Page 10 of Sweetly Yours

And when he looked at me? My stomach flipped every single time.

Eventually, June dragged me out, claiming she needed beauty sleep—though I’m pretty sure she just wanted to leave me to process everything on my own. We waved goodbye as Brock finished another song, and he caught my eye, giving me that slow, lazy smile that seemed to have a direct line to my heart.

It’s the next day and I’m still thinking about it.

We’ve been texting, and every time my phone lights up with his name, it’s like a little jolt of excitement.

Brock: Hey, it’s Brock. Just checking in—did you have fun last night?

Me: Hey! Yeah, I had a great time. Your set was amazing ??

Brock: Thanks. I was kind of hoping you’d say that ??

Me: June says she’s mad at me for not telling her how good you are.

Brock: I’ll have to make it up to her. But I’m more interested in what you thought.

Me: How long have you been playing guitar?

Brock: Since I was a kid. My dad taught me. He used to play old country songs.

Me: That’s so sweet. Do you still play with him?

Brock: Not anymore. He passed a few years ago.

Me: Oh, I’m so sorry. ??

Brock: Thanks. He’d like you, though. He had a soft spot for people who could bake.

Me: Well, I’ll have to make you something special in his honor.

Brock: So what’s Willow’s favorite way to spend a day off?

Me: Hmm, let’s see... Sleeping in (rare), baking something I actually want to eat, and maybe a long walk with Frankie.

Brock: Frankie? I’m jealous already.

Me: My dog! He’s a French bulldog. Black and white. The love of my life ??

Brock: Lucky guy. I’ll try not to hold it against him.

I glance down at my phone, rereading his last message for what feels like the tenth time today. Every text feels like peeling back a new layer of him, and the more I learn, the more I like.

The way he talks about his dad, his love for music, the way he teases me just enough to make me smile but never crosses a line—it’s all so... real.

And the way he makes me feel? That’s something else entirely.

I lean back on the couch, Frankie curled up beside me, and type out another message.

Me: What about you? What’s Brock Steele’s perfect day?

It only takes a few seconds for the bubbles to pop up.

Brock: That’s easy. Waking up to the smell of cinnamon rolls, a quiet morning playing guitar, and spending the day with someone who makes me feel like I’ve got it all figured out.

My heart skips as I stare at his response, the words sinking in.

This is different.

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