Page 7 of Sweetly Yours

“This next one’s for someone special,” he says, his deep voice smooth and steady, carrying over the murmurs of the crowd.

Oh no.

My stomach flips as a playful smile tugs at his lips. He leans closer to the mic, his gaze locked on me.

“There’s this bakery in town,” he continues, his voice tinged with warmth. “Sweetly Yours. If you’ve been there, you know it’s got the best pastries you’ll ever eat. And that’s because of the amazing woman who owns it.”

The crowd cheers, a few people clapping and whistling, and my face flames.

June’s back at my side, balancing two drinks in her hands, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “He’s making you stand up,” she whispers, nudging me with her elbow.

I peek through my fingers and see Brock motioning toward me. “Come on, Willow,” he teases. “Don’t be shy.”

“Ugh, I hate you,” I mumble to June as she grabs my arm and pulls me upright.

The crowd claps louder as I stand, trying to shrink into myself while Brock beams at me from the stage.

“That’s Willow Hart,” he says, pointing in my direction. “She’s the genius behind Sweetly Yours, and if you haven’t tried her cinnamon rolls, you’re missing out.”

I want the floor to swallow me whole.

“Willow,” he says, his voice dropping just enough to make my name sound like something sacred. “This one’s for you.”

I cover my face with my hands as laughter and cheers ripple through the crowd.

But then he starts playing.

The opening chords of“Brown Eyed Girl”fill the air, and the crowd cheers as he eases into the familiar tune. His voice is rich and soulful, playful yet intimate, and I can’t help but melt into the music.

The heat in my cheeks fades as I sink back into my seat, letting the melody wrap around me. He sings every word like he means it, his eyes flicking back to mine more than once.

Do you remember when we used to sing... Sha la la la la la la la la la la te da...

The way he looks at me—like I’m the only person in the room—sends butterflies swarming in my chest. I’ve never felt like this before, so seen, so special.

By the time the song ends, the crowd is on their feet, clapping and cheering, but I’m still sitting, my heart racing and my hands clutching the edge of the table.

Brock flashes me a smile before thanking the crowd and moving on to his next song, but I know, without a doubt, thatthatmoment was ours.

June leans in, her voice dripping with mischief. “If you don’t kiss him by the end of the night, I will.”

I laugh softly, shaking my head. “Not a chance,” I whisper.

But in my heart, I know one thing for sure, Brock Steele is trouble. The kind of trouble I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for—and the kind I don’t think I could stay away from even if I tried.

CHAPTER SIX

BROCK

The crowd shifts as I roll into another song, the steady rhythm of my guitar setting the tone. A group of people gathers near the stage, couples swaying and dancing to the music. The Rusty Note is alive tonight, buzzing with energy, but my focus keeps drifting to the table where Willow’s sitting.

She looks beautiful—hell,stunning—in that green dress that hugs her curves just right. Her dark hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders, and every time she smiles, it’s like the room gets a little brighter. She’s sitting alone now, her drink in hand, watching me with an expression that makes my chest tighten.

And then I see him.

A guy in a plaid shirt and a baseball cap strolls up to her table, leaning in as he says something I can’t hear. Willow’s eyes widen slightly, and she gives him a polite smile, but there’s a stiffness in her posture that I don’t like.

I grip the neck of my guitar a little tighter, my fingers pressing harder on the strings as I push through the last verse of the song. My voice doesn’t falter, but my focus is split, my attention locked on the interaction happening across the room.

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