Page 13 of Sweetly Yours

He smiles, leaning back in his chair. “I like working with my hands. There’s something satisfying about taking raw materials and turning them into something useful, something beautiful. My dad taught me a lot when I was a kid, and it just stuck.”

I nod, letting the easy rhythm of our conversation settle over me. He’s so open, so grounded, and I can feel myself relaxing in his presence.

By the time dessert arrives—a slice of chocolate cake to share—I’m laughing at one of his stories about a client who insisted on having a hidden compartment in their coffee table for their “emergency snacks.”

“This has been fun,” I say, leaning back with a happy sigh as the waiter clears our plates.

“It has,” Brock agrees, his eyes holding mine. “We should do it again sometime.”

I feel the butterflies in my stomach flutter, and I nod. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

When the check comes, I barely have time to reach for my wallet before Brock waves me off.

“I told you, dinner’s on me,” he says, his tone firm but teasing.

“Fine,” I relent, holding up my hands in surrender. “But next time, I’m picking up the tab.”

“Not going to happen,” he says, his voice dropping an octave, making my stomach flip.

Before I can argue, he stands and walks around the table, offering me his hand. “Come on, let me walk you to your car.”

The cool night air wraps around us as we step outside. The parking lot is quiet, with only the faint hum of distant traffic breaking the silence. Brock’s hand brushes against mine, and before I know it, his fingers slide between mine, locking us together.

My heart pounds in my chest, but I can’t bring myself to pull away. We walk to my car like that, his warm hand holding mine firmly, his thumb slowly rubbing small, gentle circles over my skin. The simple motion sends a wave of calm through me, even as my chest feels like it might explode.

When we reach my car, I stop, fiddling with my keys as I turn to face him. “Thanks for tonight,” I say softly.

“Anytime,” he says, his dark eyes locking onto mine. He steps closer, and before I can process what’s happening, he reaches out, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair away from my face.

The warmth of his touch lingers as his hand rests near my jaw. His thumb grazes my cheek, and I feel my breath catch in my throat.

“I really like you, Willow,” he says, his voice low and steady, every word sinking into me like a promise.

I lean back slightly against my car, looking up at him, my heart racing. “I really like you too.”

“Good,” he murmurs, a small, satisfied smile curving his lips.

And then he kisses me.

It starts slow, almost hesitant, like he’s testing the waters, but the moment I respond, it deepens. His hand moves to cup my face, his fingers threading through my hair, while his other hand rests on the curve of my hip, anchoring me in place.

His lips are soft but firm, moving with a deliberate, possessive intensity that makes my knees feel weak. He tastes faintly of beer and something warm and woodsy that feels entirelyhim.

I don’t even realize I’ve dropped my keys until I hear them clatter to the ground, but I don’t care. My hands find their way to his chest, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, and I feel the solid warmth of him beneath my touch.

When he finally pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead against mine, we’re both breathing hard. His thumb brushes against my cheek again, his dark eyes holding mine.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since the day I met you,” he says softly, his voice rough and full of honesty.

I can’t help but smile, my heart still pounding in my chest. “Well, I’m glad you finally did.”

His lips curve into a small, satisfied smirk, and he leans in again, pressing a softer, lingering kiss to my forehead. “Drive safe, Willow,” he says, stepping back but not letting go of my hand until the last possible moment. “See you tomorrow,” He winks.

As I get into my car and watch him walk away, I can still feel the warmth of his kiss, the way he made me feel like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

“June, I’m telling you, it was perfect,” I say into my phone, balancing it between my ear and shoulder as I arrange the trays of desserts in the back of my car. “The dinner, the conversation... and that kiss.”

“The kiss?” June’s voice rises, full of excitement. “Don’t leave me hanging! Was it fireworks? Butterflies? A swoon-worthy movie moment?”

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