Page 12 of Sweetly Yours

Willow: Hmm, sleeping in (rare), baking something indulgent, and a long walk with Frankie. What about you?

Me: Waking up to the smell of cinnamon rolls, playing guitar, and spending the day with someone who makes me feel like I’ve got it all figured out.

I pause after sending that last message, wondering if I’ve said too much. But when she replies a few minutes later, her response makes my chest feel lighter.

Willow: That sounds... perfect.

She doesn’t know it yet, but I’m all in. She’s got this way of making me feel at ease, like I can just be myself, and that’s enough. I’ve had relationships before, but none of them ever felt like this—this easy, this natural, this right.

Me: By the way, I still owe you a drink. Dinner this weekend? My treat.

Willow: You sure you can handle Frankie’s jealousy? ??

Me: I’ll take my chances. What do you say?

It takes her a minute to reply, and I hold my breath without realizing it. When her message finally comes through, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

Willow: Okay. Dinner sounds great.

I set my phone down, a smile spreading across my face. This isn’t just a casual dinner—it’s the next step in something I already know I don’t want to lose.

CHAPTER NINE

WILLOW

By the time Saturday night rolls around, my nerves are in overdrive. Brock offered to pick me up, but I insisted on meeting him at the restaurant—mostly because I didn’t want to risk him seeing me in full-on meltdown mode if I started second-guessing everything about my outfit.

I settle on a black wrap dress that flatters my curves, paired with my favorite ankle boots. Simple, but I feel good in it. My dark brown hair is pinned up with a few loose strands framing my face, and I’ve kept my makeup light, just enough to highlight my eyes.

“Okay, Frankie,” I say, glancing at my French bulldog lounging on the couch. “Wish me luck.”

He snorts, rolling onto his side as if to say,You’ve got this.

I grab my bag, take a deep breath, and head out the door.

The restaurant is cozy and warm, with soft music playing in the background. When I step inside, I spot Brock immediately.He’s standing near the hostess stand, scanning the room, and when his eyes land on me, his face lights up.

He looks incredible, as usual. A dark green button-down rolled up at the sleeves shows off his muscular forearms, and his dark jeans fit just right. My stomach flips as he walks toward me, his smile easy and genuine.

“Hey,” he says, his deep voice sending a warm shiver through me. “You look amazing.”

“Thanks,” I manage, feeling my cheeks heat. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

He laughs, motioning toward a table near the window. “Come on, I got us a good spot.”

The conversation flows effortlessly as we settle into our seats and start looking over the menu. He tells me about his latest project—some custom furniture for a cabin on the other side of town—and I share a story about a cake order gone hilariously wrong last week.

Somewhere between appetizers and the main course, he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “So, what made you open Sweetly Yours?”

I pause, caught off guard by the question. Most people just assume I’ve always been a baker and leave it at that. But Brock looks genuinely curious, like he actually wants to know.

“Well,” I begin, swirling my fork through my pasta, “it’s something I’ve always loved. Baking makes me happy, and I wanted to create a place where people could come and feel that too. A little slice of comfort, you know?”

He nods, his dark eyes warm and focused. “You definitely pulled it off. Your shop feels like... home.”

His words hit me straight in the chest, and I can’t help but smile. “Thanks you for saying that. It’s what I was going for.”

“What about you?” I ask, shifting the focus. “Why furniture?”

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