Page 5 of Ranger's Code

I chuckle. "You want me to pretend to be a baker? Don't you think she might recognize me?"

"Oh, I'm sure she will. But that's why her knowing you're not a Marine anymore will work for us."

"Us?" I query.

"You. It'll work for you. And here's the best part: you don't have to pretend to be front of the house staff or a dishwasher. You can be a baker, because you are a baker, and a damn good one, I might add."

"I just bake for myself and the guys..."

"Gid, I've tasted your stuff. Trust me, Maggie will be lucky to have you. She can really use the help—not just with figuring out if something is going on, but her assistant left her in the lurch. You can apply for Kyle's job. You can help her with the baking and watch her back at the same time. Find out who’s trying to screw her over. And if it turns out to be nothing? Then you get a few weeks here in town close to your favorite sister..."

"You're my only sister." It’s an old joke between us.

"Whatever," Kari says with a wave of her hand. "But you'd be here in town, close to the beach and me and making cupcakes. Worst-case scenario, you learn to pipe buttercream."

I almost smile. Almost.

"Fine. But if someone lays a hand on her, all bets are off."

"That’s why I called you."

Later that afternoon, I pull into the small parking lot behind Sea Salt & Sugar, the rumble of my engine cutting through the coastal quiet. I sit for a long beat, letting my eyes roam over the storefront. The place is charming as hell, almost too perfect. Coastal blue paint, curved gold-trim signage, a storefront window framed with pale curtains and little chalkboard signs touting today’s flavors. It looks like the kind of place that sells joy by the dozen, yeah, but there’s more to it. Something about it feels...alive. Like it breathes. My wolf stirs beneath my skin, not in warning, but in recognition—like it knows this place matters before I even step foot inside. Like it’s waiting.

I pull up the image of Maggie on her website’s 'About' page. She is smiling, holding a tray of cupcakes like they are crown jewels—bright-eyed, confident, and completely in her element. But it isn’t just the professional pose that catches me. It’s the way her smile doesn’t look staged. The glint of something sharp and self-assured behind her eyes.

The girl I remember always wore her hoodies like armor, soft and oversized, as if hiding in plain sight. She'd been more shadow than person, sure—but I saw her even then. Noticed the way she observed everything, how her quiet wasn’t emptiness but thought. And now? Now she isn’t hiding anymore. The woman in the photo has stepped into the light, and it hits me in a way I’m not ready for.

My wolf stretches beneath my skin, low and alert, drawn to her with a quiet intensity that makes my breath come a little slower, heavier. Something ancient shifts inside me—not quite lust, not quite possession, but something primal. A flicker of recognition, like she belongs to a part of me I rarely let surface. My instincts twitch. Not danger, exactly. Just… awareness. Interest. Fate. A magnetic pull I don’t try to fight. My wolf stirs, not just curious now, but ready. Hungry. Protective.

I shut off the engine, get out, and head for the front door. A handwritten sign, slightly crooked yet charming as hell, is taped to the glass. Now Hiring—Assistant Baker. Must love sugar and early mornings. The words make me chuckle under my breath. There is something disarmingly honest about it—no corporate branding, no buzzwords. Just need, spelled out in looping script.

My wolf perks up again, drawn to the scent of vanilla and the low hum of energy inside the shop. There’s something about it that makes my pulse both slow and sharp at the same time—like walking into the edge of a storm that hasn’t broken yet. My body responds first, then my instincts. And for one sharp second, the wild part of me whispers a word I never let myself consider lightly: mate.

I shut it down fast. That isn’t what this is. Can’t be. Fated mates are a fairy tale the old packs cling to—a myth wrapped in biology and magic. I don’t do fate. I do control. Strategy. Intention. Whatever this pull is, it’s just instinct. Curiosity. Maybe attraction, sure. But not fate.

Still, my wolf doesn’t agree. It prowls forward like it knows something I don’t, ears perked, tail high. It isn’t just a job post. It’s a signal. One I’m here to answer.

I grin as I step inside.

Game on.

CHAPTER3

MAGGIE

Sea Salt & Sugar smells like scorched sugar and impending doom—an oddly specific combination of burnt vanilla, over-toasted almonds, and the cold sweat of a baker teetering on the edge of a full-scale meltdown. The kind of smell that clings to stress, soaks into apron fabric, and lives in the air like a ghost of ruined pastries past. It's the scent of high standards, long hours, and the brutal pressure of perfection on a timeline. And I wear it like armor.

The scent clings to the air like a warning, threading through the space just beneath the hum of the fridge compressor and the rhythmic clatter of cooling racks. It's the kind of aroma that whispers of long hours and high stakes, of dreams rising in the oven and crashing just as fast. It's the smell of a day already on the brink before it's even fully begun, of things both scorched and sugar-dusted edge at a time.

I yank open the oven door and barely manage to rescue a tray of blueberry muffins before they cross from golden brown to coal briquette. The blast of heat hits me like a slap, prickling sweat at my hairline. I don't flinch. I just reach in with practiced speed, ignoring the hiss of pain as the edge of the pan catches my bare forearm and leaves a thin, angry line of red. I barely register it. The skin will sting, but the muffins—those matter. They're for the morning break crowd.

They're consistency. They're the illusion of order when everything else threatens to spiral. A small, golden promise some things can still turn out right if I follow the steps, keep my hands steady, and trust the heat. They're control in a world coming apart one recipe at a time.

I set the tray down with a clatter that echoes off the tile walls, my breath shaky and hot. It's been another morning of everything going to hell in a handbasket. The mixer locked up mid-whip with a violent clank that made me flinch and curse. My best piping tip vanished, probably taken home in someone’s pocket—or tossed by accident into the garbage during the last closing shift. The freezer glitched again, like it has a personal vendetta, thawing just enough to turn my neatly portioned butter into a squishy mess. Again.

Every little thing feels like a test I haven't studied for, like the universe handed me a pop quiz in disaster management and forgot to include a grading curve. I'm juggling malfunctioning equipment, missing tools, and staff shortages with the grace of a sleep-deprived circus act—and it isn't even 10 a.m. yet.

And now the muffins. Almost ruined. Like everything else lately. It's starting to feel personal, like the universe placed a target on my back and is throwing one kitchen mishap after another just to watch me squirm. My throat tightens, eyes burning, and for a heartbeat I consider the cathartic appeal of just losing it—flinging the muffin tray across the room, screaming until my voice gives out, sobbing into the crook of my elbow. But no.

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