Page 11 of Red, White, and You

"On the house," I tell her. "Festival special."

After they walk away—the little girl’s face already covered in chocolate frosting—Phoenix shakes his head.

"You just gave away your last cupcake."

"So?"

"So you could have sold it. Added to the fundraiser total."

I shrug. "That little girl may remember that cupcake. No one will remember how much money was in the cash box."

Phoenix stares at me for a long moment, and I'm suddenly very aware of how close we're sitting. Close enough that I cansee the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. Close enough to catch that clean, woodsy scent of his cologne.

"What?" I ask, feeling heat creep up my neck.

"Nothing. I just..." He pauses, seeming to choose his words carefully. "You're not at all what I expected when I walked into your bakery yesterday."

"Good or bad?"

"Definitely good," he says quietly. "Very, very good."

It’s not just what he says—it’s how he says it. Like he’s seeing me clearly for the first time, and actuallylikeswhat he sees.

The air between us feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. Phoenix's gaze drops to my lips for just a second, and my heart hammers against my ribs.

Then a burst of laughter from the gazebo breaks the spell, and I remember where we are. In the middle of the town square. Surrounded by half the population of Honeysuckle Ridge.

Get it together, Gigi.

"We should probably start packing up," I say, my voice slightly breathless.

"Right." Phoenix clears his throat and stands up, but not before I catch him looking at me like he's trying to solve a puzzle. "Of course."

As we fold tables and pack up the empty cupcake carriers, I can't shake the feeling that something important just happened between us. Something that has nothing to do with bake sales or Hart Health or family obligations.

Something that feels dangerously close to the beginning of trouble.

The kind you don’t walk away from.Not if you can help it.

Chapter 7

Phoenix

"Youknow,whenIsaid I’d help you pack up, I thought we’d be folding tables and tossing boxes in the car—not working off a checklist more detailed than a NASA space launch."

Gigi shoots me a look as she methodically wraps each empty cupcake carrier in bubble wrap. "These are professional baking supplies, Phoenix. They're not cheap, and they're definitely not replaceable in a town this size."

I hold up my hands in surrender. "Fair enough. Just tell me what to do, Sergeant Hart."

"Very funny." But she’s fighting a smile, which I’m counting as progress. "Can you grab that folding table? And be careful with it."

I hoist the table under one arm—it weighs about as much as a kitten compared to what I used to lift—and follow her toward the parking area behind the square. The festival is winding down,families heading home with sticky-fingered kids and arms full of carnival prizes.

"So," I say as we load her supplies into the back of a well-worn SUV that’s clearly seen better decades, "what does the conquering hero do after a successful bake sale? Celebrate with champagne? Victory lap around the square?"

Gigi slams the tailgate shut with more force than necessary. "The conquering hero goes home, does dishes for three hours, and starts prep for tomorrow’s orders."

"That sounds…" I search for a diplomatic way to saydepressing."Efficient."

---