to her— or any way she’d be willing to go back out to Crestwell and get it herself— Darby has been going without a vehicle for the last few months. That is, until Leo surprised her with a baby blue, brand new Mustang, the perfect complement to his classic red one.

They do look fucking great parked next to each other in the driveway.

Laughs ring out from the other room as Dahlia turns to face me again. “Someday, I’m going to make that happen,” she murmurs under breath.

“Make what happen?” I ask.

She starts, as if she hadn’t realized she said it out loud. Shaking off the surprise, she sighs. “I’m going to buy myself an impractical car I can drive just for fun. Something with no top. No child safety features. Something that doesn’t need to accommodate anyone but myself.”

“If you ever want to drive mine, Dal, you’re more than welcome.”

Her gaze softens, lips twitching up in the corner, pretty pink lips that I’d die to taste again. “I’m not sure I’m a Jeep gal.”

I raise my brow. “You a motorcycle gal?”

I can tell by the way her eyes flare and her tongue flicks out to run along those pretty pink lips that I’m right on track. “I’m not sure I care enough to get a license and learn all that.”

I smile. “I’ll take you for a ride any time you want, baby.”

We both know I mean that in more ways than one.

Dahlia’s cheeks flush, and she looks away. “You can drive a motorcycle?”

“I’ve got a 1983 Triumph Bonneville sitting pretty in my garage right now.” Her eyes flutter, glancing up at me through long lashes. “I don’t get her out nearly enough, though.”

She hums contemplatively just as my parents enter the kitchen with bags full of food. “Happy Thanksgiving!” my mother sings as she drops everything onto the counter and beelines straight for Dahlia.

She chuckles against the top of my mom’s head as my mother wraps her arms around Dal’s waist. She’s tiny at just above five-feet-tall, whereas Dahlia has to be at least five-eight or five-nine. My mother finally pulls away and turns to me. “Hi, baby.” She smiles, closing in on me too.

I pull her into my chest. “¿Y yo? ¿Estoy pintado o qué?”

“I think we’re both second-best when it comes to the three of them,” Leo chides as he strolls into the kitchen and begins rummaging through the fridge.

“You know Spanish?” Dahlia asks.

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