Page 6 of Sweetly Yours

Since meeting her last week, the urge to see her every day is strong. I worry about her in ways that feel almost instinctive. Is she safe? Is she happy?

I shake my head, strumming another chord. She doesn’t even know how much space she’s already taken up in my head. I’m trying to play it cool, but the truth is, I’d stake my claim in a heartbeat if I thought she’d let me.

This Friday can’t come fast enough.

CHAPTER FIVE

WILLOW

Istare at my reflection in the mirror as June puts the finishing touches on her eyeliner. “Are you sure this isn’t too much?” I ask, smoothing the fabric of my dress for the hundredth time.

“You mean too perfect?” she shoots back, smirking. “Willow, you’re going to knock Brock flat on his ass.”

I roll my eyes but can’t stop the smile tugging at my lips. “It’s not about knocking him flat. I just… I don’t want to overdo it.”

“Trust me, you’re right on the money,” June says, turning to me in her effortlessly cool outfit—a black leather skirt and red crop top. She looks like she’s walking out of a magazine. “Stop fidgeting. You look amazing.”

I glance at myself again. I went with a deep green wrap dress that flatters my curves, paired with ankle boots that give me just enough height to feel confident without wobbling around like a newborn deer. My dark brown hair is loose, falling in soft waves around my shoulders, and my makeup is simple but polished.

“You really think it’s okay?” I ask, still unsure.

June rolls her eyes, grabbing my shoulders and spinning me to face her. “Willow, you’re gorgeous. End of discussion. Now grab your jacket—we’re going to be late.”

The Rusty Note is buzzing with energy when we arrive, the warm glow of string lights strung across the ceiling giving the space a cozy, inviting feel. The bar is packed, with people chatting and clinking glasses, but it’s the sound of music that grabs my attention.

Someone’s singing.

The familiar notes of Van Morrison’s“Into the Mystic”drift through the air, rich and smooth, like honey drizzled over warm bread. I stop in my tracks, my breath catching in my throat.

“Damn,” June says, nudging me with her elbow. “Whoever that is sounds incredible.”

I nod, unable to speak as the voice pulls me closer, like it’s wrapped around my chest and tugging me toward the small stage at the far end of the bar.

And then I see him.

My mouth drops open.

Brock Steele.

He’s sitting on a stool, a guitar resting comfortably in his lap, the spotlight catching the way his dark eyes are half-closed as he sings. He’s wearing a simple black cotton T-shirt that clings to his muscular arms and broad chest like it was made for him, paired with jeans that fit so well it’s almost indecent.

I’m pretty sure I forget how to breathe.

He looks even better than the last time I saw him, which feels impossible. The Brock I met in the bakery was rugged andhandsome, but this version of him? This version is magnetic, like he’s commanding the entire room without even trying.

June whistles low under her breath. “Okay, wow. If you don’t snatch him up, I will.”

I shoot her a look, but she just smiles, nudging me forward. “Go on, find us a spot near the stage. I’ll grab us some drinks.”

I hesitate for half a second before making my way closer, weaving through the crowd until I’m standing just a few feet from the stage. Brock’s voice washes over me, every note filled with raw emotion, and I can’t look away.

As the song ends, the room bursts into applause, and Brock looks up, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. When his eyes land on me, his entire face changes.

A slow, heart-stopping smile spreads across his lips, and I feel my knees go weak.

This is going to be one hell of a night.

The applause dies down as Brock shifts on the stool, adjusting the strap of his guitar. His eyes never leave mine, and I feel rooted to the spot, like he’s drawn a line between us that no one else in the room can see.

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